She takes her time parking, the car barely moving while she listens. “How did you manage that? I hate to ask.”
“Shot it. Don’t worry. With snake shot. It was a chemical bomb, a bottle bomb, you know the type. With little pieces of tinfoil balled up inside.”
“Metal to accelerate the reaction.” Scarpetta starts going through the differential diagnosis of the bomb. “Typical in bottle bombs made out of household cleaners that contain hydrochloric acid like the Works for toilet bowls that you can get from Wal-Mart, the grocery store, a hardware store. Unfortunately, the recipes are available on the Internet.”
“It had an acid odor, more like chlorine, but since I shot it by the pool, maybe that’s what I was smelling.”
“Possibly granulated pool chlorine and some type of sugary soda pop. That’s also popular. A chemical analysis will tell.”
“Don’t worry. One will be done.”
“Anything left of the cup?” she asks.
“We’ll check for prints and get anything we find right into IAFIS.”
“Theoretically, you can get DNA from prints, if they’re fresh. It’s worth a try.”
“We’ll swab the cup and the duct tape. Don’t worry.”
The more he says don’t worry, the more she will.
“I haven’t called the police,” he adds.
“It’s not my place to advise you about that.” She has given up advising him or anyone associated with him. The rules of Lucy and her people are different and creative and risky, and quite often they are inconsistent with what is legal. Scarpetta has ceased demanding to know details that will keep her awake at night.
“This may be related to some other things,” Rudy says. “Lucy needs to tell you. If you talk to her before I do, she needs to call me ASAP.”
“Rudy, you’ll do what you want. But let me just say I hope there aren’t any other devices out there, that whoever did this didn’t leave more than one, didn’t have more than one target,” she says. “I’ve had cases of people who died when these chemicals exploded in their faces or were thrown in their faces and it got into the airway and lungs. The acids are so strong the reaction doesn’t even need to go to completion before the thing blows.”
“I know, I know.”
“Please find some way to make sure there aren’t other victims or potential victims out there. That’s what concerns me if you handle things on your own.” It is her way of saying that if he doesn’t intend to call the police, he should at least be responsible enough to do what he can to protect the public.
“I know what to do. Don’t worry,” he says.
“Jesus,” Scarpetta says, ending the call and looking over at Marino. “What in God’s name is going on down there? You must have called Lucy last night. Did she tell you what’s going on down there? I haven’t seen her since September. I don’t know what’s going on.”
“An acid bomb?” He is sitting up straighter in his seat, always ready to pounce if anyone is after Lucy.
“A chemical-reaction bomb. The kind of bottle bombs we had trouble with out of Fairfax. Remember all those bombs in northern Virginia some years ago? A bunch of kids with too much time on their hands who thought it was funny blowing up mailboxes and a woman died?”
“Dammit,” he says.
“Easily accessible and terribly dangerous. A pH of one or less, so acidic it’s off the scale. It could have blown up in Lucy’s face. I hope to God she wouldn’t have pulled it out of the mailbox herself. I never know with her.”
“At her house?” Marino asks, getting angrier. “The bomb was at that mansion of hers down in Florida?”
“What did she say to you last night?”
“I just told her about Frank Paulsson, what was going on up here. That was it. She said she’d take care of it. At that huge house of hers with all the cameras and shit? The bomb was at her house?”
“Come on,” Scarpetta says, opening her car door. “I’ll tell you as we go in.”
38.
CLOSE TO the window, the morning light warms the desk where Rudy sits typing on the computer. He hits keys and waits, then rapidly types and waits some more, pressing arrows and scrolling, searching the Internet for what he believes is there. Something is there. The psycho saw something that set him off. Rudy now knows the bomb isn’t random.
He’s been at the training camp office for the past two hours doing nothing but maneuvering through the Internet while one of the forensic scientists in the nearby private lab has scanned prints and partial prints into IAFIS, and already there is news. Rudy’s nerves are screaming like one of Lucy’s Ferraris in sixth gear. He dials the phone and tucks the receiver under his chin as he types and stares at the flat video screen.
“Hey, Phil,” he says. “Big plastic cup with the Cat in the Hat on it. Big Gulp type of cup. Lid originally white. Yeah, yeah, the type of big cup you get in a convenience store, a gas station, and fill it up yourself. The Cat in the Hat, though. How unusual. Can we track it? No, I’m not kidding. That’s a proprietary thing, right? But the movie, it’s not recent. Last year, Christmastime, right? No, I didn’t go see it and quit being funny. Seriously, what place would still have Cat in the Hat cups left after all this time? Worst case, he’s had ’em for a while. But we gotta try. Yeah, we got prints on it. This guy’s not even trying. I mean, he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about leaving his prints all the hell over the place. On the drawing he taped to the boss’s door. Inside the bedroom where Henri was attacked. Now on a bomb. And now we got a hit in IAFIS. Yeah, can you believe it? No, don’t have a name yet. Might not, either. The hit’s on a latent-to-latent search, matching up with partials from some other case. We’re checking. That’s all I’ve got right now.”
He hangs up and turns back to the computer. Lucy has more search engines in the Internet than Pratt & Whitney has jet turbines, but she has never worried that information on the World Wide Web might have to do with her. Not so long ago, she had no reason to worry. Special operatives don’t usually court publicity unless they’re inactive and hungry for Hollywood, but then Lucy got hooked into Hollywood, and then she got hooked into Henri, and then life changed dramatically and for the worse. Damn Henri, he thinks as he types. Damn her. Damn failed actress Henri who decided to be a cop. Damn Lucy for recruiting her.
He starts a new search, typing in the key words “Kay Scarpetta” and “niece.” Now this is interesting. He picks up a pencil and starts twirling it between his fingers like a baton as he reads an article that ran last September on the AP. It is a very short article and simply states that Virginia has appointed a new chief medical examiner, Dr. Joel Marcus from St. Louis, and it mentions his taking Scarpetta’s place after years of limbo and chaos and so on. But Lucy’s name appears in the brief article. Since leaving Virginia, the article says, Dr. Scarpetta has worked as a consultant for the private investigation firm The Last Precinct, founded by her niece, former FBI agent Lucy Farinelli.
Not quite true, Rudy thinks. Scarpetta doesn’t exactly work for Lucy, but that doesn’t mean they don’t find themselves involved in the same cases now and then. There is no way Scarpetta would ever work for Lucy, and he can’t blame her, and he’s not sure how he works for Lucy. He had forgotten all about the article, and now he remembers getting angry with Lucy about it and demanding to know how the hell her name and the name of The Last Precinct ended up in a damn story about Dr. Joel Marcus. The last thing TLP needs is publicity, and there never used to be publicity until Lucy got involved with the entertainment industry, and then all sorts of gossip started leaking into the newspapers and onto television magazine shows.
He executes another search, squinting his eyes, trying to come up with something he hasn’t thought of, and then his fingers seem to type on without the rest of him and he types in the key words “Henrietta Walden.” A waste of time, he thinks. Her name when she was a B-list out-of-work actress was Jen Thomas or something forgettable like that. He reaches for his Pepsi without looking at it and can
’t believe his good fortune. The search returns three results.
“Come on, be something,” he says to the empty office as he clicks on the first entry.
A Henrietta Taft Walden died a hundred years ago, was some sort of wealthy abolitionist from Lynchburg, Virginia. Whoa, that must have gone over like a lead balloon. He can’t imagine being an abolitionist in Virginia around the time of the Civil War. Gutsy lady, he’ll give her that. He clicks on the second entry. This Henrietta Walden is alive but ancient and lives on a farm, also in Virginia, raises show horses and recently gave a million dollars to the NAACP. Probably a descendant of the first Henrietta Walden, he thinks, and he wonders if Jen Thomas borrowed the name Henrietta Walden from these somewhat noteworthy female abolitionist types, one dead, one barely alive. If so, why? He envisions Henri’s striking blond looks and uppity ball-busting attitude. Why would she be inspired by women who were passionate about the plight of blacks? Probably because it was the liberal Hollywood thing to do, he cynically decides, clicking on the third entry.
This one is a short article from The Hollywood Reporter. It was published in mid-October:
THIS ROLE’S FOR REAL
Former-actress-turned-LAPD-cop Henri Walden has signed on with the prestigious international private protection agency The Last Precinct, owned and directed by a former special ops helicopter-flying, Ferrari-driving Lucy Farinelli, who just so happens to be the niece of the famed real-life Quincy Dr. Kay Scarpetta. TLP, which is headquartered in a lesser Hollywood, the one in Florida, recently opened an office in Los Angeles and has expanded its cloak-and-dagger activities to protecting stars. Although its clients are top-secret, the Reporter has learned that some of them are the biggest names on the A list and in the music industry and include such mega-luminaries as actor Gloria Rustic and rapper Rat Riddly.
“My most exciting, daring role yet,” Walden said of her newest escapade. “Who better to protect stars than someone who once worked in the industry?”
“Work” may be a bit of an exaggeration, since the blond beauty had a lot of leisure time during her stint as an actress. Not that she needs the money. It is well known that her family has plenty of it. Walden is best known for playing small roles in big-budget films such as Quick Death and Don’t Be There. Keep your eye out for Walden. She’s the one with a gun.
Rudy prints the article and sits in the chair, his fingers lightly resting on the keyboard as he stares at the screen and contemplates whether Lucy knows about the article. How could she not be furious, if she knew, and if she does know, why didn’t she fire Henri months ago? Why didn’t Lucy tell him? Such a breach of protocol is hard to imagine. It shocks him that Lucy would allow it, assuming she did. He can’t think of a single instance when someone who works for TLP gave an interview to the media or even indulged in loose talk unless it was part of a highly planned operation. There is only one way to find out, he thinks, reaching for the phone.
“Hey,” he says when Lucy answers. “Where are you?”
“In St. Augustine. On a fuel stop.” Her voice is wary. “I already know about the fucking bomb.”
“Not what I’m calling about. I guess you talked to your aunt.”
“Marino called. I don’t have time to chat about it,” she says angrily. “Something else going on?”
“Did you know your friend gave an interview about coming on board with us?”
“None of this is about her being my friend.”
“We’ll argue about that later,” Rudy says, acting far calmer than he feels, and he is seething. “Just answer me. Did you know?”
“I know nothing about an article. What article?”
Rudy reads it to her over the phone, and after he’s finished, he waits to see how she’ll react, and he knows she will react and that makes him feel a little better. All along this hasn’t been fair. Now, maybe Lucy will be forced to admit it. When Lucy doesn’t respond, Rudy asks, “Are you there?”
“Yes,” she answers him abruptly and testily. “I didn’t know.”
“Well, now you do. Now we have another whole solar system to take a look at. Like her rich family and whether there’s any connection between it and the so-called Waldens and who the hell knows what else. But bottom line, did the psycho see this article, and if so, why and what the hell is that about? Not to mention, her acting name is this abolitionist’s name and she’s from Virginia. So are you, sort of. Maybe when you got hooked up with her it wasn’t exactly coincidental.”
“That’s ridiculous. Now you’re really going off,” Lucy says hotly. “She was on a list of LAPD cops who worked security…”
“Oh bullshit,” Rudy replies, and his anger is showing too. “Fuck the list. You interviewed local police and there she was. You knew damn well how inexperienced she was in private protection, but you hired her anyway.”
“I don’t want to talk about this on a cell phone. Not even on our cell phones.”
“I don’t either. Talk to the shrink.” That’s his code name for Benton Wesley. “Why don’t you call him, I’m serious. Maybe he’ll have some ideas. Tell him I’m e-mailing the article to him. We’ve got prints. Same psycho who did your pretty little sketch also left the little gift in your mailbox.”
“Big surprise. Like I said, who wants two of them? I’ve talked to the shrink,” she then says. “He’ll be monitoring what I do here.”
“Good thinking. Oh, I almost forgot. I found a hair sticking to the duct tape. The duct tape on the chemical bomb.”
“Describe it.”
“About six inches long, curly, dark. Looks like head hair, obviously. More later, call me from a landline. I got a lot of work to do,” he says. “Maybe your friend knows something, if you can get her to tell the truth for once.”
“Don’t call her my friend,” Lucy says. “Let’s don’t fight about this anymore.”
39.
AFTER KAY SCARPETTA entered the OCME with Marino slowly following her, doing his best to walk normally, Bruce at the security desk sat up straighter and got a look of dread on his face.
“Uh, I’ve been given instructions,” Bruce says, refusing to meet her eyes. “The chief says no visitors. Maybe he doesn’t mean you? Is he expecting you?”
“He isn’t,” Scarpetta says with ease. Nothing surprises her at this point. “He probably does mean me.”
“Gee, I sure am sorry.” Bruce is acutely embarrassed, his cheeks burning pink. “How’ya doing, Pete?”
Marino leans against the desk, his feet spread, his pants hanging lower than usual. If he got in a foot pursuit, he might lose his pants. “Been better,” Marino says. “So Chief Little Thinks He’s Big Man ain’t letting us in. That what you’re telling us, Bruce?”
“That guy,” Bruce says, catching himself. Like most people, Bruce would like to keep his job. He wears a nice Prussian blue uniform, carries a gun, and works in a beautiful building. Better to hold on to what he’s got, even if he can’t stand Dr. Marcus.
“Huh,” Marino says, stepping back from the console. “Well, hate to disappoint Chief Little, but we ain’t here to see him, anyway. Got evidence to drop off at the labs, at Trace. But I’m curious, what order did you get, exactly? I’m just curious about the wording.”
“That guy,” Bruce says, and he starts to shake his head but catches himself. He likes his job.
“It’s all right,” Scarpetta says. “I get the message loud and clear. Thanks for letting me know. Glad someone did.”
“He should have told you.” Bruce stops himself again, looking around. “Just so you know, everybody’s been mighty happy to see you, Dr. Scarpetta.”
“Almost everybody.” She smiles. “It’s not a problem. Can you let Mr. Eise know we’re here? He is expecting us,” she adds, emphasizing the word “is.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bruce says, cheering up a little. He picks up the phone and dials the extension and passes on the message.
For a minute or two, Scarpetta and Marino stand before the elevator, waiting for
it. One can push the button all day and it won’t do any good unless the person has a magic magnetic swipe card or the elevator is sent by someone who does. The doors open and they step aboard, and Scarpetta presses the button for the third floor, her black crime-scene bag slung over her shoulder.
“I guess the son of a bitch canned you,” Marino comments, the elevator car lurching slightly as it begins its short ascent.
“I guess he did.”
“So? What are you gonna do about it? You can’t just let him get away with this. He begs you to come to Richmond and then treats you like shit. I’d get him fired.”
“He’ll get himself fired one of these days. I have better things to do,” she replies as the stainless-steel doors open onto Junius Eise, who is waiting for them in a white corridor.
“Junius, thank you,” Scarpetta says, offering her hand. “Nice to see you again.”
“Oh, I’m happy to do it,” he says, slightly flustered.
He is a strange man with pale eyes. The middle of his upper lip fades into a fine scar that reaches to his nose, a typical poor mending job that she has seen many times before in people who were born with cleft palates. Appearance aside, he is odd, and Scarpetta thought so years ago when she used to encounter him now and then in the labs. She never talked to him much back then, but occasionally she consulted him on certain cases. When she was chief, she was pleasant and made it a practice to show the respect she honestly felt for all of the lab workers, but she was never overly friendly. As she accompanies Eise along the maze of white corridors and big glass windows that allow glimpses of the scientists at work in the labs, she is aware that the perception when she was here was that she was cold and intimidating. As chief she got respect but rarely affection. That was hard, extremely hard, but she lived with it because it went with the position. Now she doesn’t have to live with it.
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