Four Scarpetta Novels (49 page)

There is nothing diplomatic about my next question. Does ATF know she invented technology that might foil law enforcement efforts
to restore the e-mail of the bad guys? Lucy replies that someone was going to come up with the technology, and the privacy of law-abiding people needs to be protected, too. ATF doesn't know about her entrepreneurial activities or that she has been investing in Internet inventions and stocks. Until this moment, only her financial adviser and Teun McGovern are privy to the fact that Lucy is a multimillionaire who has her own helicopter on order.

“So that's how Teun was able to start up her own business in a prohibitively expensive city like New York,” I figure.

“Exactly,” Lucy says. “And it's why I'm not going to fight ATF, or at least one good reason. If I do battle with them, then the truth about what I've been up to on my own time would probably come out. Internal Affairs, the Inspector General's Office, everyone would dig. They'd find more nails to drive into my reputation as they hang me on their bureaucratic, bullshit cross. Why the hell would I want to do that to myself?”

“If you don't fight injustice, others will suffer from it, Lucy. And maybe those people won't have millions of dollars, a helicopter and a company in New York to fall back on as they try to start a new life.”

“That's exactly what The Last Precinct is all about,” she replies. “Fighting injustice. I'll fight it in my own way.”

“Legally, your moonlighting is not within the scope of the case it appears ATF is making against you, Lucy,” the lawyer in me speaks.

“Making money on the side speaks to my veracity, supposedly, though, doesn't it?” she plays the other side.

“Has ATF accused you of lacking veracity? Have they called you dishonest?”

“Well, no. That won't be in any letter from them. For sure. But truth is, Aunt Kay, I broke the rules. You aren't supposed to make money from another source while you're employed by ATF, the FBI or any other federal law enforcement agency. I don't agree with that prohibition. It's not fair. Cops get to moonlight. We don't. Maybe I've always known my days with the feds are numbered.” She gets up from the table. “So I took care
of my future. Maybe I was just sick of everything. I don't want to spend the rest of my life taking orders from other people.”

“If you want to leave ATF, make it your choice, not theirs.”

“It
is
my choice,” she says with a trace of anger. “Guess I'd better get to the store.”

I walk her to the door, arm in arm. “Thank you,” I tell her. “It means everything to me that you let me know.”

“I'm going to teach you how to fly helicopters.” She puts on her coat.

“May as well,” I say. “I've been in a lot of unfamiliar airspace today. I guess a little more isn't going to matter.”

T
HE RUDE JOKE
for years has been that Virginians go to New York for art and New York comes to Virginia for garbage. Mayor Giuliani almost started another civil war when he made that snipe during his much-publicized war with Jim Gilmore, Virginia's governor at the time, over Manhattan's right to ship megatons of northern trash to our southern landfills. I can only imagine the reaction when word gets out that now we have to go to New York for justice, too.

As long as I have been the chief medical examiner of Virginia, Jaime Berger has been the head of the sex crimes unit for the district attorney's office in Manhattan. Although we have never met, we are often mentioned together. It is said that I am the most famous female forensic pathologist in the country and she is the most famous female prosecutor. Until now, the only reaction I might have had to such a claim is that I don't want to be famous and don't trust people who are, and
female
should not be an adjective. Nobody talks about successful men in terms of a male doctor or male president or male CEO.

Over the past few days, I have spent hours on Anna's computer researching Berger on the Internet. I resisted being impressed but can't help it. I didn't know, for example, that she is a Rhodes scholar or that after Clinton was elected she was short-listed for attorney general and, according to
Time
magazine
,
was privately relieved when Janet Reno was appointed instead. Berger didn't want to give up prosecuting cases. Supposedly, she has turned down judgeships and staggering offers from private law firms for the same reason, and is so admired by her peers that
they established a public service scholarship in her name at Harvard, where she spent her undergraduate years. Strangely, very little is said about her personal life except that she plays tennis—extremely well, of course. She works out with a trainer three mornings a week at a New York athletic club and runs three or four miles a day. Her favorite restaurant is Primola. I take some comfort in the fact that she likes Italian food.

It is now Wednesday, early evening, and Lucy and I are Christmas shopping. I have browsed and purchased as much as I can stomach, my mind poisoned by worries, my arm itching like mad inside its plaster cocoon, my craving for tobacco akin to lust. Lucy is somewhere inside Regency Mall taking care of her own list, and I search for a spot where I might evade the churning herd. Thousands of people have waited until three days before Christmas to find thoughtful, special gifts for those significant people in their lives. Voices and constant motion combine in a steady roar that shorts out thoughts and normal conversation, and piped-in holiday music jars my already vibrating nerves out of phase. I face plate glass in front of Sea Dream Leather, my back to discordant people who, like unskilled fingers on a piano, rush and stop and force without joy. Pressing my cell phone tight against my ear, I yield to a new addiction. I check my voice mail for what must be the tenth time today. It has become my slender, secret connection to my former existence. Tapping into my messages is the only way I can go home.

There are four calls. Rose, my secretary, checked in to see how I am holding up. My mother left a long complaint about life. AT&T customer service tried to reach me about a billing question, and my deputy chief, Jack Fielding, needs to talk to me. I call him right away.

“I can hardly hear you,” his scratchy voice sounds in one ear, my hand covering the other. In the background, one of his children is crying.

“I'm not in a good place to talk,” I tell him.

“Me, either. My ex is here. Joy to the world.”

“What's up?” I say to him.

“Some New York prosecutor just called me.”

Jolted, I will myself to sound calm, almost indifferent, when I ask him this person's name. He tells me Jaime Berger reached him at home
several hours ago. She wanted to know if he assisted in the autopsies I performed on Kim Luong and Diane Bray. “That's interesting,” I comment. “Isn't your number unlisted?”

“Righter gave it to her,” he informs me.

Paranoia heats up. The wound of betrayal flares. Righter gave her Jack's number and not mine? “Why didn't he tell her to call me?” I ask.

Jack pauses as another child adds to the upset chorus in his house. “I don't know. I told her I didn't officially assist. You did the posts. I'm not listed on the protocols as a witness. Said she really needs to speak to you.”

“What was her response when you told her that?” I ask.

“Started asking me questions, obviously has copies of the reports.”

Righter again. Copies of the medical examiner's initial report of investigation and the autopsy protocols go to the commonwealth's attorney's office. I feel dizzy. It now seems that two prosecutors have spurned me, and fear and bewilderment gather like an army of fiery ants, teaming over my interior world, stinging my very psyche. What is happening is uncanny and cruel. It is beyond anything I have ever imagined in my most unsettled moments. Jack's voice sounds distant through static that seems a projection of the chaos in my mind. I make out that Berger was a very cool customer and sounded as if she was on a car phone, and then something about special prosecutors. “I thought they were only brought in for the president or Waco or whatever,” he says as the cell suddenly clears and he yells—to his ex-wife, I assume—“Can you take them in the other room? I'm on the phone! Jesus,” he blurts out to me, “don't ever have kids.”

“What do you mean,
special prosecutor
?” I inquire. “What special prosecutor?”

Jack pauses. “I guess I'm assuming they're bringing her here to try the case because Fighter-Righter doesn't want to,” he replies with sudden nervousness. In fact, he sounds evasive.

“It appears they had a case in New York.” I am careful what I say. “That's why she's involved, or so I'm told.”

“You mean a case like ours?”

“Two years ago.”

“No shit? News to me. Okay. She didn't say anything about that. Just wants to know about the ones here,” Jack tells me.

“How many for the morning, so far?” I inquire about our case load for tomorrow.

“Five so far. Including a weirdo one that's going to be a pain in the butt. Young white male—maybe Hispanic—found inside a motel room. Looks like the room was torched. No ID. A needle stuck in his arm, so we don't know if he's a drug OD or smoke inhalation.”

“Let's not talk about it over a cell phone,” I cut him off, looking around me. “We'll talk about it in the morning. I'll take care of him.”

A long, surprised pause is followed by, “You sure? Because I . . .”

“I'm sure, Jack.” I have not been to the office at all this week. “See you then.”

I am supposed to meet Lucy in front of Waldenbooks at seven-thirty, and I venture back out into the churning herd. I have no sooner parked myself at the appointed spot when I notice a familiar, big, sour-looking man riding up the escalator. Marino bites into a soft pretzel and licks his fingers as he stares at the teenage girl one step above him. Her tight jeans and sweater leave no mysteries about her curves, dips and elevations, and even from this distance, I can tell Marino is mapping her routes and imagining what it would be like to travel them.

I watch him carried along crowded steps of steel, heavily involved with the pretzel, chewing with his mouth open, lusting. Faded, baggy blue jeans ride below his swollen gut, and his big hands look like baseball mitts protruding from the sleeves of a red NASCAR windbreaker. A NASCAR cap covers his balding head and he wears ridiculous Elvis-size wire-rim glasses. His fleshy face is furrowed by discontent and has the slack, flushed look of chronic dissipation, and I am startled by an awareness of how miserable he is in his own body, of how much he wars against flesh that by now fails him with a vengeance. Marino reminds me of someone who has taken terrible care of his car, driving it hard, letting it rust and fall apart, and then violently hating it. I imagine Marino slamming down the hood and kicking the tires.

We worked our first case together shortly after I moved here from Miami, and he was surly and condescending and positively boorish from the start. I was certain that by accepting the chief medical examiner's position in Virginia I had made the biggest mistake of my life. In Miami, I had earned the respect of law enforcement and the medical and scientific community. The press treated me reasonably well and I enjoyed a rise to minor stardom that gave me confidence and reassurance. Gender did not seem an issue until I met Peter Rocco Marino, begotten of hardworking Italian stock in New Jersey, a former New York cop, now divorced from his childhood sweetheart, father of a son he never talks about.

He is like the harsh lighting in dressing rooms. I was relatively comfortable with myself until I saw my reflection in him. This minute, I am unsettled enough to accept that the flaws he holds up to me are probably true. He notices me against the glass storefront, tucking my phone back into my satchel, shopping bags at my feet, and I wave at him. He takes his time maneuvering his bulk through prepossessed people who right now aren't thinking about murderers or trials or New York prosecutors.

“What are you doing here?” he asks me as if I am trespassing.

“Buying your Christmas present,” I say. He takes another bite of pretzel. It appears he has purchased nothing but the pretzel. “And you?” I inquire.

“Came to sit on Santa's lap and get my picture took.”

“Don't let me stop you.”

“I paged Lucy. She told me where in this zoo you was probably at. I thought you might need someone to carry your bags, being that you're a little shorthanded at the moment. How you gonna do autopsies with that thing on?” He indicates my cast.

I know why he is here. I detect the distant roar of information headed my way like an avalanche. I sigh. Slowly but surely I am surrendering to the fact that my life is only going to get worse. “Okay, Marino, now what?” I ask him. “What's happened now?”

“Doc, it's going to be in the paper tomorrow.” He bends over to pick
up my bags. “Righter called me a little while ago. The DNA matches. Looks like Wolfman whacked that weather lady in New York two years ago, and apparently the asshole's decided he's feeling up to leaving MCV and ain't fighting extradition to the Big Apple—just happy as a clam to get the hell out of Virginia. Kind of a weird coincidence the son of a bitch decides to leave town the same day as Bray's memorial service.”

“What memorial service?” Thoughts crash into each other from all directions.

“At Saint Bridget's.”

I also didn't know Bray was Catholic and just happened to attend the church where I am a member. An eerie feeling tickles up my spine. No matter what world I occupy, it seemed her mission was to break into it and eclipse me. That she might even have attempted this at my own unassuming church reminds me of how utterly ruthless and arrogant she was.

“So Chandonne is transported out of Richmond on the same day we're supposed to say good-bye to the last woman he snuffed,” Marino talks on, scanning every shopper bobbing past. “Don't think for a minute the timing's a coincidence. Every move he makes, the press will be there in droves. So he'll outshine Bray, steal her thunder, 'cause the media's gonna be a hell of a lot more interested in what he's doing than in who shows up to pay their respects to one of his victims.
If
anybody shows up to pay respects. I know I ain't, not after all the shit she did to make my life happy. And oh yeah, Berger's on her way here even as we speak. I guess with a name like that she probably ain't into Christmas,” he adds.

We spot Lucy at the same moment a gang of loud, turbulent boys do. They have the latest funky hair and cargo jeans falling off their tiny loins and do exaggerated double-takes, lusting after my niece, who is wearing black tights, scuffed Army boots and an antique flight jacket she rescued from a vintage clothing shop somewhere. Marino gives her admirers a look that would kill if glaring with hatred in one's heart could penetrate skin and perforate vital organs. The boys weave and bounce, shuffling in huge leather basketball shoes, reminding me of puppies that haven't grown into their paws yet.

“What'd you buy me?” Marino asks Lucy.

“A year's supply of maca root.”

“What the hell's maca root?”

“Next time you go bowling with some really hot woman, you'll appreciate my little gift,” she says.

“You didn't really get him that.” I halfway believe her.

Marino snorts. Lucy laughs, seeming much too jovial for someone about to be fired, millionaire or not. Outside in the parking lot, the air is damp and very cold. Headlights dazzle the dark, and everywhere I look I find cars and people in a hurry. Silver wreaths shimmer from light posts, and drivers circle like sharks, looking for spaces close to mall entrances, as if walking several hundred feet is the worst thing that can happen to a person.

“I hate this time of year. I wish I were Jewish,” Lucy comments, ironically as if she were privy to Marino's earlier allusion to Berger's ethnicity.

“Was Berger a D.A. when you started out in New York?” I ask him as he places my packages inside Lucy's ancient green Suburban.

“Just getting started.” He shuts the tailgate. “I never met her.”

“What did you hear about her?” I ask.

“Really hot-looking with big tits.”

“Marino, you're so highly evolved,” Lucy says.

“Hey.” He jerks his head in parting. “Don't ask me something if you don't want to know the answer.”

I watch his shadowy bulk move through a confusion of headlights and shoppers and shadows. The sky is milky in the light of an imperfect moon, and snow drifts down in slow, small flakes. Lucy backs out of her parking place and eases into a line of cars. Dangling from her key chain is a silver medallion engraved with the logo for Whirly-Girls, a seemingly frivolous name for a very serious international association of female helicopter pilots. Lucy, who joins nothing, is an ardent member, and I am grateful that in spite of everything else gone wrong, at least her Christmas present is safely tucked inside one of my bags. Months ago, I conspired with Schwarzchild's Jewelers to have a Whirly-Girls necklace
made for Lucy in gold. The timing is perfect, especially in light of late-breaking revelations about her plans in life. “Just what exactly will you do with your own helicopter? You're really getting one?” I ask. In part, I want to steer the conversation away from New York and Berger. I am still chafed by what Jack had to say over the phone, and a shadow has fallen across my psyche. Something else bothers me and I am not quite sure what.