Five Scarpetta Novels (167 page)

“Y
OU SHOULD TELL HIM
,” Marino says. “Even if it don't turn out the way you think, he ought to know what's going on.”

“That's how people head off down the wrong path,” Scarpetta replies.

“It's also how they get a head start.”

“Not this time,” she says.

“You're the boss, Doc.”

Marino is stretched out on his bed inside the Marriott on Broad Street, and Scarpetta is sitting in the same chair she was sitting in earlier, but she has pulled it closer to him. He looks very big but less threatening in loose white cotton pajamas she found for him at a department store south of the river. Beneath the light, soft fabric his wounds are dark orange with Betadine. He claims his injuries aren't hurting as much, not nearly as much. She has changed out of her mud-spattered midnight blue suit and is wearing tan corduroys and a dark blue turtleneck sweater and loafers. They are in his room because she did not want him in her room, so she decided his room was safe enough, and they have eaten sandwiches sent up by room service and now they are just talking.

“But I still don't see why you can't just bounce it off him,” Marino says, and he is fishing. His curiosity about her relationship with Benton is as pervasive as dust. She notices it constantly and it gets on her nerves, and there is no use trying to get rid of it.

“I'll take the soil samples to the labs first thing in the morning,” she tells him. “We'll know in a hurry whether a mistake has been made. If one has, there is no point in my telling Benton about it. A mistake is not germane to the case. It would simply be a mistake. A bad one.”

“You don't believe it, though.” He looks at her from clouds of pillows she plumped behind him. His color is better. His eyes are brighter.

“I don't know what I believe,” she says. “It makes no sense either way. If the trace evidence found on the tractor driver isn't a mistake, then how do you explain it? How could the same type of evidence turn up in Gilly Paulsson's case? Perhaps you have a theory.”

Marino thinks hard, his eyes fixing on the window filled with blackness and the lights of downtown. “I can't think how,” he says. “I swear to God, I can't come up with anything except what I said in the meeting. And that was just being a smartass.”

“Who? You?” she asks dryly.

“Seriously. How could what's-his-name Whitby have the same trace on him that she did? In the first place, she died two weeks before he did. So why would he have it on him at all, especially two weeks after she got it on her? It don't look good,” he decides.

Her spirit recoils and she feels a sickness that she has learned to recognize as fear. The only logical explanation at the moment is cross-contamination or mislabeling. Either can happen more easily than people might think. All it takes is for one evidence bag or test tube to be placed in the wrong envelope or rack or the wrong label to be stuck on a sample. This can happen in five seconds of inattention or confusion and then the evidence suddenly came from a source that either makes no sense or, worse, answers a question that could set a suspect free or send him to court, to prison, to the death chamber. She thinks of dentures. She envisions the Fort Lee soldier trying to force the wrong dentures into the dead obese woman's mouth. That's all it takes, one lax moment like that.

“I still don't see why you don't bounce it off Benton,” Marino says, reaching for a glass of water by the bed. “What would be wrong with my having a few beers? A few hairs of the dog?”

“What would be right with it?” She has file folders in her lap and is idly flipping through copies of reports, seeing if anything she already knows about Gilly and the tractor driver might suddenly tell her something new. “Alcohol interferes with healing,” she says. “It's not been much of a friend to you anyway, has it?”

“Last night it wasn't.”

“Order what you want. I'm not going to tell you what to do.”

He hesitates and she senses that he wants her to tell him what to do, but she won't. She's done it before and it is a waste, and she doesn't want to be his co-pilot as he flies like a crazed mad bomber through life. Marino looks at the phone, his hands in his lap, and he reaches for the water.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, turning a page. “Need more Advil?”

“I'm okay. Nothing a few beers wouldn't fix.”

“That's up to you.” She turns another page, scanning the long list of Mr. Whitby's ruptured and lacerated organs.

“You sure she's not going to call the cops?” Marino asks.

She feels his eyes on her. They shine on her like the soft heat from a lamp and she doesn't blame him for feeling scared. The accusations alone would ruin him, that is the truth of the matter. He would be destroyed in law enforcement, and it is quite possible that a Richmond jury would find him guilty just because he is a man, a very big man, and Mrs. Paulsson is skilled at acting pitiful and helpless. The thought of her sharpens Scarpetta's anger.

“She won't,” she says. “I called her bluff. Tonight she'll dream about all the magical evidence I carried out of her house. Most of all, she'll dream about the game. She doesn't want the cops or anyone else knowing about the little game or games that go on in her historic little house. Let me ask you something.” She looks up from the papers in her lap. “Had Gilly been alive and home, do you think Suz, as you call her, would have done what she did last night? Conjecture, granted. But what's your instinct?”

“I think she does whatever the hell she wants,” he replies in a dead tone, the flat tone of resentment and outrage restrained by shame.

“Do you remember if she was drunk?”

“She was high,” he replies. “High as a kite.”

“On alcohol or maybe something else in addition?”

“I didn't see her pop any pills or smoke nothing or shoot up. But there's probably a lot I didn't see.”

“Someone is going to have to talk to Frank Paulsson,” Scarpetta says, looking at another report. “Depending on what we find out tomorrow, we might see if Lucy would help.”

Marino gets a look on his face and smiles for the first time in hours. “Holy shit. What an idea. She's a pilot. Let her loose on the pervert.”

“Exactly.” Scarpetta turns a page and takes a deep, quiet breath. “Nothing,” she says. “Absolutely nothing that tells me anything more about Gilly. She was asphyxiated and had chips of paint and metal in her mouth. Mr. Whitby's injuries are consistent with his being run over by the tractor. For the hell of it, we should find out if there is any possibility he has some connection to the Paulssons.”

“She would know,” Marino says.

“You're not calling her.” She does tell him what to do in this situation. He is not to call Suzanna Paulsson. “Don't push your luck.” She looks up at him.

“I wasn't saying I would. Maybe she knew the tractor driver. Hell, maybe he was into the game. Maybe they have a perverts' club.”

“Well, they aren't neighbors.” Scarpetta looks at paperwork in Whitby's folder. “He lived over near the airport, not that it matters, necessarily. Tomorrow while I'm in the labs, maybe you can see what you can find out.”

Marino doesn't answer her. He doesn't want to talk to any Richmond cops.

“You've got to walk into it,” she says, closing the file folder.

“Walk into what?” He looks at the phone by the bed, probably thinking about beer again.

“You know what.”

“I hate it when you talk like that,” he says, getting crabby. “Like I'm supposed to figure out something from a word or two. I guess some guys would be grateful to know a woman who only talks in a few words.”

She folds her hands on top of the file folder in her lap and is somewhat amused. Whenever she's right, he gets cranky. She waits to see what he'll say next.

“All right,” he says, unable to stand the silence for long. “Walk into what? Just tell me what the hell I need to walk into besides the loony bin, because right about now I'm feeling half crazy.”

“You need to walk into what you fear. And you fear the police because you're still afraid that Mrs. Paulsson has called them. She hasn't. She won't. Get it over with and then the fear will be gone.”

“It ain't about fear. It's about being stupid,” he retorts.

“Good. Then you'll call Detective Browning or someone, because if you don't, you're being stupid. I'm going back to my room now,” she adds, getting up from the chair and moving it back near the window. “I'll see you in the lobby at eight.”

S
HE DRINKS
a glass of wine in bed, and it is not a very good wine, a Cabernet that has a sharp aftertaste. But she drinks every drop in the glass as she sits alone inside her hotel room. It is two hours earlier in Aspen and maybe Benton is out to dinner or in a meeting, busy with his case, his secret case that he will not discuss with her.

Scarpetta rearranges the pillows behind her back, propped up in bed, and sets the empty wineglass on the bedside table, next to the phone. She looks at the phone, then looks at the TV wondering if she should turn it on. Deciding not to turn on the TV, she looks at the phone again and picks up the receiver. She dials Benton's cell phone number because he said not to call his town home, and he meant it when he told her that. He was clear about it. Don't call the condo, he told her. I won't be answering the landline, he said.

That doesn't make sense, she replied what now seems months ago. Why won't you answer the phone in your condo?

I don't want distractions, he replied. I won't be answering the landline. If you really have to reach me, Kay, call my cell phone. Please don't take it personally. It's just the way it is. You know how it is.

Benton's cell phone rings twice and he answers.

“What are you doing?” she asks, staring at the blank TV screen opposite the bed.

“Hi,” he says softly but distantly. “I'm in my office.”

She imagines the third-floor bedroom he has turned into an office inside his Aspen condo. She imagines him sitting at his desk, a document opened on his computer screen. He is working on his case, and she feels better knowing he is home, working.

“It was a pretty rough day,” she says. “How about you?”

“Tell me what's going on.”

She starts to tell him about Dr. Marcus but doesn't want to get into it. Then she starts to tell him about Marino, but the words won't come out. Her brain is sluggish and for some reason she feels stingy toward Benton. She longs for him and feels stingy toward him and doesn't want to tell him much of anything.

“Why don't you tell me about yours,” she says instead. “Did you ski or snowshoe?”

“No.”

“Is it snowing?”

“This very minute, yes,” he says. “And where you are?”

“Where I am?” She is getting annoyed. It doesn't matter what he told her days ago or what she knows. She is hurt and annoyed. “Are you asking me generically because you can't remember where I am? I'm in Richmond.”

“Of course. That's not what I meant.”

“Is someone there? Are you in the middle of a meeting or something?” she asks.

“Very much so,” he says.

He can't talk, and she is sorry she called. She knows what he is like when he doesn't feel it is safe to talk, and she wishes she hadn't called him. She imagines him in his office and wonders what else he might be doing. Maybe he worries that he is under electronic surveillance. She shouldn't have called. Maybe he simply is preoccupied, but she would rather believe he is cautious than so preoccupied that he can't focus on her. She shouldn't have called.

“Okay,” she says. “I'm sorry I called. We haven't talked in two days. But I understand you're in the middle of whatever it is you're doing, and I'm tired.”

“You called because you're tired?”

He is teasing her, very subtly kidding her and at the same time maybe a little stung. He doesn't want to think she called him because she is tired, she considers, and she smiles, pressing the phone against her ear. “You know how I get when I'm tired,” she jokes. “I can't control myself when I'm tired.” She hears a noise in the background, perhaps a voice, a woman's voice. “Is someone there?” she asks again, no longer joking.

A long pause, and she detects the muffled voice again. Maybe he has the radio or TV on. Then she hears nothing.

“Benton?” she says. “Are you there? Benton? Damn it,” she mutters. “Damn it,” she says, hanging up.

T
HE
P
UBLIX
at Hollywood Plaza is busy. Edgar Allan Pogue walks through the parking lot with his plastic grocery bags, his eyes moving in all directions as he scans for anybody noticing him. No one does. If someone did, it wouldn't matter. No one will remember him or think of him. No one ever does. Besides, he is only doing what is right. A favor to the world, he thinks as he passes along the edges of the light shining down from tall lamps in the parking lot. He keeps to the shadows and walks briskly but not anxiously.

His white car is like about twenty thousand other white cars in South Florida, and he has parked it in a far corner of the lot between two other white cars. One of the white cars, the Lincoln that was parked to the left of him earlier, is no longer there, but as destiny dictated, another white car, this one a Chrysler, took its place. At magical, pure times like this, Pogue knows he is being watched and guided. The eye watches. He is guided by the eye, by the higher power, the god of all gods, the god who sits on top of Mount Olympus, the biggest god of all gods, who is incomprehensibly more immense than any movie star or person who has an attitude and thinks she is an almighty herself. Like her. Like the Big Fish.

Using the remote to unlock his car, he opens the trunk and lifts out another bag, this one from All Season Pools. In the front seat of his white car, he sits in the warm darkness, debating whether he can see well enough for the task at hand. Lights from the lamps in the parking lot barely reach the outer limits where he sits, and he waits for his eyes to adjust, and they do. Inserting the key into the ignition, he turns on the battery so he can listen to music, and he pushes a button on the side of his seat to move it as far back as it will go. He needs plenty of room to work, and his heart trips into gear as he opens the plastic bag and pulls out a pair of thick rubber gloves, a box of granulated sugar, a bottle of generic soda pop, rolls of aluminum foil and duct tape, several large permanent markers, and a package of peppermint chewing gum. The inside of his mouth has tasted like stale cigars ever since he left his apartment at six
P.M.
He can't smoke now. Smoking another cigar gets rid of the stale, dirty tobacco taste, but he can't smoke now. Peeling the wrapper off a stick of gum, he curls the gum into a tight roll and places it inside his mouth and then opens two more sticks and does the same thing, making himself wait before he lets his teeth sink into the three rolls of gum, and his salivary glands explode painfully, like needles shooting through his jaws, and he begins to chew, in big, hard chews.

He sits in the dark, chewing. Soon annoyed with rap music, he seeks other channels until he finds what is called adult rock these days, and he opens the glove box and pulls out a Ziploc plastic pouch. Coils of black human hair press against the clear plastic as if he has a human scalp inside. He carefully withdraws the soft curly wig and pets it as he looks at the ingredients of his alchemy on the passenger's seat. He starts the car.

The pastels of downtown Hollywood float past like a dream, and the tiny white lights strung in the palms are galaxies as he moves through space and feels the energy of what's next to him on the passenger's seat. He turns east on Hollywood Boulevard and drives exactly two miles per hour below the speed limit toward the A1A highway. Up the road the Hollywood Beach Resort is massive and pale pink and terra-cotta, and on the other side of it is the sea.