Four Scarpetta Novels (139 page)

H
alf an hour
later, Lucy zips up her ski jacket and tucks the pistol and two extra magazines in a pocket.

She locks the cottage and climbs down the snow-covered wooden steps to the street as she thinks about Stevie and her inexplicable behavior, feeling guilty. She thinks about Johnny and feels guilty, remembering San Francisco, when he took her to dinner and reassured her that everything would be all right.

You're going to be fine,
he promised.

I can't live like this,
she said.

It was women's night at Mecca on Market Street, and the restaurant was crowded with women, attractive women who looked happy and confident and pleased with themselves. Lucy felt stared at, and it bothered her in a way it never had before.

I want to do something about it now,
she said.
Look at me.

Lucy, you look great.

I haven't been this fat since I was ten.

You stop taking your medicine and…

It makes me sick and exhausted.

I'm not going to let you do anything rash. You have to trust me.

He held her gaze in the candlelight, and his face will always be in her mind, looking at her the way he did that night. He was handsome, with fine features and unusual eyes the color of tiger eyes, and she could keep nothing from him. He knew all there was to know in every way imaginable.

Loneliness and guilt follow her as she follows the snowy sidewalk west along the Cape Cod Bay. She ran away. She remembers when she heard about his death. She heard about it the way no one should, on the radio.

A prominent doctor was found shot to death in a Hollywood apartment in what sources close to the investigation say is a possible suicide….

She had no one to ask. She wasn't supposed to know Johnny and had never met his brother, Laurel, or any of their friends, so who could she ask?

Her cell phone vibrates, and she tucks the earpiece in her ear and answers.

“Where are you?” Benton says.

“Walking through a blizzard in Ptown. Well, not literally a blizzard. It's starting to taper off.” She is dazed, a little hung-over.

“Anything interesting come up?”

She thinks of last night and feels bewildered and ashamed.

What she says is, “Only that he wasn't alone when he was here last, the week before he died. Apparently, he came here right after his surgery, then went down to Florida.”

“Laurel with him?”

“No.”

“How did he manage alone?”

“As I said, it appears he wasn't alone.”

“Who told you?”

“A bartender. Apparently, he met someone.”

“We know who?”

“A woman. Someone a lot younger.”

“A name?”

“Jan, don't know the rest of it. Johnny was upset about the surgery, which wasn't all that successful, as you know. People do a lot of things when they're scared and don't feel good about themselves.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” she lies.

She was a coward. She was selfish.

“You don't sound okay,” Benton says to her. “What happened to Johnny isn't your fault.”

“I ran away from it. I didn't do a damn thing.”

“Why don't you spend some time with us. Kay's going to be up here for a week. We'd love to see you. You and I will find some private time to talk,” Benton the psychologist says.

“I don't want to see her. Somehow make her understand.”

“Lucy, you can't keep doing this to her.”

“I'm not trying to hurt anyone,” she says, thinking of Stevie again.

“Then tell her the truth. It's that simple.”

“You called me.” She abruptly changes the subject.

“I need you to do something for me as soon as possible,” he replies. “I'm on a secured phone.”

“Unless there's anyone around here with an intercept system, I am, too. Go ahead.”

He tells her about a murder that supposedly occurred at some sort of Christmas shop, supposedly in the Las Olas area about two and a half years ago. He tells her everything Basil Jenrette told him. He says Scarpetta is unfamiliar with any case that sounds similar, but she wasn't working in South Florida back then.

“The information came from a sociopath,” he reminds her, “so I'm not holding my breath that there's anything to it.”

“The alleged victim in the Christmas shop have her eyes gouged out?”

“He didn't tell me that. I didn't want to ask him too many questions until I check out his story. Can you run it in HIT, see what you can find?”

“I'll get started on the plane,” she says.

T
he clock on
the wall above the bookcase reads half past noon, and the attorney representing a kid who probably murdered his baby brother is taking his time going through paperwork on the other side of Kay Scarpetta's desk.

Dave is young, dark, nicely built, one of those men whose irregular features somehow fit together in a very appealing way. He is known for his flamboyance in the malpractice arena, and whenever he comes to the Academy, the secretaries and female students suddenly find reasons to walk past Scarpetta's door, except Rose, of course. She has been Scarpetta's secretary for fifteen years, is well past retirement age and isn't particularly vulnerable to male charm unless it is Marino's. He is probably the only man whose flirtations she welcomes, and Scarpetta picks up the phone to ask her where he is. He is supposed to be here for this meeting.

“I tried him last night,” Scarpetta says over the phone to Rose. “Several times.”

“Let me see if I can find him,” Rose says. “He's been acting rather odd lately.”

“Not just lately.”

Dave studies an autopsy report, his head tilted back as he reads through the horn-rimmed glasses low on his nose.

“The last few weeks have been worse. I have a funny feeling it's about a woman.”

“See if you can find him.”

She hangs up and looks across her desk to see if Dave is ready to get on with his prejudicial questions about another difficult death that he is convinced can be resolved for a substantial fee. Unlike most police departments that invite the assistance of the Academy's scientific and medical experts, lawyers usually pay, and, as a rule, most clients who can pay are representing people who are as guilty as hell.

“Marino not coming?” he asks.

“We're trying to find him.”

“I've got a deposition in less than an hour.” He turns a page of the report. “Seems to me when all is said and done, the findings are in favor of an impact and nothing more.”

“I'm not going to say that in court,” she replies, looking at the report, at the details of an autopsy she didn't perform. “What I can say is that while a subdural hematoma can be caused by an impact—in this case, the alleged fall off the couch onto the tile floor—it is highly unlikely, was more likely caused by violent shaking that causes shearing forces in the cranial cavity and subdural bleeding and injury to the spinal cord.”

“As for the retinal hemorrhages, aren't we in agreement those can also be caused by trauma, such as his head striking the tile floor, resulting in a subdural?”

“Not at all in a short fall like this. Again, was more likely caused by the head whipping back and forth. Just as the report makes clear.”

“I don't think you're helping me out much here, Kay.”

“If you don't want an unbiased opinion, you should find another expert.”

“There is no other expert. You're unrivaled.” He smiles. “What about a vitamin K deficiency?”

“If you have antemortem blood that revealed protein-induced vitamin K deficiency,” she replies. “If you're looking for leprechauns.”

“Problem is, we don't have antemortem blood. He didn't survive long enough to get to the hospital.”

“That's a problem.”

“Well, shaken baby syndrome can't be proved. It's definitely unclear and improbable. You can at least say that.”

“What's clear is you don't have mama's fourteen-year-old son babysit his newborn brother when the son has already been to juvenile court twice for assault on other children and is legendary for his explosive temper.”

“And you won't say that.”

“No.”

“Look, all I ask is you point out there's no definitive evidence that this baby was shaken.”

“I will also point out there's no definitive evidence that he wasn't, that I can find no fault with the autopsy report in question.”

“The Academy's great,” Dave says, getting up from his chair. “But you guys are roughing me up. Marino's a no-show. Now you're leaving me hanging out to dry.”

“I'm sorry about Marino,” she says.

“Maybe you need to control him better.”

“That's not exactly possible.”

Dave tucks in his bold striped shirt, straightens his bold silk tie, puts on his tailored silk jacket. He arranges his paperwork inside his crocodile briefcase.

“Rumor has it you're looking into the Johnny Swift case,” he then says, snapping shut the silver clasps.

Scarpetta is caught for a minute. She can't imagine how Dave could know this.

What she says is, “It's been my practice to pay little attention to rumors, Dave.”

“His brother owns one of my favorite restaurants in South Beach. Called Rumors, ironically,” he says. “You know, Laurel's had some problems.”

“I don't know anything about him.”

“Someone who works there is passing around the story that Laurel killed Johnny for money, for whatever Johnny might have left him in his will. Says Laurel's got habits he can't afford.”

“Sounds like hearsay. Or maybe someone who has a grudge.”

Dave walks to the door.

“I haven't talked to her. Every time I try, she's not there. I personally think Laurel's a really nice guy, by the way. I just find it a bit coincidental that I start hearing stories and then Johnny's case is reopened.”

“I'm not aware it was ever closed,” Scarpetta says.

 

S
nowflakes are
icy and sharp, the sidewalks and streets frosted white. Few people are out.

Lucy walks briskly, sipping from a steaming hot latte, heading to the Anchor Inn, where she checked in several days ago under a fictitious name so she could hide her rented Hummer. She hasn't parked it at the cottage once, never interested in strangers knowing what she drives. She veers off on a narrow drive that winds around to the small parking lot on the water where the Hummer is covered with snow. She unlocks the doors, starts the engine and turns on the defrost, and the white-blanketed windows give her the cool, shady sensation of being inside an igloo.

She is calling one of her pilots when a gloved hand suddenly begins wiping snow off her side window and a black-hooded face fills the glass. Lucy aborts the call and drops the phone on the seat.

She stares at Stevie for a long moment, then lowers the window as her mind races through possibilities. It isn't a good thing that she was followed here. It is a very bad thing that she didn't notice she was being followed.

“What are you doing?” Lucy asks.

“I just wanted to tell you something.”

Stevie's face has an expression that is hard to read. Maybe she is near tears and extremely upset and hurt, or it could be the cold, sharp wind blowing in from the bay that is making her eyes so bright.

“You're the most awesome person I've ever met,” Stevie says. “I think you're my hero. My new hero.”

Lucy isn't sure if Stevie is mocking her. Maybe she isn't.

“Stevie, I've got to get to the airport.”

“They haven't started canceling flights yet. But it's supposed to be terrible the rest of the week.”

“Thanks for the weather update,” Lucy says, and the look in Stevie's eyes is fierce and unnerving. “Look, I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt your feelings.”

“You didn't,” Stevie says, as if this is the first she's heard of it. “Not at all. I didn't think I'd like you so much. I wanted to find you to tell you that. Tuck it away in some part of that clever head of yours, maybe remember it on a rainy day. I just never thought I would like you so much.”

“You keep saying that.”

“It's intriguing. You come across so sure of yourself, arrogant really. Hard and distant. But I realize it's not who you are inside. Funny how things turn out so differently from what you expect.”

Snow is blowing inside the Hummer, dusting the interior.

“How did you find me?” Lucy asks.

“I went back to your place but you were gone. I followed your footprints in the snow. They led right here. You wear what? Size eight? It wasn't hard.”

“Well, I'm sorry for…”

“Please,” Stevie says intensely, strongly. “I know I'm not just another notch on your belt, as they say.”

“I'm not into that,” Lucy says, but she is.

She knows it, even if she would never describe it like that. She feels bad for Stevie. She feels bad for her aunt, for Johnny, for everyone she has failed.

“Some might argue you're a notch on mine,” Stevie says playfully, seductively, and Lucy doesn't want to have the feeling again.

Stevie is sure of herself again, full of secrets again, amazingly attractive again.

Lucy shoves the Hummer into reverse as snow blows in and her face stings from the snow and the wind blowing off the water.

Stevie digs in her coat pocket, pulls out a slip of paper, hands it to her through the open window.

“My phone number,” she says.

The area code is 617, the Boston area. She never told Lucy where she lived. Lucy never asked.

“That's all I wanted to say to you,” Stevie says. “And happy Valentine's Day.”

They look at each other through the open window, the engine rumbling, snow coming down and clinging to Stevie's black coat. She's beautiful and Lucy feels what she felt at Lorraine's. She thought it was gone. She is feeling it.

“I'm not like all the rest,” Stevie says, looking into Lucy's eyes.

“You're not.”

“My cell phone number,” Stevie says. “I actually live in Florida. After I left Harvard, I never bothered to change my cell phone number. It doesn't matter. Free minutes, you know.”

“You went to Harvard?”

“I usually don't mention it. It can be rather off-putting.”

“Where in Florida?”

“Gainesville,” she says. “Happy Valentine's Day,” she says again. “I hope it turns out to be the most special one you've ever had.”