Five Scarpetta Novels (135 page)

We had walked these narrow cobblestone streets and browsed the historic plaques on some of the walls that told who once had lived here. We had stopped in outdoor cafés, and across the way bought ice cream at Berthillon. I told my driver to circle the island.

It was solid with gorgeous homes of limestone pitted by the years, and balconies were black wrought iron. Windows were lit up, and through them were glimpses of exposed beams, bookcases and fine paintings, but I saw no one. It was as if the elitist people who lived here were invisible to the rest of us.

“Have you ever heard of the Chandonne family?” I asked my driver.

“But of course,” he said. “Would you like to see where they live?”

“Please,” I said with great misgivings.

He drove to the Quai d'Orléans, past the residence where Pompidou died on the second floor, the blinds still drawn, and onto the Quai de Béthune toward the eastern tip of the island. I dug in my satchel and got out a bottle of Advil.

The taxi stopped. I sensed my driver didn't care to get any closer to the Chandonne home.

“Turn the corner there,” he pointed, “and walk to Quai d'Anjou. You will see doors carved with chamois. That is the Chandonne crest, I guess you would call it. Even the drainpipes are chamois. It is really something. You can't miss it. And stay away from the bridge over there on the right bank,” he said. “Underneath it, that is where the homeless and homosexuals are. It is dangerous.”

The
hôtel particulier
where the Chandonne family had lived for hundreds of years was a four-story town house with multiple dormer windows, chimneys and an Oeil de Boeuf, or beef's eye, which was a round window at the roof. The front doors were dark wood ornately carved with chamois, and fleet-footed goats held on tooth and tail to form gilded drainpipes.

The hair pricked up on my flesh. I tucked myself in shadows and stared across the street at the lair that had spawned this monster who called himself the Loup-Garou. Through windows, chandeliers sparkled and bookcases were crowded with hundreds of books. I was startled when a woman suddenly appeared in the glass. She was enormously fat. She wore a dark red robe with deep sleeves, the material rich like satin or silk. I stared, transfixed.

Her face was impatient, her lips moving fast as she talked to someone, and almost instantly a maid appeared with a small silver tray bearing a liqueur glass. Madame Chandonne, if that's who the woman was, sipped her drink. She lit a cigarette with a silver lighter and walked out of view.

I walked fast to the tip of the island, less than a block away, and from a small park there I could barely make out the silhouette of the morgue. I guessed it was but several miles upriver, on the other side of the Pont Sully. I scanned the Seine and fantasized that the killer was the son of the obese woman I just saw, that for years he had bathed nude
here without her knowing, moonlight shining on his long, pale hair.

I imagined him emerging from his noble home and wandering to this park after dark to dip into what he hoped would heal him. How many years had he waded in that frigid, dirty water? I wondered if he ranged about the right bank, where he watched people who were as estranged from society as he was. Maybe he even mingled with them.

Stairs led down from the street to the quai, and the river was so high it lapped over cobblestones in murky ruffles that smelled faintly of sewage. The Seine was swollen from unrelenting rain, the current very strong, and an occasional duck flowed past even though ducks weren't supposed to swim at night. Iron gas lamps glowed and dashed flakes of gold in patterns over the water.

I took the cap off the bottle of Advil and poured the pills on the ground. I carefully ventured down slick stone stairs to the quai. Water lapped around my feet as I swished the plastic bottle clean and filled it with frigid water. I snapped the cap back on and returned to the taxi, glancing back several times at the Chandonne home, halfway expecting cartel criminals to suddenly spring out after me.

“Take me to the morgue, please,” I said to my driver.

It was dark, and razor wire not noticeable during the day reflected light from cars speeding past.

“Pull into the back parking lot,” I said.

He turned off the Quai de la Rapée into the small area behind the building where vans had been parked and the sad couple had waited on a bench earlier in the day. I got out.

“Stay right here,” I said to my driver. “I'm just going to walk around for a minute.”

His face was wan, and when I got a better look at him, I realized he was very wrinkled and missing several teeth. He looked uneasy, his eyes darting about as if maybe he was thinking about speeding away.

“It's all right,” I said to him as I got a notebook out of my satchel.

“Oh, you're a journalist,” he said with relief. “You're here working on a story.”

“Yes, a story.”

He grinned, hanging halfway out his open window.

“You had me worried, madame! I thought maybe you were some sort of ghoul!”

“Give me just a minute,” I said.

I wandered around, feeling the damp cold of old stone and air blowing off the river as I moved around in the darkness of deep shadows and took interest in every detail, as if I were he. He would have been fascinated by this place. It was the hall of dishonor that displayed his trophies after his kills and reminded him of his sovereign immunity. He could do whatever he wanted, whenever he pleased and leave all the evidence in the world and he wouldn't be touched.

He probably could have walked from his house to the morgue in twenty or thirty minutes, and I envisioned him sitting in the park, staring at the old brick building and imagining what was going on inside, what work he had created for Dr. Stvan. I wondered if the odor of death excited him.

A faint breeze stirred acacia trees and touched my skin as I replayed what Dr. Stvan had said about the man who had come to her door. He had come to murder her and had failed. He returned to this very spot and left her a note the next day.

Pas la police . . .

Perhaps we were trying to make his modus operandi far too complicated.

Pas de problème . . . Le Loup-Garou.

Perhaps it was as simple as a raging, murderous lust he could not control. Once the monster in him was aroused by someone, there was no escape. I was certain if he were still
in France, Dr. Stvan would be dead. Perhaps when he fled to Richmond, he thought he could control himself for a while. And maybe he did for three days. Or maybe he had been watching Kim Luong the entire time, fantasizing until he couldn't resist the evil impulse any longer.

I hurried back to my taxi and the windows were so fogged up I could not see through them as I pulled open the back door. Inside, the heater was blasting, my driver half asleep. He sat up with a start and swore.

C
oncorde flight 2 left Charles de Gaulle airport at eleven and arrived in New York at 8:45
A
.
M
., Eastern Standard time, which was before we'd left, in a sense. I walked into my house mid-afternoon terribly out of sorts, my body confused about time, my emotions screaming. The weather was getting bad, with predictions of freezing rain and sleet again, and I had errands to run. Marino went home. He had that big truck, after all.

Ukrops grocery store was mobbed because whenever sleet or snow was predicted, Richmonders lost their minds. They envisioned starving to death or having nothing to drink, and by the time I got to the bread section, there wasn't a single loaf left. There was no turkey or ham in the deli. I bought whatever I could, because I expected Lucy to stay with me for a while.

I headed home a little past six and didn't have the energy to negotiate a peace settlement with my garage. So I parked my car out front. Wispy white clouds over the moon looked exactly like a skull, then shifted and were formless, rushing on as the wind blew harder, trees shivering and whispering. I felt achy and woozy as if I might be
getting sick, and I got increasingly worried when once again Lucy didn't call or come home.

I assumed she was at MCV, but when I contacted the Orthopedic Unit, I was told she hadn't been there since yesterday morning. I began to get frantic. I paced the great room and thought hard. It was almost ten o'clock when I got back in my car and drove toward downtown, tension stringing me so tight I thought I might snap.

I knew it was possible Lucy had gone on to D.C., but I couldn't imagine her doing that without at least leaving me a note. Whenever she disappeared without a word, it never meant anything good. I turned off on the Ninth Street exit and drove through downtown's vacant streets and wandered through several levels of the hospital's parking deck before I found a space. I grabbed a lab coat off the backseat of my car.

The orthopedic unit was in the new hospital, on the second floor, and when I got to the room I slipped my lab coat on and opened the door. A couple I assumed was Jo's parents were inside, sitting by the bed, and I walked over to them. Jo's head was bandaged, her leg in traction, but she was awake and her eyes immediately fixed on me.

“Mr. and Mrs. Sanders?” I said. “I'm Dr. Scarpetta.”

If my name meant anything to them, they didn't acknowledge it, but Mr. Sanders politely stood and shook my hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

He wasn't at all what I'd envisioned. I supposed after Jo's description of her parents' rigid attitudes, I expected stern faces and eyes that judged everything they saw. But Mr. and Mrs. Sanders were overweight and frumpy, not formidable-looking in the least. They were very polite, even shy, as I asked them about their daughter. Jo continued to stare at me, a look in her eyes that called out to me to help.

“Would you mind if I speak to the patient in private for a moment?” I asked them.

“That would be fine,” Mrs. Sanders said.

“Now, Jo, you do what the doctor says,” Mr. Sanders told his daughter in a dispirited way.

They went out and the instant I shut the door, Jo's eyes filled with tears. I bent over and kissed her cheek.

“You've had all of us worried sick,” I said.

“How's Lucy?” she whispered as sobs began to shake her and tears flowed.

I placed tissues in a hand that was tethered by IV tubes.

“I don't know. I don't know where she is, Jo. Your parents told her you didn't want to see her and . . .”

Jo started shaking her head.

“I knew they'd do that,” she said in a dark, depressed tone. “I knew they would. They told me she didn't want to see me. She was too upset, because of what happened. I didn't believe them. I know she would never do something like that. But they ran her off and now she's gone. And maybe she believes what they said.”

“She feels what happened to you is her fault,” I said. “It's very possible the bullet in your leg came from her gun.”

“Please bring her to me. Please.”

“Do you have any idea where she might be?” I asked. “Is there any place she might go when she's upset like this? Maybe back to Miami?”

“I'm sure she wouldn't go there.”

I sat down in a chair by the bed and blew out a long, exhausted breath.

“A hotel maybe?” I asked. “A friend?”

“Maybe New York,” Jo said. “There's a bar in Greenwich Village. Rubyfruit.”

“You think she went to New York?” I asked, dismayed.

“The owner's name is Ann, a former cop,” her voice shook. “Oh, I don't know. I don't know. She scares me when she runs away. She doesn't think right when she gets like that.”

“I know. And with all that's gone on, she can't be
thinking right anyway. Jo, you should be getting out of here in another day or so if you behave,” I said with a smile. “Where do you want to go?”

“I don't want to go home. You'll find her, won't you?”

“Would you like to stay with me?” I asked.

“My parents aren't bad people,” she muttered as morphine dripped. “They don't understand. They think . . . Why is it wrong . . . ?”

“It's not,” I said. “Love is never wrong.”

I left the room as she drifted.

Her parents were outside the door. Both looked exhausted and sad.

“How is she?” Mr. Sanders asked.

“Not too well,” I said.

Mrs. Sanders began to cry.

“You have a right to believe the way you do,” I said. “But preventing Lucy and Jo from seeing each other is the last thing your daughter needs right now. She doesn't need more fear and depression. She doesn't need to lose her will to live, Mr. and Mrs. Sanders.”

Neither of them replied.

“I'm Lucy's aunt,” I said.

“She's about back in this world anyway, I guess,” Mr. Sanders said. “Can't keep anybody from her. We were just trying to do what's best.”

“Jo knows that,” I replied. “She loves you.”

They didn't say good-bye but watched me as I got on the elevator. I called Rubyfruit the minute I got home and asked for Ann over the loud noise of voices and a band.

“She's not in great shape,” Ann said to me, and I knew what that meant.

“Will you take care of her?” I asked.

“I already am,” she said. “Hold on. Let me get her.”

“I saw Jo,” I said when Lucy got on the phone.

“Oh,” was all she said, and it was obvious from one word that she was drunk.

“Lucy!”

“I don't want to talk right now,” she said.

“Jo loves you,” I said. “Come home.”

“Then what do I do?”

“We bring her to my house from the hospital and you take care of her,” I said. “That's what you do.”

I barely slept. At 2:00
A
.
M
. I finally got up and went into the kitchen to fix a cup of herbal tea. It was still raining hard, water running off the roof and splashing on the patio, and I couldn't seem to get warm. I thought about the swabs and hair and photographs of bite marks locked inside my briefcase, and it almost seemed the killer was inside my house.

I could feel his presence, as if those parts of him emanated evil. I thought about the awful irony. Interpol summoned me to France and after all was said and done, the only legal evidence I had was an Advil bottle filled with water and silt from the Seine.

When it got to be 3:00
A
.
M
., I sat up in bed writing draft after draft of a letter to Talley. Nothing sounded right. I was frightened by how much I missed him and what I had done to him. Now he was striking back and it was exactly what I deserved.

I crumpled another sheet of stationery and looked at the phone. I calculated what time it was in Lyon and imagined him at his desk in one of his fine suits. I thought of him on the phone and in meetings or maybe escorting someone else around and not giving me a thought. I thought of his hard, smooth body and I wondered where he had learned to be such a lover.

I went on to work. When it was almost two in the afternoon in France, I decided to call Interpol.

“. . . Bonjour, hello . . .”

“Jay Talley, please,” I said.

I was transferred.

“HIDTA,” a man answered.

I paused, confused. “Is this Jay Talley's extension?”

“Who is this?”

I told him.

“He's not here,” the man said.

Fear shot through me. I didn't believe him.

“And to whom am I speaking?” I inquired.

“Agent Wilson. I'm the FBI liaison. We didn't meet the other day. Jay's out.”

“Do you know when he'll be back?”

“I'm not really sure.”

“I see,” I said. “Is it possible for me to reach him? Or can you ask him to call me?”

I knew I sounded nervous.

“I really don't know where he is,” he replied. “But if he checks in, I'll let him know you called. Is there something I can help you with?”

“No,” I said.

I hung up and felt panicky. I was certain Talley didn't want any contact with me and had instructed people that if I called, he wasn't there.

“Oh, God, oh, God,” I whispered as I walked past Rose's desk. “What have I done?”

“Are you talking to me?” She looked up from her keyboard, peering at me over her glasses. “Did you lose something again?”

“Yes,” I said.

At half past eight, I walked into the staff meeting and took my usual place at the head of the table.

“What have we got?” I asked.

“Black female, thirty-two years old, from Albemarle County,” Chong began. “Ran off the road and flipped her car. Apparently she just veered off the road and lost control. She has a fracture of the right leg, a basilar skull fracture, and the M.E. for Albemarle County, Dr. Richards, wants to us to do a post.” He looked up at me. “I'm just wondering why? Her cause and manner seem pretty clear.”

“Because the code says we supply services to the local M.E.,” I replied. “They ask, we do it. We can take an hour to post her now, or we can take ten hours later on to sort it out if there's a problem.”

“Next is an eighty-year-old white female last seen yesterday morning around nine
A
.
M
. Her boyfriend found her last night at six-thirty . . .”

I had to work very hard not to tune in and out.

“. . . no known drug abuse or foul play,” Chong droned on. “Nitroglycerin present at scene.”

Talley made love as if he were starving. I couldn't believe I was having erotic thoughts in the middle of a staff meeting.

“She needs a look-see for injury, and toxicology,” Fielding was saying. “Needs a view.”

“Anybody know what I'm teaching at the Institute next week?” toxicologist Tim Cooper asked.

“Toxicology, probably.”

“Really.” Cooper sighed. “I need a secretary.”

“I've got three court appearances today,” Assistant Chief Riley was saying. “Which is impossible since they're all over the place.”

The door opened and Rose stuck her head inside and motioned to me to come out into the hall.

“Larry Posner's got to leave in a little while,” she said. “And he's wondering if you could stop by his lab right now?”

“On my way,” I said.

When I walked in, he was making a permanent slide, using a pipette to touch a drop of Cargille melt mount on the edge of a cover slip while other slides warmed up on a hot plate.

“I don't know if it adds up to much,” he said right off. “Take a look in the scope. Diatoms from your un-I.D.'d guy. Keep in mind the only thing an individual diatom will tell you, with rare exception, is if it's saltwater, brackish or fresh.”

I peered into the lens at little organisms that looked as if they were made of clear glass, in all sorts of shapes that brought to mind boats, chains and zigzags and slivered moons and tiger stripes and crosses and even stacks of poker chips. There were pieces and parts that reminded me of confetti and grains of sand and other particles of different colors that probably were minerals.

Posner removed the slide from the stage and replaced it with another.

“The sample you brought back from the Seine,” he said. “Cymbella, Melosira, Navicula, Fragilaria. On and on. Common as dust. All freshwater, so at least that's good, but they really tell us nothing in and of themselves.”