I can’t concentrate as I return to Christmas gifts beneath the tree. I try to smile and act abundantly thankful, but I don’t fool anyone. Lucy gives me a stainless-steel Breitling watch called a B52 while Marino’s gift to me is a coupon for a year of firewood that he will personally deliver and stack. Lucy loves the Whirly-Girls necklace I had made for her and Marino loves the leather jacket from Lucy and me. Anna would be pleased with an art glass vase I found for her, but she is somewhere on I-95, of course. Everybody goes through the motions quickly because questions hang heavy in the air. While we gather up rumpled ribbons and torn paper, I motion to Marino that I need a private word with him. We sit in the kitchen. He has been in some stage of drunkenness all day, and I can tell that he is probably getting drunk on a regular basis. There is a reason for it.
“You can’t keep drinking like this,” I say to him as I pour each of us a glass of water. “It doesn’t help anything.”
“Never has, never will.” He rubs his face. “And that don’t seem to make a damn difference when I’m feeling like shit. Right now, everything’s shit.” His bleary, bloodshot eyes meet mine. Marino looks like he is about to cry again.
“Any reason you might have something that could give us Rocky’s DNA?” I come right out and ask.
He flinches as if I have hit him. “What’d Berger tell you when she called? That it? She call about Rocky?”
“She’s just going down the list,” I reply. “Anybody connected with us or Benton who might have a link to organized crime. And Rocky certainly comes to mind.” I go on and tell him what Berger revealed about Benton and the Susan Pless case.
“But he was getting that whacko shit before Susan was murdered,” he says. “So why would someone be jerking him around if he wasn’t sticking his nose in anything yet? Why would Rocky, for example? And I assume that’s what you’re thinking, that maybe Rocky was sending him that weird shit?”
I have no answer. I don’t know.
“Well, I guess you’re gonna have to get DNA from Doris and me ’cause I don’t got anything of Rocky’s. Not even hair. You could do that, right? If you got the DNA of the mother and the father then you could compare something like saliva?”
“We could get a pedigree and at least know your son can’t be ruled out as a contributor of the DNA on the stamps.”
“Okay.” He blows out. “If that’s what you want to do. Since Anna’s split, think I can smoke in here?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” I reply. “What about Rocky’s fingerprints?”
“Forget that. Besides, it didn’t look to me like Benton had any luck with the prints. I mean, you can tell he tested the letters for them and that seems to be the end of it. And I know you don’t want to hear this, Doc, but maybe you’d better be sure why you’re getting into all this. Don’t go on a witch hunt ’cause you want to pay back the fucker who might have sent that shit to Benton and maybe had to do with him being killed. It ain’t worth it. Especially if you’re thinking Carrie did it. She’s dead. Let her rot.”
“It is worth it,” I say. “If I can know for sure who sent those letters to him, it’s worth it to me.”
“Huh. He said The Last Precinct was where he’d end up. Well, looks like he has,” Marino muses. “We’re The Last Precinct and we’re working his case. Ain’t that something?”
“Do you think he carried that file to Philadelphia because he wanted to make sure you or I got it?”
“Assuming something happened to him?”
I nod.
“Maybe,” he says. “He was worried he wasn’t going to be around much longer and he wanted us to find that file if something did happen to him. And it’s strange, too. It’s not like he says much in it, almost like he knew other people might see it and he didn’t want anything in it that maybe the wrong person would see. Don’t you find it interesting there ain’t any names in it? Like if he had suspects in mind, he never mentioned anybody?”
“The file’s cryptic,” I agree.
“So who was he afraid might see it? Cops? ’Cause if something happened to him, he would know cops are going through his shit. And they did. Philly cops went through everything in his hotel room and then turned it over to me. He would also figure you’re going to see his stuff at some point. Maybe Lucy, too.”
“I think the point is he couldn’t be sure of who might see the file. So he was cautious, period. And Benton was certainly known for being cautious.”
“Not to mention,” Marino goes on, “he was up there helping out ATF. So he might have thought ATF would see the file, right? Lucy’s ATF. McGovern’s ATF and was in charge of the response team working the fires Carrie and her asshole sidekick were setting to disguise the fact they had this nasty little hobby of cutting people’s faces off, right?” Marino’s eyes narrow. “Talley’s ATF,” he says. “Maybe we ought to get his DNA, the son of a bitch. Too bad.” He gets that look again. I don’t think Marino will ever forgive me for sleeping with Jay Talley. “You probably had his fucking DNA, no pun intended. In Paris. I don’t guess you got a stain you maybe forgot to wash out?”
“Shut up, Marino,” I say softly.
“I’m getting withdrawal.” He gets up and goes to the liquor cabinet. Now it’s time for bourbon. He pours Booker’s into a glass and comes back to the table. “Wouldn’t that just be something if it turns out Talley’s involved in everything from soup to nuts. Maybe that’s why he wanted you at Interpol. He wanted to pick your brain to see if you knew maybe what Benton knew? ’Cause guess what? Maybe when Benton was poking around after Susan’s murder, he started figuring out shit that started pulling him too close to a truth Talley can’t afford for nobody to know.”
“What are you two talking about?” Lucy is in the kitchen. I didn’t hear her walk in.
“Sounds like a job for you.” Marino gives her his puffy eyes as he swills bourbon in his glass. “Why don’t you and Teun investigate Talley and find out how dirty he is. ’Cause I believe with all my little heart they don’t come no dirtier. And by the way.” This to me. “In case you didn’t hear, he’s one of the guys who drove Chandonne up to New York. Now ain’t that interesting? He sits in on Berger’s interview. He spends six hours in the car with him. Hey, they’re probably drinking buddies by now—or maybe they already was.”
Lucy stares out the kitchen window, her hands in the pockets of her jeans, obviously put off by Marino and embarrassed by him. He is sweating and profane, and unsteady on his feet, and filled with hate and spite one minute, sullen the next.
“You know what I can’t stand?” Marino keeps at it. “I can’t stand bad cops who get away with it because everybody’s too damn chicken to go after them. And nobody wants to touch Talley or even try because he speaks all these languages and went to Harvard and is a big shot golden boy. . . .”
“You really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lucy says to Marino, and by now, McGovern has wandered into the kitchen. “You’re wrong. Jay’s not off limits and you’re not the only person on this planet who has doubts about him.”
“Serious doubts,” McGovern echoes.
Marino shuts up and leans against the counter.
“I can tell you what we know so far,” Lucy says to me. She is reluctant and soft-spoken because nobody, really, is quite sure how I feel about Jay. “I kind of hate to, because there’s nothing definitive. But it’s not looking good so far.” She looks at me as if in search of a cue.
“Good,” I tell her. “Let’s hear it.”
“Yeah. I’m all ears,” Marino responds.
“I’ve run him through quite a number of databases. No criminal or civil court records, no liens or judgments, et cetera. Not that we expected him to be a registered sex offender or deadbeat parent or missing or wanted or whatever, and there’s no evidence that the FBI, CIA or even ATF has a file on him in their systems of records. But doing a simple search of real estate records raised a red flag. First of all, he has a condo in New York where he’s let certain select fri
ends stay—including high-ranking people in law enforcement,” she says to Marino and me. “A three-million-plus place full of antiques, on Central Park. Jay has bragged that the condo is his. Well, it’s not. Comes back to a corporate name.”
“It’s not uncommon for wealthy people to have property in separate corporate names, for privacy reasons and also to protect various assets from litigation,” I point out.
“I know. But this corporation isn’t Jay’s,” Lucy replies. “Not unless he owns an air freight company.”
“Kind of eerie, right?” McGovern adds. “Considering how much shipping the Chandonne family is involved in. So maybe there’s a connection. It’s way too soon to say.”
“No big surprise,” Marino mutters, but his eyes light up. “Yeah, how well I remember him playing the big rich Harvard act, right, Doc? Remember, I wondered why we was suddenly on a Learjet, and next thing we’re on the Concorde going to France. I knew Interpol didn’t pay for all that shit.”
“He never should have bragged about that condo,” Lucy remarks. “Obviously he’s got the same Achilles’ heel other assholes do: ego.” She looks at me. “He wanted to impress you, so he flies you out supersonic—says he got the tickets comped because they were for law enforcement. And sure, we know the airlines do that sort of thing on occasion. But we’re tracking that, too, to see who made those reservations and what the story was.”
“My big question,” McGovern goes on, “is obviously whether or not that condo might be owned by the Chandonne family. And you can only imagine how many layers you’d have to go through to get to them.”
“Hell, they probably own the whole fucking building,” Marino says. “And half of Manhattan to go along with it.”
“What about corporate officers?” I ask. “Any interesting names come up?”
“We’ve got names but they don’t mean anything significant yet,” Lucy replies. “These paper cases take a lot of time. We run them and then everything and everybody they connect with, on and on it goes.”
“And where do Mitch Barbosa and Rosso Matos fit in?” I ask. “Or do they? Because somebody took a key out of my house and put it in Barbosa’s pocket. Do you think Jay did?”
Marino snorts and takes a swallow of bourbon. “Gets my vote,” he retorts. “That and swiping your chipping hammer. Can’t think of anybody else who’d do it. I know every guy who went in there, in your house. Unless Righter did it, and he’s too chicken and I really don’t think he’s dirty.”
It isn’t that Jay’s shadow hasn’t crossed our thoughts numerous times before. We know he was in my house. We know he is bitter toward me. We all have considerable questions about his character, but if he did plant the key or steal it from my house and pass it off to someone else, then this directly implicates him in Barbosa’s torture-homicide and most likely in Matos’s as well. “Where’s Jay right now? Anybody know?” I search their faces.
“Well, he was in New York. That was Wednesday. Then we saw him yesterday afternoon in James City County. Got no idea right this very minute,” Marino answers.
“There are a couple other things you might want to know.” Lucy addresses this to me. “One in particular is real odd but I can’t make heads or tails of it yet. On the credit search, I got hits on two Jay Talleys with different addresses and different social security numbers. One Jay Talley was issued his social security number in Phoenix between 1960 and 1961. Which couldn’t be Jay unless he’s in his forties, and he’s what? Not much older than me? Early thirties at the most? A second Jay Talley I got a hit on was issued his social security number between 1936 and ’37. No D-O-B, but he’d have to be one of the early timers who got a number shortly after the Social Security Act of 1935, so God knows how old this particular Jay Talley already was when he got his number. He’d have to be at least in his seventies and he sure moves around a lot and uses post office boxes instead of physical addresses. He’s also bought a lot of cars, sometimes changing vehicles a couple times a year.”
“Did Talley ever tell you where he was born?” Marino asks me.
“He said he spent most of his childhood in Paris and then his family moved to L.A.,” I reply. “You were sitting in the cafeteria when he said that. At Interpol.”
“No record of either Jay Talley ever living in L.A.,” Lucy says.
“And speaking of Interpol,” Marino says. “Wouldn’t they check him out before letting him work there?”
“Obviously, they might have checked into him, but not extensively,” Lucy replies. “He’s an ATF agent. You assume he’s clean.”
“What about a middle name?” Marino asks. “We know his?”
“He doesn’t have one. Nothing in his ATF personnel records.” McGovern smiles wryly. “And neither does the Jay Talley who got his social security number back before the Great Flood. That alone is unusual. Most people have middle names. In his file at headquarters it does say he was born in Paris and lived there until he was six. But after that he supposedly moved to New York with his French father and American mother and there’s no mention of Los Angeles. On his ATF application he claims to have gone to Harvard, but having looked into that we discovered there’s no record of any Jay Talley having ever attended Harvard.”
“Jesus,” Marino exclaims. “Don’t people check out nothing when they go through these applications? They just take your word for it that you went to Harvard or were a Rhodes scholar or pole-vaulted in the Olympics? And they hire you and give you a badge and a gun?”
“Well, I’m not going to give Internal Affairs a heads-up that they may want to check him out a little more closely,” McGovern offers. “We’ve got to be careful someone doesn’t tip him off, and it’s hard to say who his friends are at headquarters.”
Marino lifts his arms in the air and stretches. He cracks his neck. “I’m hungry again,” he says.
CHAPTER 32
THE GUEST ROOM in Anna’s house faces the river, and over passing days I have fashioned a makeshift desk before the window. This required a small table, which I covered with a cloth so I would not scratch the satin finish, and from the library I purloined an apple-green English leather swivel chair. At first, I was dismayed that I had forgotten my laptop computer, but I discovered an unexpected solace in putting fountain pen to paper and letting thoughts flow through my fingers and shimmer in black ink. My penmanship is awful, and the notion that it has something to do with being a doctor is probably true. There are days when I must sign my name or initials five hundred times, and I suppose scribbling gross descriptions and measurements with bloody gloved hands has taken its toll, too.
I have developed a ritual at Anna’s house. Each morning I slip into the kitchen and pour myself a cup of coffee that was timed to begin dripping at exactly half past five. I return to my room, shut the door and sit at the window writing before a glass square of utter darkness. My first morning here, I was outlining classes I am scheduled to teach at the Institute’s next death investigation school. But transportation fatalities, asphyxia and forensic radiology completely left my mind as life on the river was touched by first light.
This morning I have faithfully watched the show once again. At half past six, the darkness lightened to a charcoal gray, and within minutes I could make out the silhouettes of bare sycamores and oaks, then dark plains turned into water and land. Most mornings the river is warmer than the air, and fog rolls over the surface of the James. Right now it looks like the River Styx and I halfway expect a ghostly, gaunt man in rags to pole by in his boat through veils of mist. I don’t expect to see animals until closer to eight, and they have become a huge comfort to me. I have fallen in love with the Canada geese that congregate by Anna’s dock in a chorus of honking. Squirrels run errands up and down trees, tails curled like plumes of smoke. Birds hover at my window and look me straight in the eye as if to see what I am spying on. Deer run through bare winter woods on the opposite river bank and red-tailed hawks swoop.
At rare, privileged moments I am graced by bald
eagles. Their enormous wingspans, white helmets and pantaloons make them unmistakable, and I am comforted because eagles fly higher and alone and don’t seem to have the same agendas other birds do. I watch them circle or perch briefly in a tree, never staying in one spot long before suddenly they are gone, leaving me to wonder, like Emerson, if I have just been sent a sign. I have found nature to be kind. The rest of what I live with these days is not.
It is Monday, January 17th, and I remain in exile at Anna’s house, or at least this is how I view it. Time has passed slowly, almost stagnantly, like the water beyond my window. The currents of my life are moving in a certain, barely perceptible direction, and there is no possibility of rerouting their inevitable progress. The holidays have come and gone, and my cast has been replaced by Ace bandages and a splint. I am driving a rental car because my Mercedes is being held for further investigation, at Hull Street and Commerce Road, at the impound lot, which is not attended by police twenty-four hours a day and there is no guard dog. On New Year’s Eve, someone smashed a window out of my car and stole the two-way radio, the AM-FM radio and CD player and God knows what else. So much for the chain of evidence, I told Marino.
There are new developments in the Chandonne case. As I suspected, when the seminal fluid in Susan Pless’s case was originally tested in 1997, only four probes were used. The New York medical examiner’s office still uses four probes for the first screening because they are developed in-house and therefore it is more economical to resort to them first. The frozen extraction was retested using fifteen loci, and the result is a non-match. Jean-Baptiste Chandonne was not the donor of the seminal fluid, nor was his brother, Thomas. But there are so many alleles in common, the DNA profiles are so incredibly close, that we can only assume there is a third brother, and it is this brother who had sex with Susan. We are baffled. Berger is on her head. “DNA has told the truth and fucked us,” Berger told me over the phone. Chandonne’s dentition matches the bite marks and his saliva and hair were on the bloody body, but he did not have vaginal sex with Susan Pless right before she died. That may not be enough for a jury in this day of DNA. A New York grand jury will have to decide if it is enough for an indictment, and it struck me as incredibly ironic when Berger said this. It doesn’t seem to require much to accuse me of murder, nothing more than rumor and alleged intent and the fact that I conducted experiments with a chipping hammer and barbecue sauce.
Four Scarpetta Novels Page 80