Five Scarpetta Novels (149 page)

“You're a cop, Henri. What would you have done?”

“She would do something like that,” she says.

“W
HERE ARE YOU
?” Marino asks when he sees Lucy's number in the display of his vibrating cell phone. “What's your location?” He always asks her where she is, even if the answer isn't relevant.

Marino has spent his adult life in policing, and one detail a good cop never overlooks is location. It doesn't do a damn bit of good to get on your radio and scream Mayday if you don't know where you are. Marino considers himself Lucy's mentor, and he doesn't let her forget it even if she forgot it long years back.

“Atlantic,” Lucy's voice returns in his right ear. “I'm in the car.”

“No joke, Sherlock. You sound like you're in a damn garbage disposal.” Marino never misses an opportunity to give her a hard time about her cars.

“Jealousy is so unattractive,” she says.

He walks several steps away from the OCME coffee area, looking around, seeing no one, and is satisfied that his conversation isn't overheard. “Look, it ain't going so good up here,” he says, peeking through the small glass window in the shut library door, seeing if anyone is inside. No one is. “This joint's gone to hell.” He keeps talking into his tiny cell phone, moving it back and forth between his ear and mouth, depending on whether he's listening or speaking. “I'm just giving you a heads-up.”

After a pause, Lucy replies, “You're not just giving me a heads-up. What do you want me to do?”

“Damn. That car is loud.” He paces, his eyes constantly moving beneath the brim of the LAPD baseball cap Lucy gave him as a joke.

“Okay, so now you're starting to worry me,” she says above the roar of her Ferrari. “I should have known when you said this was no big deal, it was going to turn out to be a big deal. Dammit. I warned you, I warned both of you not to go back there.”

“There's more to it than this dead girl,” he replies quietly. “That's what I'm getting at. It ain't about that, not entirely. I'm not saying she ain't the main problem. I'm sure she is. But there's something else going on here. Our mutual friend,” he refers to Benton, “is making that loud and clear. And you know her.” Now he means Scarpetta. “She's gonna end up right in the middle of shit.”

“Something else going on? Like what? Give me an example.” Lucy's tone changes. When she turns very serious, her voice gets slow and rigid, reminding Marino of drying glue.

If there is trouble here in Richmond, Marino thinks, he's stuck, all right. Lucy will be all over him like glue, all right. “Let me tell you something, Boss,” he goes on, “one of the reasons I'm still walking around is 'cause I got instincts.”

Marino calls her Boss as if he is comfortable with her being his boss, when of course he is anything but, especially if his remarkable instincts warn him that he is about to earn her disapproval. “And my instincts is screaming bloody murder right about now, Boss,” he is saying, and a part of him knows damn well that Lucy and her aunt Kay Scarpetta see his insecurity when he starts trotting out bravado or bragging about his instincts or calling powerful women Boss or Sherlock or other less polite appellations. But he just can't help himself. So he makes matters worse. “And I'll add this to the mix,” he continues, “I hate this stinking city. Goddamn, I hate this stinking place. You know what's wrong with this stinking place? They ain't got respect, that's what.”

“I'm not going to say I told you so,” Lucy tells him so. Her voice is setting like glue very quickly now. “Do you want us to come?”

“No,” he says, and it gripes him that he can't tell Lucy what he thinks without her assuming she should do something about it. “Right now, I'm just giving you a heads-up, Boss,” he says, wishing he hadn't called Lucy and told her anything. It was a mistake to call her, he thinks. But if she finds out her aunt is having a hard time and he didn't say a word, Lucy would be all over him.

When he first met her she was ten years old. Ten. A pudgy little runt with glasses and an obnoxious attitude. They hated each other, then things changed and she hero-worshipped him, and then they became friends, and then things changed again. Somewhere along the line, he should have put a stop to progress, to all the changing, because about ten years ago things were just right and he felt good teaching her to drive his truck and ride a motorcycle, how to shoot, how to drink beer, how to tell if someone's lying, the important things in life. Back then he wasn't afraid of her. Maybe fear isn't the right word to describe what he feels, but she has power in life and he doesn't, and half the time when he gets off the phone after talking to her, he feels down in the dumps and bad about himself. Lucy can do whatever she likes and still have money and order people around, and he can't. Not even when he was a sworn police officer could he flaunt power the way she does. But he's not afraid of her, he tells himself. Hell no, he's not.

“We'll come if you need us,” Lucy says over the phone. “But it's not a good time. I'm into something down here and it's not a good time.”

“I told you I don't need you to come,” Marino says grumpily, and being grumpy has always been the magic charm that forces people to worry more about him and his moods than about themselves and their moods. “I'm telling you what's going on and that's it. I don't need you. There's nothing for you to do.”

“Good,” Lucy says. Grumpy doesn't work with her anymore. Marino keeps forgetting that. “I've got to go.”

L
UCY TOUCHES
the paddle shift with her left index finger and the engine kicks up a thousand rpm's with a roar as she slows down. Her sonaradar chirps and the front alert flashes red, indicating police radar somewhere up ahead.

“I'm not speeding,” she says to Rudy Musil, who sits in the passenger's seat, near the fire extinguisher, and he is looking at the speedometer. “Only going six miles over.”

“I didn't say anything,” he replies, glancing in his side-view mirror.

“Let me see if I'm right.” She keeps the car in third and just a little over forty miles per hour. “The cop car's going to be at the next intersection looking for us yahoos who can't wait to hit the coast and haul ass.”

“What's going on with Marino? Let me guess,” Rudy says. “I need to pack a suitcase.”

Both of them keep up their constant scans, checking mirrors, noting other cars, aware of every palm tree, pedestrian, and building on this flat stretch of strip malls. Traffic is moderate and relatively polite at the moment on Atlantic Boulevard in Pompano Beach, just north of Fort Lauderdale.

“Yup,” Lucy says. “Tally ho.” Her sunglasses are fixed straight ahead as she passes a dark blue Ford LTD that has just turned right off Powerline Road, an intersection with an Eckerd's drugstore and the Discount Meat Market. The unmarked Ford slides in behind her in the left lane.

“You got him curious,” Rudy says.

“Well, he's not paid to be curious,” she says aggressively as the unmarked Ford follows her, and she knows damn well the cop is hoping she'll do something that gives him cause to turn on his lights and check out the car and the young couple in it. “Look at that. People passing me in the right lane, and that guy over there's got an expired inspection sticker.” She points. “And the cop's more interested in me.”

She stops checking on him in the rearview mirror and wishes that Rudy would lighten his mood. Ever since she opened an office in Los Angeles, he has been out of sorts. She's not sure how, but clearly she's miscalculated his ambitions and needs in life. She assumed that Rudy would love a high-rise on Wilshire Boulevard with a view so immense that on a clear day one can see Catalina Island. She was wrong, terribly wrong, as wrong as she has ever been about anything she has ever assumed about him.

A front is rolling in from the south, the sky divided into layers that vary between thick smoke to sunlit pearly gray. Cooler air pushes away rain that at times today was pounding, leaving puddles that blast the undercarriage of Lucy's low-slung car. Just ahead, a flock of migrating seagulls swirl over the road, flying low and in crazy directions, and Lucy drives on, the unmarked car dogging her rear.

“Marino doesn't have much to say,” she answers Rudy's question from a moment ago. “Just that something's up in Richmond. As usual, my aunt is stepping into a mess.”

“I heard you volunteer our services. I thought she was just going to consult about something. What's up?”

“I don't know if we need to do anything. We'll see. What's up is the chief, I can't remember his name, asked her help in a case, some kid, a girl, who suddenly died and he can't figure out why. His office can't, so no big surprise. He's not even been there four months, and he washes his hands of the first big problem and calls my aunt. Hey, how about you coming on up and stepping in this shit so I don't have to. Right? I told her not to touch it and now it seems there are other problems. Huge surprise. I don't know. I told her not to go back to Richmond, but she doesn't listen to me.”

“Listens to you about like you listen to her,” Rudy says.

“You know something, Rudy. I don't like this guy.” Lucy looks in her rearview mirror, at the unmarked Ford.

It is still on her bumper, and its driver is a dark-skinned person, perhaps a man, but Lucy can't tell and she doesn't want to seem interested in him or even aware of him, and then something else occurs to her.

“Damn, I'm stupid,” she says, incredulous. “My radar's not going off. What am I thinking? It hasn't made a chirp since that car pulled in behind us. It's not a police car with radar. It can't be. And he's following us.”

“Easy,” Rudy says. “Just drive and ignore him. Let's see what he does. Probably just some dude looking at your car. That's what you get for driving cars like this. I've told you and told you. Shit.”

Rudy didn't used to lecture her. When they first met years ago at the FBI Academy, they became colleagues, then partners, then friends, and then he thought enough of her personally and professionally to leave law enforcement not long after she did and come work for her company, which might be described as an international private investigation firm for lack of a better definition of what The Last Precinct or its employees do. Even some of the people who work for TLP don't know what it does and have never met its founder and owner, Lucy. Some employees have never met Rudy, or if they have, they don't know who he is or what he does.

“Run the plate,” Lucy says.

Rudy has his palm-size computer out and he is logging on, but he can't run the plate number because he can't see it. The car has no license plate in front, and Lucy feels stupid for ordering him to run a number he can't see.

“Let him get in front of you,” Rudy says. “I can't see his plate unless he gets in front.”

She touches the left paddle and drops to second gear. Now she is going five miles below the speed limit, and the driver stays behind her. He doesn't seem interested in passing her.

“Okay, let the games begin,” she says. “You're fucking with the wrong chicken, asshole.” She suddenly turns a hard right into a strip mall parking lot.

“Oh shit. What the hell…? Now he knows you're messing with him,” Rudy says in annoyance.

“Get the plate now. You should be able to see it.”

Rudy twists around in the seat, but he's not going to get the plate because the Ford LTD has turned off too, and is still on their tail, following them through the parking lot.

“Stop,” Rudy says to Lucy. He is disgusted with her, completely disgusted with her. “Stop the car right now.”

She eases on the brake and shifts the car into neutral, and the Ford stops right behind her. Rudy gets out and walks toward it as the driver's window rolls down. Lucy has her window open, her pistol in her lap, and she watches the activity in her side-view mirror and tries to chase away her feelings. She feels stupid and embarrassed and angry and slightly afraid.

“You got a problem?” she hears Rudy say to the driver, definitely a Hispanic male, a young one.

“Me have a problem? I was just looking.”

“Maybe we don't want you looking.”

“It's a free country. I can fucking look. You have the problem, fuck you!”

“Go look somewhere else. Now get the hell out of here,” Rudy says without raising his voice. “You follow us one more time, you're going to jail, you fucking piece of shit.”

Lucy has the bizarre urge to laugh out loud as Rudy flashes his fake credentials. She is sweating and her heart is beating wildly, and she wants to laugh and get out of the car and kill the young Hispanic male, and she wants to cry, and because she understands nothing about her feelings, she sits behind the wheel of her Ferrari and doesn't move. The driver says something else that she can't make out and angrily drives off, squealing rubber. Rudy walks back to the Ferrari and climbs in.

“Way to go,” he says as she slips back into the traffic on Atlantic. “Just some punk interested in your car, and you have to turn it into an international incident. First you think some cop's following you because the car's a black Crown Vic. Then you notice that your radar detector isn't detecting a damn thing, so next you think…what? What did you think? The Mafia? Some hit man who's going to take us out in the middle of a busy highway?”

She doesn't blame Rudy for losing his temper with her, but she can't allow it. “Don't yell at me,” she says.

“You know what? You're out of control. You're unsafe.”

“This is about something else,” she says, trying to sound sure of herself.

“You're damn right it is,” he retorts. “It's about her. You let someone stay in your house and look what happens. You could be dead. She sure as hell should be dead. And something worse is going to happen if you don't get a grip.”

“She was being stalked, Rudy. Don't make it my fault. It's not my fault.”

“Stalked, you're damn right. She sure as hell was being stalked, and it sure as hell is your fault. If you would drive something like a Jeep…or drive the Hummer. We have company Hummers. Why don't you drive one of those once in a while? If you hadn't let her drive your damn Ferrari. Showing off, Miss Hollywood. Jesus. In your damn Ferrari.”

“Don't get jealous. I hate…”

“I'm not jealous!” he yells.

“You've been acting jealous since we hired her.”

“This isn't about your hiring her! Hired her to do what? She's going to protect our L.A. clients? What a joke! So you hired her to do what? To do what?”

“You can't talk to me like this,” Lucy says quietly, and she is surprisingly calm, but she has no choice. If she fires back at him, then they'll really have a fight and he might do something terrible like quit.

“I won't be run out of my own life. I'll drive what I want and live where I want.” She stares fiercely straight ahead, at the road, at the cars turning off on side streets and into parking places. “I'll be generous to whoever I want. She wasn't allowed to drive my black Ferrari. You know that. But she took it out and that's what started everything. He saw her, followed her, and then look what happens. It's nobody's fault. Not even hers. She didn't invite him to vandalize my car and follow her and try to kill her.”

“Good. You live your life the way you want,” Rudy replies. “And we'll just keep pulling into parking lots and maybe next time I'll beat up some innocent stranger who was just looking at your damn Ferrari. Hell, maybe I'll get to shoot someone. Or maybe I'll get shot. That would be even better, right? Me get shot over a stupid car.”

“Calm down,” Lucy says as she stops at a red light. “Please, calm down. I could have handled that better. I agree.”

“Handled? I didn't notice you handling anything. You just reacted like an idiot.”

“Rudy, stop it. Please.” She doesn't want to get so angry with him that she makes a mistake. “You can't talk to me like this. You can't. Don't make me pull rank.”

She turns left on A1A, driving slowly along the beach, and several teenaged boys almost fall off their bicycles as they turn around to stare at her car. Rudy shakes his head and shrugs, as if to say, I rest my case. But talk about the Ferrari is no longer about the Ferrari. For Lucy to change the way she lives is to allow him to win, and she thinks of the beast as a him. Henri called him a beast, and he is a male beast, Lucy believes that. She has no doubt of that. The hell with science, the hell with evidence, the hell with everything. She knows damn well the beast is a him.

He is either a cocky beast or a stupid beast because he left two partial fingerprints on the glass-covered bedside table. He was stupid or careless to leave prints, or maybe he doesn't care. So far, the partial prints aren't matching up with any prints in any Automated Fingerprint Identification System, so maybe he doesn't have a ten-print card in any database because he's never been arrested or his prints have never been taken for some other reason. Maybe he didn't care when he left three hairs on the bed, three black head hairs, and why should he care? Even when a case is high priority, mitochondrial DNA analysis can take thirty to ninety days. There is no certainty that the results will be worth a damn because there is no such thing as a centralized and statistically significant mitochondrial DNA database, and unlike the nuclear DNA of blood and tissue, the mitochondrial DNA of hair and bones isn't going to tattle on the perpetrator's gender. The evidence the beast left doesn't matter. It may never matter unless he becomes a suspect and direct comparisons can be made.

“All right. I'm rattled. I'm not myself. I'm letting it get to me,” Lucy says, concentrating hard on her driving, worried that maybe she is losing control, that maybe Rudy is right. “What I did back there shouldn't have happened. Never. I'm too careful for that kind of shit.”

“You are. She's not.” Rudy's jaw is set stubbornly, his eyes blacked out by nonpolarized sunglasses that have a mirrored finish. Right now he refuses to give Lucy his eyes, and that bothers her.

“I thought we were talking about the Hispanic guy back there,” Lucy replies.

“You know what I told you from day one,” Rudy says. “The danger of someone living in your house. Someone using your car, your stuff. Someone flying solo in your airspace. Someone who doesn't know the same rules you and I do and sure as hell doesn't have our training. Or care about the same things we do, including us.”

“Not everything in life should be about training,” Lucy says, and it is easier to talk about training than whether someone you love really cares. It's easier talking about the Hispanic than Henri. “I should never have handled it like that back there, and I'm sorry.”

“Maybe you've forgotten what life is really like,” Rudy replies.

“Oh, please don't go into your Boy Scout Be Prepared shit,” she snaps at him, and speeds up, going north, getting close to the Hillsboro neighborhood where her salmon-colored stucco Mediterranean mansion overlooks an inlet that connects the Intracoastal Waterway to the ocean. “I don't think you can be objective. You can't even say her name. Someone-this and Someone-that.”

“Ha! Objective? Ha! You should talk.” His tone is dangerously approaching cruel. “That stupid bitch has ruined absolutely everything. And you didn't have a right to do that. You didn't have a right to drag me along for the ride. You didn't have a right.”