The Scarpetta Factor

by Patricia Cornwell

  The Starrs’ mansion wasn’t too far from where he and Scarpetta were headed.

  “He was on the phone when I left,” she said. “All I know is he was talking to the FBI.”

  “So he didn’t say nothing about what she wanted.” He assumed it was Marty Lanier, that she’d called Benton after talking with Marino.

  “I don’t know the answer. He was on the phone when I left,” she repeated.

  She didn’t want to talk about something. Maybe she and Benton had been arguing, or maybe she was edgy and down in the dumps because of her stolen BlackBerry.

  “I’m not connecting the dots here,” Marino went on, couldn’t help himself. “Why would they call Benton? Marty Lanier’s an FBI profiler. Why does she need to call a former FBI profiler?”

  It gave him secret pleasure to say it out loud, to put a dent in Benton’s shiny armor. He wasn’t FBI anymore. He wasn’t even a cop.

  “Benton’s been involved in a number of cases that have to do with the FBI.” She wasn’t defensive about it and was talking quietly and somberly. “But I don’t know.”

  “You’re saying the FBI asks his advice?”

  “On occasion.”

  Marino was disappointed to hear it. “That’s surprising. I thought him and the Bureau hated each other.” As if the Bureau was a person.

  “He isn’t consulted because he’s former FBI. He’s consulted because he’s a respected forensic psychologist, has been very active in offering his assessments and opinions in criminal cases in New York and elsewhere.”

  She was looking at Marino from the darkness of the passenger seat, the torn headliner sagging just inches from her hair. He should just order foam-backed cloth and high-temperature glue and replace the damn thing.

  “All I can say for sure is it has to do with the tattoo.” He retreated from the subject of Benton. “While I was at RTCC, I suggested we cast a wider net and search more than the NYPD data warehouse because we got zip on the tattoo, the skulls, the coffin, on that guy’s neck. We did get something on Dodie Hodge. In addition to being arrested in Detroit last month, I found a TAB summons that involved her causing a disturbance on a city bus here in New York, telling someone to FedEx himself to hell. Well, kind of interesting, since the card she sent Benton was in a FedEx envelope, and the guy with the tattoo who delivered your FedEx package had on a FedEx cap.”

  “Isn’t that a little bit like connecting mail because it all has postage stamps?”

  “I know. It’s probably a stretch,” Marino said. “But I can’t help but wonder if there’s a connection between him and this mental patient who sent you a singing Christmas card and then called you on live TV. And if so, I’m going to be worried because guess what? The guy with the tattooed neck ain’t a candidate for a good citizenship award if he’s in the FBI’s database, right? He’s in there because he’s been arrested or is wanted for something somewhere, possibly a federal crime.”

  He slowed down, the Hotel Elysée’s red awning up ahead on the left.

  Scarpetta said, “I disabled my password on the BlackBerry.”

  It didn’t sound like something she’d do. He didn’t know what to say at first and realized she felt embarrassed. Scarpetta was almost never embarrassed.

  “I get sick and tired of having to unlock it all the time, too.” He could sympathize up to a point. “But no way I wouldn’t have a password.” He didn’t want to sound critical, but what she’d done wasn’t smart. It was hard for him to imagine she’d be that careless. “So, what’s up with that?”

  He started getting nervous as he thought of his own communications with her. E-mails, voicemails, text messages, copies of reports, photographs from the Toni Darien case, including those he’d taken inside her apartment, and his commentary.

  “I mean, you’re saying Carley could have looked at everything on your friggin’ BlackBerry? Shit,” he said.

  “You wear glasses,” Scarpetta said. “You always have your glasses on. I wear reading glasses and don’t always have them on. So imagine when I’m walking all over my building or walking outside to pick up a sandwich and need to make a call and can’t see to type in the damn password.”

  “You can make the font bigger.”

  “This damn present from Lucy makes me feel ninety years old. So I disabled the password. Was it a good idea? No. But I did it.”

  “You tell her?” Marino said.

  “I was going to do something about it. I don’t know what I was going to do. I guess I was going to try to adapt, put the password back, and didn’t get around to it. I didn’t tell her. She can remotely delete everything on it, and I don’t want her to do that yet.”

  “Nope. You get it back and nothing on it links the BlackBerry to you except the serial number? I can still charge Carley with a felony because the value’s over two-fifty. But I’d rather make it a bigger deal than that.” He’d given it a lot of thought. “If she stole data, I’ve got more to work with. All the shit you got on your BlackBerry? Now maybe we make a case for identity theft, a class-C felony, maybe I show intent, make a case for her planning on selling information from the medical examiner’s office, making a profit by going public with it. Maybe we give her a nervous breakdown.”

  “I hope she doesn’t do something stupid.”

  Marino wasn’t sure who Scarpetta meant: Carley Crispin or Lucy.

  “If there’s no data on your phone,” he started to reiterate.

  “I told her not to nuke it. To use her term.”

  “Then she won’t,” Marino said. “Lucy’s an experienced investigator, a forensic computer expert who used to be a federal agent. She knows how the system works, and she probably knows you weren’t using your damn password, too. Since she set up a network on a server, and don’t ask me to speak her jargon about what she set up to supposedly do us a favor. Anyway, she’s coming here to bring the warrant by.”

  Scarpetta was quiet.

  “What I’m saying is she probably could check and know about your password, right?” Marino said. “She could know you quit using one, right? I’m sure she checks stuff like that, right?”

  “I don’t think I’m the one she’s been checking on of late,” Scarpetta answered.

  Marino was beginning to realize why she was acting like something was eating at her, something besides her stolen smartphone or possibly a squabble with Benton. Marino didn’t comment, the two of them sitting in his beat-up car in front of one of the nicest hotels in New York City, a doorman looking at them and not venturing outside, leaving them alone. Hotel staff know a cop car when they see one.

  “I do think she’s been checking on someone, though,” Scarpetta then said. “I started thinking about it after going through the GPS log I told you about. Lucy can know where any of us are at any time, if she wants. And I don’t think she’s been tracking you or me. Or Benton. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that she suddenly decided we should have these new smartphones.”

  Marino had his hand on the door handle, not sure what to say. Lucy had been off, been different, been antsy and angry and a little paranoid for weeks, and he should have paid more attention. He should have made the same connection, one that was seeming more obvious the longer the suggestion lingered inside his dark, dirty car. It had never occurred to Marino that Lucy was spying on Berger. It wouldn’t have entered his mind because he wouldn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want any reminder of what Lucy could do when she felt cornered or simply felt justified. He didn’t want to remember what she’d done to his son. Rocco was born bad, was a hardened criminal who didn’t give a fuck about anyone. If Lucy hadn’t taken him out, someone else would have, but Marino didn’t like the reminder. He almost couldn’t stomach it.

  “All Jaime does is work. I can’t imagine why Lucy would be that paranoid, and I can’t imagine what will happen if Jaime realizes . . . well, if it’s true. I hope it’s not. But I know Lucy, and I know something’s not right and hasn’t been right. And you’re not saying anything,
and this probably isn’t the time to discuss it,” Scarpetta said. “So, how are we going to handle Carley?”

  “When one person works all the time, sometimes the other person can get a little out of whack. You know, act different,” Marino said. “I got the same problem with Bacardi at the moment.”

  “Are you tracking her with a WAAS-enabled GPS receiver you built into a smartphone that was a present?” Scarpetta said bitterly.

  “I’m like you, Doc. Been tempted to throw this new phone in the damn lake,” he said seriously, and he felt bad for her. “You know how crappy I type, even on a regular keyboard, and the other day I thought I was hitting the volume button and took a fucking picture of my foot.”

  “You wouldn’t track Bacardi with a GPS even if you thought she was having an affair. That’s not what people like us do, Marino.”

  “Yeah, well, Lucy’s not us, and I’m not saying she’s doing that.” He didn’t know it for a fact, but she probably was.

  “You work for Jaime. I don’t want to ask if there’s any basis . . .” She didn’t finish.

  “There isn’t. She’s not doing nothing,” Marino said. “I can promise you that. If she was screwing around, had something going on the side, believe me, I’d know. And it’s not like she doesn’t have opportunity. Believe me, I know that, too. I hope it somehow turns out Lucy’s really not doing what you’re saying. Spying. Jaime finds out something like that, she won’t let it go.”

  “Would you let it go?”

  “Hell, no. You got a problem with me, just say it. You think I’m doing something, just say it. But don’t give me a free fancy phone so you can spy on me. That’s a deal-breaker if you supposedly trust someone.”

  “I hope it’s not a deal-breaker,” she said. “How do we do this?” She meant confronting Carley.

  They got out of the car.

  “I’m going to show my badge to the desk and get her room number,” Marino said. “Then we’re going to pay her a little visit. Just don’t deck her or anything. I don’t want to haul you in for assault.”

  “I wish I could,” Scarpetta said. “You have no idea.”

  There was no answer at room 412. Marino thudded the door with his big ham of a fist and started calling out Carley Crispin’s name.

  “NYPD,” he said loudly. “Open up.”

  He and Scarpetta listened and waited in a hallway that was long and elegant, with crystal sconces and a brown-and-yellow carpet, what looked like a Bijar design.

  “I hear the TV,” Marino said, knocking with one hand and holding his tackle box field case in the other. “Kind of weird her watching TV at five in the morning. Carley?” he called out. “NYPD. Open up.” He motioned for Scarpetta to move away from the door. “Forget it,” he said. “She’s not going to answer. So now we play hardball.”

  He slid his BlackBerry out of its holster and had to type in his password, and it reminded Scarpetta of the mess she’d caused and the dismal truth that she wouldn’t be standing here at all if Lucy hadn’t done something rather terrible. Her niece had set up a server and bought new high-tech smartphones as a ruse. She’d used and deceived everyone. Scarpetta felt awful for Berger. She felt awful for herself—for everyone. Marino called the number on the business card the night manager had given to him moments ago, he and Scarpetta walking toward the elevator. Assuming Carley was in her room and awake, they didn’t want her to hear what they were saying.

  “Yeah, you’re going to need to get up here,” Marino said over his phone. “Nope. And I’ve knocked loud enough to wake the dead.” A pause, then, “Maybe, but the TV’s on. Really. Good to know.” He ended the call and said to Scarpetta, “Apparently, they’ve had a problem with the TV being played really loud and other guests complaining.”

  “That seems a little unusual.”

  “Carley hard of hearing or something?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I don’t think so.”

  They reached the other end of the hall, near the elevator, where he pushed open a door that had a lighted exit sign over it.

  “So if you wanted to leave the hotel without going through the lobby, you could take the stairs. But if you came back in you’d have to use the elevator,” he said, holding the door open, looking down flights of concrete steps. “No way you can enter the stairs from the street, for the obvious security reasons.”

  “You’re thinking Carley came here late last night and left by taking the stairs because she didn’t want anyone to see her?” Scarpetta wanted to know why.

  Carley, with her spike heels and fitted skirts, didn’t seem the type to take the stairs or exert herself if she could help it.

  “It’s not as if she was secretive about staying here,” Scarpetta pointed out. “Which I also find curious. If you knew she was here or simply wondered if she might be, like I did, all you’d have to do is call and ask to be connected to her room. Most well-known people are unregistered so they can prevent that sort of privacy violation from occurring. This hotel in particular is quite accustomed to having celebrity guests. It goes back to the twenties, is rather much a landmark for the rich and famous.”

  “Like, who’s it famous for?” He set his field case on the carpet.

  She didn’t know off the top of her head, she said, except that Tennessee Williams had died in the Hotel Elysée in 1983, had choked to death on a bottle cap.

  “Figures you’d know who died here,” Marino said. “Carley’s not all that famous, so I wouldn’t add her to the Guess Who Slept or Died Here list. She’s not exactly Diane Sawyer or Anna Nicole Smith, and I doubt most people recognize her when she walks down the street. I got to figure out the best way to do this.”

  He was thinking, leaning against the wall, still in the same clothes he’d been wearing when Scarpetta had seen him last, about six hours ago. A peppery stubble shadowed his face.

  “Berger said she can have a warrant here in less than two.” He glanced at his watch. “That was almost an hour ago when I talked to her. So maybe another hour and Lucy shows up with the warrant in hand. But I’m not waiting that long. We’re going in. We’ll find your BlackBerry and get it, and who knows what else is in there.” He looked down the length of the quiet hallway. “I listed the necessary facts in the affidavit, pretty much everything and the kitchen sink. Digital storage, digital media, any hard drives, thumb drives, documents, e-mails, phone numbers, with the thought in mind Carley could have downloaded what’s on your BlackBerry and printed it or copied it onto a computer. Nothing I like better than snooping on a snoop. And I’m glad Berger thought of Lucy. I don’t find something, she sure as hell will.”

  It hadn’t been Berger who had thought of Lucy. It was Scarpetta, and she was less interested in her niece’s help at the moment than she was in seeing her. They needed to talk. It really couldn’t wait. After Scarpetta had sent the e-mail to Berger suggesting that the paragraph be added to the addendum insuring it was legal for a civilian to assist in searching Carley’s room, Scarpetta had talked to Benton. She’d sat down next to him and touched his arm, waking him up. She was going to a scene with Marino, would probably be with him much of the morning, and she had a serious personal matter to take care of, she’d explained. It was best Benton didn’t come with them, she’d told him before he could suggest it, and then his cell phone had rung. The FBI calling.

  The elevator door opened and the Hotel Elysée’s night manager, Curtis, emerged, a middle-aged man with a mustache, dapper in a dark tweed suit. He accompanied them back down the hallway and tried the door of room 412, knocking and ringing the bell, noting the Do Not Disturb light. He commented that it was on most of the time, and he opened the door and ducked his head inside, calling out hello, hello, before stepping back into the hallway, where Marino asked him to wait. Marino and Scarpetta walked into the room and shut the door, no sign or sound of anyone home. A wall-mounted TV was on, the channel tuned to CNN, the volume low.

  “You shouldn’t be in here,” Marino said to her. “But because
these BlackBerrys are so common, I need you to ID it. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.”

  They stood just inside the door, looking around a deluxe junior suite that was lived in by someone slovenly, someone possibly antisocial and depressed who had been staying here alone, Scarpetta deduced. The queen-size bed was unmade and strewn with newspapers and men’s clothing, and on the side table was a clutter of empty water bottles and coffee cups. To the left of the bed were a bowfront chest of drawers and a large window with the curtains drawn. To the right of that was the sitting area: two blue upholstered French armchairs with books and papers piled on them, a flame mahogany coffee table with a laptop and a small printer, and in plain view on top of a stack of paperwork, a touch-screen device, a BlackBerry in a smoke-gray protective rubberized case called a skin. Next to it was a plastic key card.

  “That it?” Marino pointed.

  “Looks like it,” Scarpetta said. “Mine has a gray cover.”

  He opened his field case and pulled on surgical gloves, handing her a pair. “Not that we’re going to do anything we shouldn’t, but this is what I call exigent circumstances.”

  It probably wasn’t. Scarpetta didn’t see anything that might suggest someone was trying to escape or get rid of evidence. The evidence appeared to be right in front of her, and no one was here but the two of them.

  “I don’t suppose I should remind you about fruit of the poisonous tree.” She referred to the inadmissibility of evidence gathered during an unreasonable search and seizure. She didn’t put on the gloves.

  “Naw, I have Berger to remind me. Hopefully she’s gotten her favorite judge out of bed by now, Judge Fable, what a name. A legend in his own mind. I went over the whole thing, the fact portion, on speakerphone, with her and a second detective she grabbed as a witness who will swear out the warrant with her in the presence of the judge. What’s known as double hearsay, a little complicated but hopefully no problem. Point is, Berger doesn’t take chances with affidavits and avoids like the plague being the affiant herself. I don’t care whose warrant it is or for what. Hopefully Lucy will roll up soon.”