Four Scarpetta Novels (145 page)

“You're telling me you have no doubt it's a homicide.”

“You telling me you don't think it is?”

“I'm just asking questions.”

Marino's eyes wander around the office, over the top of her piled desk, across stacks of paperwork and case files. He looks at her with hard eyes that she might find frightening had she not seen insecurity and pain in them so often in the past. Maybe he seems different and distant only because he shaves his balding head and has taken to wearing a diamond stud earring. He works out in the gym obsessively and is the biggest she's ever seen him.

“I'd appreciate it if you'd review my hell scenes,” he says. “Every one I've ever come up with is on that disk. I'd like you to look at them carefully. Since you'll be sitting on a plane with nothing better to do.”

“I might have something better to do.” She tries to tease him a little, get him to lighten up.

It doesn't work.

“Rose put all of them on a disk going back to the first of last year, and it's in the file there. In a sealed envelope”—he indicates files on her desk. “Maybe you can pop it in your laptop and take a look. The bullet with the mesh pattern from the screen door's in there. That lying piece of shit. I swear I came up with it first.”

“You do a search on the Internet of intermediary targets in shootings and I guarantee you'll find cases and firearms tests that include bullets fired through screen doors,” she says. “I'm afraid there really isn't much that's new or private anymore.”

“He's nothing but a laboratory rat who lived inside a microscope until a year ago. He couldn't know the stuff he's writing about. It's impossible. It's because of what happened at the Body Farm. At least you could have been honest about it.”

“You're right,” she says. “I should have told you I stopped reviewing your hell scenes after that. All of us did. I should have sat you down and explained, but you were so angry and combative, none of us wanted to deal with you.”

“Maybe if you got set up the way I did, you'd be angry and combative, too.”

“Joe wasn't at the Body Farm or even in Knoxville when it happened,” she reminds him. “So please explain how he could have slipped a hypodermic needle into a dead man's jacket pocket.”

“The field exercise was supposed to expose the students to a real dead body rotting away at the Body Farm and see if they could overcome the puke factor and recover several items of evidence. A dirty needle wasn't one of them. He set that up to get me.”

“Not everybody is out to get you.”

“If he didn't set me up, then why did the girl not follow through with the lawsuit? Because it's bogus, that's why. The damn needle didn't have AIDS on it, now did it, had never been used. A little oversight on the asshole's part.”

She gets up from her desk.

“What I'm going to do about you is the bigger issue,” she says, locking her briefcase.

“I'm not the one who has secrets,” he says, watching her.

“You have plenty of secrets. I never know where you are or what you're doing half the time.”

She grabs her suit jacket off the back of the door. He looks steadily at her with his flinty eyes. His fingers stop drumming the armrest. Leather creaks as he gets up from his chair.

“Benton must feel like a real big shot working with all those Harvard people,” he says, and it's not the first time he's said it. “All those rocket scientists with all their secrets.”

She stares at him, her hand on the doorknob. Maybe she's getting paranoid, too.

“Yup. Must be exciting, what he's doing up there. But if you'd asked my opinion, I'd been happy to tell you not to waste your time.”

It can't be possible he is alluding to PREDATOR.

“Not to mention a waste of money. Money that could sure as hell be better spent. Me? I just can't stomach the thought of giving all that money and attention to scum-bags like that.”

No one is supposed to know about PREDATOR except the study team, the hospital's president, the Internal Review Board and certain key prison officials. Even the normal subjects in the study don't know the name of it or what it is about. Marino couldn't know unless he has somehow broken into her e-mail or the hard copies she keeps locked up in file drawers. For the first time, it occurs to her that if anyone is breaching security, it might be him.

“What are you talking about?” she asks quietly.

“Maybe you should be more careful about forwarding files, make sure nothing is attached to them,” he replies.

“Forwarding what files?”

“The notes you typed up after your first meeting with Darling Dave about that shaken baby case he wants everyone to think is an accident.”

“I didn't forward any notes to you.”

“Sure as hell did. Sent this past Friday, didn't happen to open it until after I saw you on Sunday. Notes accidentally attached to an e-mail to you from Benton. An e-mail I sure as hell wasn't supposed to see.”

“I didn't,” she insists with growing alarm. “I didn't send you anything.”

“Maybe not on purpose. Funny how lies catch up with people,” he says as a light knock sounds at the door.

“Is that why you didn't show up at my house Sunday night? Why you didn't show up for the meeting with Dave yesterday morning?”

“Excuse me,” Rose says as she lets herself in. “I think one of you should handle this.”

“You could have said something, given me a chance to defend myself,” Scarpetta says to him. “I may not always tell you everything, but I don't lie.”

“Lying by omission is still lying.”

“Excuse me,” Rose tries again.

“PREDATOR,” Marino says to Scarpetta. “Try that lie on for size.”

“Mrs. Simister,” Rose interrupts them loudly. “The lady from the church who called a little while ago. I'm sorry, but it seems rather urgent.”

Marino makes no move to go to the phone, as if to remind Scarpetta that he doesn't work for her, that she can take the call herself.

“Oh for God's sake,” she says, walking back to her desk. “Put her through.”

M
arino digs his
hands into the pockets of his jeans and leans against the doorway, watching her deal with whoever Mrs. Simister is.

In the old days, he used to enjoy sitting in Scarpetta's office for hours, listening to her while he drank coffee and smoked. He didn't mind asking her to explain what he didn't understand, didn't mind waiting when she was interrupted, which was often. He didn't mind when she was late.

Things are different now, and it's her damn fault. He doesn't intend to wait for her. He doesn't want her to explain anything and would rather remain ignorant than ask her a medical question, professional or personal, even if he was dying, and he used to ask her whatever he wanted. Then she betrayed him. She humiliated him and meant to, and is doing it again and means to, no matter what she says. She has always rationalized whatever suits her, done hurtful things in the name of logic and science, as if she thinks he is so stupid he'll never see through it.

It's no different than what happened to Doris. She came home one day crying, and he couldn't tell if she was angry or sad but he knew she was upset, maybe as upset as he had ever seen her.

What's the matter? He going to have to pull your tooth?
Marino asked her as he drank beer in his favorite chair and watched the news.

Doris sat down on the sofa and sobbed.

Shit. What is it, baby?

She covered her face and cried as if someone were about to die, so Marino sat next to her and put his arm around her. He held her for a few minutes, and when no information was forthcoming, he demanded she tell him what the hell was wrong.

He touched me,
she said, crying.
I knew it wasn't right and I kept asking him why, but he said to relax, that he's a doctor, and a part of me knew what he was doing but I was scared. I should have known better, should have said no but I just didn't know what to do,
and she went on to explain that the dentist or root canal specialist or whatever the hell he called himself said Doris possibly had a systemic infection because of a root fracture and he needed to check her glands. That was the word he used, according to Doris.

Glands.

“Hold on,” Scarpetta is saying to whoever Mrs. Simister is. “Let me put you on speakerphone. I have an investigator sitting right here.”

She gives Marino a look, indicating she is concerned about what she is hearing, and he tries to chase Doris out of his thoughts. He still thinks about her often, and it seems the older he gets, the more he remembers what went on between them and the way he felt when the dentist touched her and the way he felt when she left him for that car salesman, that fucking loser car salesman. Everybody leaves him. Everybody betrays him. Everybody wants what he has. Everybody thinks he's too stupid to figure out their plots and manipulations. The last few weeks, it has been almost more than he can stand.

Now this. Scarpetta lies about the study up there. Excludes him. Degrades him. Helps herself to whatever she wants when it suits her, treats him like he's nothing.

“I wish I had more information.” Mrs. Simister's voice enters the room, and she sounds as old as Methuselah. “I certainly hope something bad hasn't happened, but I fear it. It's just awful when the police don't care.”

Marino has no idea what Mrs. Simister is talking about or who she is or why she is calling the National Forensic Academy, and he can't exorcise Doris from his head. He wishes he had done more than threaten the damn dentist or root canal specialist or whatever the hell he was. He should have destroyed the asshole's face and maybe broken a few of his fingers.

“Explain to Investigator Marino what you mean by the police not caring,” Scarpetta says over speakerphone.

“The last I saw any sign of life over there was this past Thursday night, and when I realized everybody was gone without a trace, I called nine-one-one right away and they sent a police officer to the house and then he called a detective. She obviously doesn't care.”

“You're talking about the Hollywood police,” Scarpetta says, looking at Marino.

“Yes. A Detective Wagner.”

Marino rolls his eyes. This is unbelievable. With all his bad luck of late, he doesn't need this.

He asks from the doorway, “You talking about Reba Wagner?”

“What?” the querulous voice asks.

He steps closer to the phone on the desk and repeats his question.

“All I know is the initials on her card are R.T. So I suppose it could be Reba.”

Marino rolls his eyes again and taps his head, indicating that Detective R. T. Wagner is as dumb as a rock.

“She looked around the yard and the house and said there was no sign of foul play. She felt they ran off on their own and said there's nothing the police can do about it.”

“Do you know these people?” Marino asks.

“I live right across the water from them. And I go to their church. I just know something bad has happened.”

“All right,” Scarpetta says. “What is it you're asking us to do, Mrs. Simister?”

“To at least look at the house. You see, the church rents it, and they've kept it locked up since they disappeared. But the lease is up in three months, and the landlord says he'll let the church out of it without a penalty because he's got someone else to rent it. Some of the ladies at the church plan to go over there first thing in the morning and start packing up. Then what happens to any clues?”

“All right,” Scarpetta says again. “I tell you what we'll do. We're going to call Detective Wagner. We can't go in the house without permission from the police. We don't have jurisdiction unless they ask for our help.”

“I understand. Thank you very much. Please do something.”

“All right, Mrs. Simister. We'll get back to you. We need your phone number.”

“Huh,” Marino says when Scarpetta hangs up. “Probably some mental case.”

“How about you call Detective Wagner, since it seems you're familiar with her,” Scarpetta says.

“She used to be a motorcycle cop. Dumb as dirt but handled her Road King pretty good. I can't believe they made her a detective.”

He gets out his Treo and dreads hearing Reba's voice and wishes Doris would get out of his mind. He tells Hollywood police dispatch to have Detective Wagner contact him immediately. He ends the call and looks around Scarpetta's office, looks everywhere but at her as he thinks about Doris and the dentist, or whatever the hell he was, and the car salesman. He thinks about how satisfying it would have been to beat the dentist, or whatever the hell he was, senseless instead of getting drunk and barging into his office and demanding he step out of an examination room and in front of a lobby full of patients asking why he thought it was necessary to examine his wife's tits and to please explain how tits might be relevant in a root canal case.

“Marino?”

Why that incident should still bother him all over again after all these years is a mystery. He doesn't understand why a lot of things have started bothering him again. The last few weeks have been hell.

“Marino?”

He comes to and looks at Scarpetta at the same time he realizes his cell phone is buzzing.

“Yeah,” he answers.

“Detective Wagner here.”

“Investigator Pete Marino,” he says, as if he doesn't know her.

“What do you need, Investigator Pete Marino.” She sounds as if she doesn't know him, either.

“I understand you got a family that's disappeared from the West Lake area. Apparently last Thursday night.”

“How did you hear about that?”

“Apparently there's some concern foul play might be involved. And the word is you aren't being very helpful.”

“We'd be investigating the hell out of it if we thought there was anything to it. What's the source of your information?”

“A lady from their church. You got the names of these people who supposedly have vanished?”

“Let me think. They're kind of odd names, Eva Christian and Crystal or Christine Christian. Something like that. I can't think of the boys' names.”

“Could you mean Christian Christian?”

Scarpetta and Marino look at each other.

“Something a whole lot like that. I don't have my notes in front of me. You want to look into it, be my guest. My department's not going to devote a lot of resources to something when there's absolutely no evidence…”

“I got that part,” Marino says rudely. “Supposedly the church is going to start packing up that house tomorrow and if we're gonna take a look, now's the time.”

“They've not even been gone for a week and the church is already packing up the house? Sounds to me they know they've skipped town and aren't coming back. What's it sound like to you?”

“Sounds like we ought to make sure,” Marino says.

 

T
he man
behind the counter is older and more distinguished than Lucy imagined. She expected someone who looks like a has-been surfer, someone leathery and covered in tattoos. That's the sort of person who ought to be working in a shop called Beach Bums.

She sets down a camera case, and her fingers flutter through big, loud shirts printed with sharks, flowers, palm trees and other tropical designs. She peruses stacks of straw hats and bins of flip-flops and displays of sunglasses and lotions, not interested in buying any of it but wishing she were. For a moment she browses, waiting for two other customers to leave. She wonders how it would feel to be like everybody else, to care about souvenirs and gaudy things to wear and days in the sun, to feel good about the way she looks half-naked in a swimsuit.

“You got any of that stuff with zinc oxide in it?” one of the customers is asking Larry, who is seated behind the counter.

He has thick, white hair and a neatly trimmed beard, is sixty-two, was born in Alaska, drives a Jeep, has never owned a home, didn't go to college and in 1957 was arrested for drunk and disorderly. Larry has managed Beach Bums for about two years.

“Nobody likes that anymore,” he is telling the customer.

“I do. It doesn't break out my skin like all these other lotions. I think I'm allergic to aloe.”

“These sunblocks don't have aloe.”

“You carry Maui Jim's?”

“Too expensive, my dear. The only sunglasses we got are the ones you're looking at.”

This goes on for a while, both customers making minor purchases, finally leaving. Lucy wanders up to the counter.

“Can I help you with something?” Larry asks, looking at the way she is dressed. “Where'd you just come from, a
Mission Impossible
movie?”

“I rode my motorcycle here.”

“Well, you're one of the few with any sense. Look out the window. Every one of them in shorts and T-shirts, no helmet. Some of them in flip-flops.”

“You must be Larry.”

He looks surprised and says, “You been in here before? I don't remember you, and I'm pretty good with faces.”

“I'd like to talk to you about Florrie and Helen Quincy,” she says. “But I need you to lock the door.”

 

T
he Harley-Davidson
Screamin' Eagle Deuce with its flames over blue paint and chrome is parked in a far corner of the faculty lot, and as Marino gets closer to it, he picks up his pace.

“Goddamn son of a bitch.” He starts to run.

He yells his obscenities loudly enough for Link the maintenance man, who is weeding a flower bed, to stop what he is doing and jump to his feet. “You all right over there?”

“Fucking motherfucker!” Marino yells.

The front tire of his new bike is flat. Flat all the way down to the shiny chrome rim. Marino gets down to look at the tire, upset and furious, looks for a nail or a screw, anything sharp he might have picked up on his ride in to work this morning. He rolls the bike backward and forward and discovers the puncture. It is about an eighth of an inch cut that appears to have been made with something sharp and strong, possibly a knife.

Possibly a stainless-steel surgical knife, and his eyes dart around, looking for Joe Amos.

“Yeah, I was noticing that,” Link says, walking toward him, wiping his dirty hands on his blue coveralls.

“Nice of you to let me know,” Marino says angrily as he angrily digs through a saddlebag for his tire-plug kit as he angrily thinks of Joe Amos, getting angrier with each thought.

“Must have picked up a nail somewhere,” Link supposes, getting down for a closer inspection. “That looks bad.”

“You see anybody around here looking at my bike? Where the hell's my tire-plug kit?”

“I've been right here all day and haven't seen anyone anywhere near your bike. It's quite a bike. What? About fourteen hundred CCs? I used to have a Springer until some no-nuts pulled in front of me and I ended up flying over his hood. I started working on the flower beds around ten this morning. The tire was already flat by then.”

Marino thinks back. He got here between nine fifteen and nine thirty.

“A puncture like this and the tire would have gone flat so fast I'd never have gotten it into the damn lot and it sure as hell wasn't flat when I stopped to get donuts,” he says. “It had to have happened after I parked in here.”

“Well, I don't like the sound of it.”

Marino looks around, thinking about Joe Amos. He'll kill him. If he touched his bike, he's dead.

“I hate to think it,” Link is saying. “Awfully bold to come right into this lot in the middle of the morning and do something like that. If that's what happened.”

“Goddamn it, where is it?” Marino says, going through the other saddlebag. “You got anything to plug this thing? Shit! What the hell.” He quits rummaging. “Probably not going to work anyway, not with a hole this big, damn it!”