“No, not everything,” Scarpetta replies in a hard voice, and she has had as much of this as she intends to take. “This is about a fourteen-year-old girl who died a painful, terrifying death. It’s about Gilly Paulsson’s murder.” She gets up from her chair and snaps shut her briefcase and picks it up by its leather handles and looks at Dr. Marcus, then at Special Agent Weber. “That’s what this is supposed to be about.”
27.
BY THE TIME they reach Broad Street, Scarpetta is ready to get the truth out of him. It doesn’t matter what he wants. He is going to tell her.
“You did something last night,” she says, “and I’m not just talking about your hanging out at the FOP with whoever you were drinking with.”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at.” Marino is big and gloomy in the passenger’s seat, his cap pulled low over his sullen face.
“Oh yes you do. You went to see her.”
“Now I sure as hell don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stares out his side window.
“Oh yes you do.” She cuts across Broad at a vigorous rate of speed, driving because she insisted on it, because there was no way she was going to allow Marino or anyone else to be in the driver’s seat right this minute. “I know you. Dammit, Marino. You’ve done this before. If you did it again, just tell me. I saw the way she looked at you when we were at her house. You saw it, you damn well did, and were happy about it. I’m not stupid.”
He doesn’t answer her, staring out his window, his face shadowed by the cap and averted from her.
“Tell me, Marino. Did you go see Mrs. Paulsson? Did you meet up with her somewhere? Tell me the truth. I’m going to get it out of you eventually. You know I will,” Scarpetta says, stopping abruptly at a yellow light turning red. She looks over at him. “Okay. Your silence speaks volumes. That’s why you acted so strange when you ran into her at the office this morning, isn’t it? You were with her last night and maybe things didn’t go quite the way you hoped, so you got surprised this morning when you saw her at the office.”
“That’s not it.”
“Then tell me.”
“Suz just needed someone to talk to and I needed information. So we helped each other out,” he says to the window.
“Suz?”
“She helped out, now didn’t she?” he goes on. “I got some insight about all this Homeland Security, about what a dickhead her ex-husband is, about what a sleaze he is and why the FBI might be after him.”
“Might be?” She swings left on Franklin Street, heading to her first office in Richmond, her former building that is being torn down. “You seemed pretty sure of yourself in the meeting, if what just happened can be called a meeting. This was guessing on your part? Might be? What are you saying, exactly?”
“She called my cell phone last night,” Marino replies. “They’ve torn down a lot since we got here. A lot’s been torn down in more ways than one.” He looks out at the demolition ahead.
The precast building is smaller and more pitiful than when they first saw it. Or maybe they are no longer surprised by the destruction, and it only seems smaller and more pitiful. Scarpetta slows as she approaches 14th Street and looks for a place to park the car.
“We’re going to have to go up Cary,” she decides. “There’s a pay lot just a block or two up Cary, or at least there used to be.”
“The hell with it. Drive right up to the building and off the road,” Marino says. “I’ve got us covered.” He reaches down and unzips his black cloth briefcase, and pulls out a red Chief Medical Examiner plate. He slides it between the windshield and dash.
“Now how did you manage that?” She can’t believe it. “How the hell did you do that?”
“Things happen when you take time to chat with the girls in the front office.”
“You’re very bad,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ve missed having one of those,” she adds, because once upon a time, parking was not the problem or inconvenience that it has become. She could roll up on any crime scene and park anywhere she wanted. She could show up for court during rush hour and tuck her car in some illegal spot, easily, because she had a little red plate with CHIEF MEDICAL EXAMINER stamped on it in big white letters. “Why did Mrs. Paulsson call you last night?” She can’t quite bring herself to call her Suz.
“She wanted to talk,” he says, opening his door. “Come on, let’s get this over with. You should have worn boots.”
28
ALL THE TIME since last night Marino has been thinking about Suz. He likes the way she wears her hair just long enough to brush her shoulders, and he likes it blond. Blond is his favorite, it always has been.
When he met her at her house for the first time, he liked the curve of her cheek and the fullness of her lips. He liked the way she looked at him. She made him feel big and important and strong, and in her eyes he saw that she believed he knew what to do about problems, even though her problems are beyond fixing, no matter who she might look at. She would have to look at God Himself to get her problems fixed, and that isn’t going to happen because God probably isn’t moved in the same way men like Marino are.
Her looking at Marino the way she did was probably what got to him most, and when she moved close to him as they were searching Gilly’s bedroom, he felt her closeness. He knew trouble was on its way. He knew if Scarpetta sensed the truth, he would hear an earful.
He and Scarpetta are walking through thick red mud, and it always amazes him that she can walk through anything in the damndest shoes and she just keeps on going and doesn’t complain. Wet red mud sucks at Marino’s black boots, and his feet slip as he picks his steps carefully, and she doesn’t even seem to notice that she doesn’t have boots. She’s wearing low-heeled black lace-up shoes that make sense and look good with her suit, or did. Now she may as well be walking on clods of red mud, and the red mud is spattering the hem of her pants and her long coat as she and Marino make their way toward their beat-up and half-ruined old building.
The demolition crew stops working as Marino and Scarpetta walk like fools through rubble and mud, heading straight into all the violence, and a big man in a hard hat stares at them. He is holding a clipboard, talking to another man in a hard hat. The man with the clipboard starts walking toward them and waving his hand, as if shooing them away like tourists. Marino starts motioning for the man to keep coming because they need to have a conversation. When the man with the clipboard gets to them and notices Marino’s black LAPD baseball cap, he pays more attention. That cap is turning out to be a damn good thing, Marino thinks. He doesn’t need to identify himself falsely or identify himself at all because the cap takes care of introductions. It takes care of other things, too.
“I’m Investigator Marino,” he says to the man with the clipboard. “This is Dr. Scarpetta, the medical examiner.”
“Oh,” the man with the clipboard says. “You’re here about Ted Whitby.” He starts shaking his head. “I couldn’t believe it. You probably heard about his family.”
“Tell me,” Marino says.
“Wife’s pregnant with their first baby. Second marriage for Ted. Anyway, see that guy over there?” He turns back toward the busted-up building and points at a man in gray climbing out of the cab of a crane. “That’s Sam Stiles, and he and Ted had their problems, let’s just put it that way. She—that’s Ted’s wife—is saying that Sam swung the wrecking ball too close to Ted’s tractor and that’s why he fell off and got run over.”
“What makes you think he fell off?” asks Scarpetta.
She’s wondering about what she saw, Marino thinks. She still believes she saw Ted Whitby right before he got run over, that when she saw him he was standing on his own two feet doing something to the engine. Maybe what she saw is exactly right. Knowing her, it probably is.
“Don’t think that necessarily, ma’am,” the man with the clipboard replies, and he is about Marino’s age but with plenty of hair and wrinkles. His skin is tanned and weathered like a cowboy’s,
and his eyes are bright blue. “All I’m telling you is what the wife, the widow I guess, is going around mouthing off to everybody. Of course she wants money. Isn’t that always the way? Not that I don’t feel sorry for her. But it ain’t right to be blaming people for somebody getting killed.”
“Were you here when it happened?” the Doc asks.
“Right there, not more than a couple hundred feet from where it happened.” He points to the front right corner of the building, or what is left of it.
“You saw it?”
“No, ma’am. Nobody I know saw it, exactly. He was in the back parking lot working on the engine because it was stalling. So he jumped it, is my guess, and the rest’s history. Next thing I saw or anybody else saw for that matter was the tractor rolling off with nobody on it, and it hit that yellow pole near the bay door and got hung. But Ted was on the ground, hurt bad. He was bleeding bad. I mean, it was bad.”
“Was he conscious when you got to him?” the Doc asks, and as usual, she’s writing notes in her black notebook, and slung over her shoulder is a black nylon scene case that has a long strap.
“I didn’t hear him say nothing.” The man with the clipboard makes a painful face and looks away from them. He swallows hard and clears his throat. “His eyes were open and he was trying to breathe. That’s mainly what sticks in my mind and probably always will. Is him trying to breathe and his face turning blue. Then he was gone, just that quick. The police got here, of course, and an ambulance, but nobody could do a thing.”
Marino is just standing there in the mud, listening, and he decides he better ask a thing or two, because it makes him uneasy when he stands too long with his mouth shut, like he’s stupid. Scarpetta makes him feel stupid. She doesn’t try to and would never try to, and that’s worse.
“This Sam Stiles guy,” Marino says, nodding his black LAPD cap toward the motionless crane and its wrecking ball that is swaying slightly from the cable attached to the boom. “Where was he when Ted got run over? Anywhere near him?”
“Naw. That’s just ridiculous. The idea that Ted somehow got knocked off his tractor by the wrecking ball is so ridiculous it would be funny if any of this was funny. You got any idea what a wrecking ball would do to a man?”
“Wouldn’t be pretty,” Marino comments.
“Knock his brains right out of his head. Wouldn’t need no tractor to run him over after that.”
Scarpetta is writing all this down. Now and then she looks around thoughtfully and writes something else. One time Marino happened across her notes in plain view on her desk while she was out of the office. Curious about what goes on in her head, he took the opportunity to take a good look. He couldn’t make out more than one word, and that one word happened to be his name, Marino. Not only is her writing that bad, but when she makes notes she has her own secret language, her own weird shorthand that no one but her secretary Rose can decipher.
Now she is asking the man with the clipboard his name, and he is telling her it is Bud Light, which is easy enough for Marino to remember, even if he doesn’t believe in Bud Lite or Miller Lite or Michelob Lite or anything lite. She is explaining that she needs to know exactly where the body was found because she needs to take soil samples. Bud doesn’t seem the least bit curious. Maybe he assumes good-looking women medical examiners and big cops in LAPD caps always take soil samples when some construction worker is run over by a tractor. So they start walking through the thick wet mud again, getting closer to the building, and all the while this is going on, Marino is thinking about Suz.
Last night he was just starting another round of whisky at the FOP lounge, having a nice honest conversation with Junius Eise, or Eise-Ass, as Marino has called him for years. Browning had already gone home and Marino was talking away when his cell phone rang. By this point, he was feeling pretty good and probably shouldn’t have answered his cell phone. Probably it should have been turned off, but he hadn’t turned it off because Scarpetta had called earlier when Fielding wouldn’t come to the door, and Marino told her to call back if she needed him. That’s the real reason he answered his cell phone when it rang, although it is also true that when he’s enjoying another round he is, at that moment more than any other, most likely to answer the door or the phone or talk to a stranger.
“Marino,” he said above the din inside the FOP lounge.
“This is Suzanna Paulsson. I’m so sorry to bother you.” She began to cry.
It doesn’t matter what she said after that, and some of it he can’t remember as he’s picking his way through thick red mud while Scarpetta digs into her shoulder bag for packets of sterile wooden tongue depressors and plastic freezer bags. The most important part of what happened last night Marino can’t remember and probably never will, because Suz had whisky at her house, sour-mash bourbon, and lots of it. She was wearing jeans and a soft pink sweater when she led him into the living room and drew the drapes across the windows, then sat next to him on the couch and told him about her scumbag ex-husband and Homeland Security and women pilots and other couples he used to invite to the house. She kept referring to these other couples as if it were important, and Marino asked her if these couples were who she meant when she said “them” several times while he and Scarpetta were here. Suz wouldn’t answer him directly. She said the same thing. She said, Ask Frank.
I’m asking you, Marino replied.
Ask Frank, she kept saying. He had all kinds in here. Ask him.
Had them here for what reason?
You’ll find out, she said.
Marino stands back watching Scarpetta as she pulls on latex gloves and rips open a white paper packet. There is nothing left of the tractor driver’s death scene but muddy asphalt in front of a back door that is next to the huge bay door. He watches her get down and look around the muddy pavement, and he remembers yesterday morning, when they were cruising by in the rental car, talking about the past, and if he could go back to yesterday morning, he would. If only he could go back. His stomach is sour and stabbed by nausea. His head throbs in rapid rhythm with his racing heart. He breathes in the cold air and tastes the dirt and the concrete of the building that is falling down around them.
“So what you looking for exactly, you don’t mind me asking?” Bud is saying, looking on.
She carefully scrapes a wooden tongue depressor over a small area of dirt and sand that is stained, maybe with blood. “Just checking on what’s here,” she explains.
“You know, I watch some of those TV shows. At least I catch a bit here and there when the wife is watching.”
“Don’t believe everything you see.” Scarpetta drops more dirt in the bag, then drops in the tongue depressor after it. She seals the bag and marks it with more of that writing of hers that Marino can’t make out. She gently tucks the bag inside the nylon scene kit, which is upright on the pavement.
“So you ain’t gonna take this dirt back and put it inside some magic machine,” Bud jokes.
“No magic involved,” she says, opening another white packet as she squats in the parking lot near the door she used to unlock and walk in every morning when she was chief.
Several times this morning Marino has had flashes in the throbbing darkness of his soul. They are electrical, like a picture blinking in and out of a TV that is seriously malfunctioning, severely damaged, and blinking in and out so fast that he can’t see what’s there, but is given only fuzzy impressions of what might be there. Lips and tongue. Fragments of hands and shut eyes. And his mouth going on her. What he knows for a fact is that he woke up naked in her bed at seven minutes past five this morning.
Scarpetta works like an archaeologist, as much as Marino knows about an archaeologist’s methods. She carefully scrapes the top of a muddy area where he thinks he might see dark spots of blood. Her coat drapes around her and drags along the filthy blacktop and she doesn’t care. If only all women cared as little as she does about things that don’t matter. If only all women cared as much as she does about things that do matt
er. Marino imagines Scarpetta would understand a bad night. She would make coffee and hang around long enough to talk about it. She wouldn’t lock herself in the bathroom and cry and holler and order him to get the hell out of her house.
Marino walks off quickly from the parking lot and back through the red mud, his big boots slipping. He slips and catches himself with a grunt that turns into a heave as he vomits, bending over deeply in loud heaves, a bitter brown liquid splashing on his boots. He is trembling and gagging and believing he will die when he feels her hand on his elbow. He would know that hand anywhere, that strong, sure hand.
“Come on,” she says quietly, gripping his arm. “Let’s get you back into the car. It’s all right. Put your hand on my shoulder and for God’s sake watch where you step or both of us are going down.”
He wipes his mouth on his coat sleeve. Tears flood his eyes as he wills one foot at a time to move, holding on to her and holding himself up as he squishes through the muddy bloody-red battlefield around the ruined building where they first met.
“What if I raped her, Doc?” he says, so sick he might die. “What if I did?”
29.
IT IS VERY HOT inside the hotel room and Scarpetta has given up adjusting the thermostat. She sits in a chair by the window and watches Marino on the bed. He is stretched out in his black pants and black shirt, the baseball cap lonely on the dresser, his black boots lonely on the floor.
“You need to get some food in you,” she says from her chair near the window.
Nearby on the carpet is her mud-spotted black nylon crime scene kit, and draped over another chair is her mud-spattered coat. Wherever she has walked in the room she has tracked red mud, and when her eyes fall on the trail she has made, she is reminded of a crime scene, and then she thinks about Suzanna Paulsson’s bedroom and what crime may or may not have occurred there within the past twelve hours.
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