Four Scarpetta Novels (4 page)

“The beaches of Ostia are very popular with tourists,” Captain Poma says. “But not so much this time of year. People from here and the tourists usually wait until it's warmer. Late May, even June. Then many people from Rome especially crowd them, since the drive is maybe thirty, maybe forty minutes. It's not for me,” as if anybody asked his personal feelings about the beaches of Ostia. “I find the black sand of the beaches ugly, and I would never go in the water.”

“I think what's important here is where is the sand from, which seems to be a mystery,” Benton says, and it's late afternoon now and everyone is getting restless. “And why sand at all? The choice of sand—this specific sand—means something to the killer, and it may tell us where Drew was murdered, or perhaps where her killer is from or spends time.”

“Yes, yes,” Captain Poma says with a hint of impatience. “And the eyes and very terrible wounds mean something to the killer. And thankfully, these details aren't known to the public. We've managed to keep them away from journalists. So if there is another similar murder, we will know it isn't a copy.”

T
he three of them sit in a candlelit corner of Tullio, a popular trattoria with a travertine facade, near the theaters, and an easy walk from the Spanish Steps.

Candlelit tables are covered in pale gold cloths, and the dark-paneled wall behind them is filled with bottles of wine. Other walls are hung with watercolors of rustic Italian scenes. It's quiet here except for a table of drunk Americans. They're oblivious and preoccupied, as is the waiter in his beige jacket and black tie. No one has any idea what Benton, Scarpetta, and Captain Poma are discussing. If anyone comes close enough to hear, they change their conversation to harmless topics and tuck photographs and reports back into folders.

Scarpetta sips a 1996 Biondi Santi Brunello that is very expensive but not what she would have picked had she been asked, and usually she is asked. She returns her glass to the table without removing her eyes from the photograph beside her simple Parma ham and melon, which she will follow with grilled sea bass, then beans in olive oil. Maybe raspberries for dessert, unless Benton's deteriorating demeanor takes away her appetite. And it might.

“At the risk of sounding simple,” she is quietly saying, “I keep thinking there's something important we're missing.” Her index finger taps a scene photograph of Drew Martin.

“So now you don't complain about going over something again and again,” Captain Poma says, openly flirtatious now. “See? Good food and wine. They make us smarter.” He taps his head, mimicking Scarpetta tapping the photograph.

She is pensive, the way she gets when she leaves the room without going anywhere.

“Something so obvious we're completely blind to it, everyone's been blind to it,” she continues. “Often we don't see something because—as they say—it's in plain view. What is it? What is she saying to us?”

“Fine. Let's look for what's in plain view,” says Benton, and rarely has she seen him so openly hostile and withdrawn. He doesn't hide his disdain of Captain Poma, now dressed in perfect pinstripes. His gold cuff links engraved with the crest of the Carabinieri flash when they catch the light of the candle.

“Yes, in plain view. Every inch of her exposed flesh—before anybody touched it. We should study it in that condition. Untouched. Exactly as he left it,” Captain Poma says, his eyes on Scarpetta. “How he left it is a story, is it not? But before I forget, to our last time together in Rome. At least for now. We should drink a toast to that.”

It doesn't seem right to raise their glasses with the dead young woman watching, her naked, savaged body right there on the table, in a sense.

“And a toast to the FBI,” says Captain Poma. “To their determination to turn this into an act of terrorism. The ultimate soft target—an American tennis star.”

“It's a waste of time to even allude to such a thing,” Benton says, and he picks up his glass, not to toast but to drink.

“Then tell your government to stop suggesting it,” Captain Poma says. “There, I will say this bluntly since we're alone. Your government is spreading this propaganda from behind the scenes, and the reason we didn't discuss this earlier is because the Italians don't believe anything so ridiculous. No terrorist is responsible. The FBI to say such a thing? It's stupid.”

“The FBI isn't sitting here. We are. And we aren't the FBI, and I'm weary of your references to the FBI,” Benton replies.

“But you were FBI most of your career. Until you quit and disappeared from sight as if you were dead. For some reason.”

“If this were an act of terrorism, someone would have claimed responsibility by now,” Benton says. “I'd rather you don't mention the FBI or my personal history again.”

“An insatiable appetite for publicity and your country's current need to scare the hell out of everybody and rule the world.” Captain Poma refills their wineglasses. “Your Bureau of Investigation interviewing witnesses here in Rome, stepping all over Interpol, and they're supposed to work with Interpol, have their own representatives there. And they fly in these idiots from Washington who don't know us, much less how to work a complex homicide—”

Benton interrupts him. “You should know by now, Captain Poma, that politics and jurisdictional infighting are the nature of the beast.”

“I wish you would call me Otto. As my friends do.” He moves his chair closer to Scarpetta, and with him comes the scent of his cologne, then he moves the candle. He glances in disgust at the table of obtuse, hard-drinking Americans and says, “You know, we try to like you.”

“Don't try,” Benton says. “No one else does.”

“I've never understood why you Americans are so loud.”

“Because we don't listen,” Scarpetta says. “That's why we have George Bush.”

Captain Poma picks up the photograph near her plate, studies it as if he's never seen it before. “I'm looking at what's in plain view,” he says. “And all I see is the obvious.”

Benton stares at the two of them sitting so close, his handsome face like granite.

“It's better to assume there's no such thing as
obvious
. It's a word,” Scarpetta says, sliding more photographs out of an envelope. “A reference to one's personal perceptions. And mine may be different from yours.”

“I believe you demonstrated that quite exhaustively at state police headquarters,” the captain says, while Benton stares.

She looks at Benton, a lingering look that communicates her awareness of his behavior and how unnecessary it is. He has no reason to be jealous. She has done nothing to encourage Captain Poma's flirtations.

“In plain view. Well, then. Why don't we start with her toes,” Benton says, barely touching his buffalo mozzarella and already on his third glass of wine.

“That's actually a good idea.” Scarpetta studies photographs of Drew. She studies a close-up of Drew's bare toes. “Neatly manicured. Nails painted recently, consistent with her getting a pedicure before she left New York.” She repeats what they know.

“Does that matter?” Captain Poma studies a photograph, leaning so close to Scarpetta that his arm is touching hers, and she feels his heat and smells his scent. “I don't think so. I think it matters more what she was wearing. Black jeans, a white silk shirt, a black silk–lined black leather jacket. Also, black panties and a black bra.” He pauses. “It's curious her body didn't have any fibers from these, just the fibers from the sheet.”

“We don't know for a fact it was a sheet,” Benton reminds him sharply.

“Also, her clothing, her watch, necklace, leather bracelets, and earrings haven't been found. So the killer took these things,” the captain says to Scarpetta. “For what reason? Perhaps souvenirs. But we will talk about her pedicure, since you think it important. Drew went to a spa on Central Park South right after she got to New York. We have details of this appointment, charged to Drew's credit card—her father's credit card, actually. From what I'm told, he was most indulgent with her.”

“I think it's been well established she was spoiled,” Benton says.

“I think we should be careful using words like that,” Scarpetta says. “She earned what she had, is the one who practiced six hours a day, trained so hard—had just won the
Family Circle
Cup and was expected to win other…”

“That's where you live,” Captain Poma says to her. “Charleston, South Carolina. Where the
Family Circle
Cup is played. Odd, isn't it. That very night she flew to New York. And from there to here. To this.” He indicates the photographs.

“What I'm saying is money can't buy championship titles, and spoiled people usually don't work as passionately as she did,” Scarpetta says.

Benton says, “Her father spoiled her but couldn't be bothered with parenting. Same with her mother.”

“Yes, yes,” Captain Poma agrees. “What parents permit a sixteen-year-old to travel abroad with two eighteen-year-old friends? Especially if she'd been acting moody. Up and down.”

“When your child becomes more difficult, it gets easier to give in. Not resist,” Scarpetta says, thinking about her niece, Lucy. When Lucy was a child, God, their battles. “What about her coach? Do we know anything about that relationship?”

“Gianni Lupano. I spoke to him, and he said he was aware she was coming here and wasn't happy about it because of major tournaments in the next few months, such as Wimbledon. He wasn't helpful and seemed angry with her.”

“And the Italian Open here in Rome next month,” Scarpetta points out, finding it unusual the captain didn't mention it.

“Of course. She should train, not run off with friends. I don't watch tennis.”

“Where was he when she was murdered?” Scarpetta asks.

“New York. We've checked with the hotel where he said he stayed, and he was registered at that time. He also commented she had been moody. Down one day, up the next. Very stubborn and difficult and unpredictable. He wasn't sure how much longer he could work with her. Said he had better things to do than put up with her behavior.”

“I'd like to know if mood disorders run in her family,” Benton says. “I don't suppose you bothered to ask.”

“I didn't. I'm sorry I wasn't astute enough to think of it.”

“It would be extremely useful to know if she had a psychiatric history her family's been secretive about.”

“It's well known she'd struggled with an eating disorder,” Scarpetta says. “She's talked openly about it.”

“No mention of a mood disorder? Nothing from her parents?” Benton continues his cool interrogation of the captain.

“Nothing more than her ups and downs. Typical teenager.”

“Do you have children?” Benton reaches for his wine.

“Not that I know of.”

“A trigger,” Scarpetta says. “Something was going on with Drew that no one's telling us. Perhaps what's in plain view? Her behavior's in plain view. Her drinking's in plain view. Why? Did something happen?”

“The tournament in Charleston,” Captain Poma says to Scarpetta. “Where you have your private practice. What is it they call it? The
Lowcountry
? What is
Lowcountry
, exactly?” He slowly swirls his wine, his eyes on her.

“Almost sea level, literally low country.”

“And your local police have no interest in this case? Since she played a tournament there just maybe two days before she was murdered?”

“Curious, I'm sure—” Scarpetta starts to say.

“Her murder has nothing to do with the Charleston police,” Benton interrupts. “They have no jurisdiction.”

Scarpetta gives him a look, and the captain watches both of them. He's been watching their tense interaction all day.

“No jurisdiction hasn't stopped anybody from showing up and flashing their badges,” Captain Poma says.

“If you're alluding to the FBI again, you've made your point,” says Benton. “If you're alluding to my being former FBI again, you've definitely made your point. If you're alluding to Dr. Scarpetta and me—we were invited by you. We didn't just show up, Otto. Since you've asked us to call you that.”

“Is it me or is this not perfect?” The captain holds up his glass of wine as if it is a flawed diamond.

Benton picked the wine. Scarpetta knows more about Italian wines than he does, but tonight he finds it necessary to assert his dominance, as if he has just plummeted fifty rungs on the evolutionary ladder. She feels Captain Poma's interest in her as she looks at another photograph, grateful the waiter doesn't seem inclined to come their way. He's busy with the table of loud Americans.

“Close-up of her legs,” she says. “Bruising around her ankles.”

“Fresh bruises,” Captain Poma says. “He grabbed her, maybe.”

“Possibly. They aren't from ligatures.”

She wishes Captain Poma wouldn't sit so close to her, but there's no where else for her to move unless she pushes her chair into the wall. She wishes he wouldn't brush against her when he reaches for photographs.

“Her legs are recently shaven,” she goes on. “I would say shaven within twenty-four hours of her death. Barely any stubble. She cared about how she looked even when she was traveling with friends. That might be important. Was she hoping to meet someone?”

“Of course. Three young women looking for young men,” Captain Poma says.

Scarpetta watches Benton motion for the waiter to bring another bottle of wine.

She says, “Drew was a celebrity. From what I've been told, she was careful about strangers, didn't like to be bothered.”

“Her drinking doesn't make much sense,” Benton says.

“Chronic drinking doesn't,” Scarpetta says. “You can look at these photographs and see she was extremely fit, lean, superb muscle development. If she'd become a heavy drinker, it would appear it hadn't been going on long, and her recent success would indicate that as well. Again, we have to wonder if something recently had happened. Some emotional upheaval?”

“Depressed. Unstable. Abusing alcohol,” Benton says. “All making the person more vulnerable to a predator.”

“And that's what I think happened,” Captain Poma says. “Randomness. An easy target. Alone at the Piazza di Spagna, where she encountered the gold-painted mime.”

 

The gold-painted mime performed as mimes do, and Drew dropped another coin into his cup, and he performed once more to her delight.

She refused to leave with her friends. The last thing she ever said to them was, “Beneath all that gold paint is a very handsome Italian.” The last thing her friends ever said to her was, “Don't assume he's Italian.” It was a valid comment, since mimes don't speak.

She told her friends to go on, perhaps visit the shops of Via dei Condotti, and she promised to meet them at the Piazza Navona, at the fountain of rivers, where they waited and waited. They told Captain Poma they tasted free samples of crispy waffles made of eggs and farina and sugar, and giggled as Italian boys shot them with bubble guns, begging them to buy one. Instead, Drew's friends got fake tattoos and encouraged street musicians to play American tunes on reed pipes. They admitted they had gotten somewhat drunk at lunch and were silly.