Outside, the parking lot is fairly well lit by tall lamps. What few cars there are—less than a hundred—are parked close together, as if to keep one another company. She spots the heavyset petty thief walking swiftly toward a dark blue Chevrolet with Louisiana tags. Nic memorizes the plate number as she heads in the woman’s general direction without appearing to notice her. In fact, Nic doesn’t notice anyone in the area who might be a potential serial killer. If the woman is being stalked, and of course that was a long shot to begin with, there is no hint of it.
Once again, Nic is prodded by guilt because she is disappointed. The idea that she could possibly feel regret that a woman is not about to become another victim is so abhorrent that Nic will not acknowledge her sinful hopes to anyone and scarcely to herself. She represses that truth so completely that she would probably pass a polygraph test if the examiner asked her, “Do you feel disappointed when you tail a potential victim and the killer doesn’t try to abduct her or succeed in abducting her?” Nic wouldn’t get tense or hesitate. Her pulse rate would stay the same as she replied, “No.” The shorter the answer, the less chance of her nervous system betraying her.
She does not walk anywhere near her own car, a five-year-old forest green Ford Explorer that is clandestinely equipped with a portable dash-mounted flashing beacon, a shotgun, a first-aid kit, jumper cables, flares, a fire extinguisher, a jump-out bag containing Battle Dress Uniforms, boots, extra magazines and other tactical gear, a handheld scanner tucked under the dash and a charger for her international cell phone, which also works as a two-way radio. A lot of her equipment she bought with her own money. In life, she is always overprepared for the worst.
The woman digs inside a dirty canvas beach bag, maybe ten feet from the Chevrolet. Certainly she doesn’t fit the victimology, not in the least. But Nic doesn’t trust so-called patterns or MOs. She remembers Scarpetta emphasizing that profiles are dangerous, because they’re fraught with errors. Not everybody does everything the same way every time, and, if nothing else, the woman is a loner in a dark, relatively deserted parking lot at the edge of a major university campus, and that makes her vulnerable to predators.
The woman fumbles with keys and drops them. Stooping to pick them up, she loses her balance and falls, suddenly crying out and clutching her left knee.
She casts about helplessly, spots Nic and begs, “Help me!”
Nic sprints and squats by the woman.
“Don’t move,” she tells her. “What hurts?”
She smells insect repellent and body odor. It vaguely brushes against her thoughts that the car keys on the pavement don’t look as if they belong to a relatively new Chevrolet.
“I think I pulled something in my knee,” the woman says, her eyes fixed on Nic’s. “It’s my bad knee.”
Her accent is Southern with a distinct lilt. She is not native to the area, and her hands are rough and raw as if she is accustomed to hard, physical work such as cleaning or shucking shellfish. Nic notices no jewelry, not even a watch. The woman pulls up her pant leg and looks at an angry purple bruise centered on her kneecap. The bruise isn’t fresh. Instinctively, Nic is repulsed by the woman’s unpleasant odor, her bad breath and something about her demeanor that she can’t pinpoint but finds disturbing. She gets to her feet and steps back.
“I can call an ambulance,” Nic says. “Not much else I can do, ma’am. I’m not a doctor.”
A look takes over the woman’s face, making it harsher in the glow of the parking lot lamps.
“No, I don’t need an ambulance. Like I said, I have this happen all the time.” She tries to get up.
“Then why do you have just one bruise?”
“I always fall the same way.”
Nic keeps her distance. She has no intention of offering further assistance. The woman is dirty, maybe mentally ill, and Nic knows better than to tangle with that type. They can be contagious, unpredictable, even violent if one has physical contact with them. The woman is on her feet now, favoring her left leg.
“Believe I’ll get me a coffee and rest for a bit,” she says. “I’ll be fine, just fine.”
Slowly, she limps away from the Chevrolet, back toward the store.
Nic softens. She digs in a pocket of her jeans as she trots after the woman.
“Here.” She hands her a five-dollar bill.
The woman smiles, her quick dark eyes hot on Nic’s.
“God bless you.” She clutches the money. “You’re a lamb,” she says.
THE DOOR ACROSS THE HALLWAY opens and an older man in an undershirt and sweatpants studies Marino suspiciously. “What’s all the racket about?” he inquires, his gray hair sticking up like the bristles of a hedgehog, his wrinkled face patchy with stubble, his eyes puffy and bloodshot.
Marino knows the look all too well. The man’s been drinking, probably since he got up and downed his first eye-opener.
“You seen Tom?” Marino asks, sweating and struggling for air.
“Can’t say I really know him. Don’t have a heart attack. I can’t do CPR, although I am familiar with the Heimlich maneuver.”
“He promised to meet me”—Marino catches a breath—“and I came all the friggin’ way from California.”
“You did?” The man is very curious now and steps out into the hallway. “What for?”
“What do you mean, what for?” Marino recovers enough to snap at him, as if it is any of the man’s business. “ ’Cause the friggin’ gold rush’s over. ’Cause I’m tired of sittin’ on the friggin’ dock of the bay. ’Cause I got bored being a friggin’ movie star.”
“If you were in the movies, I’ve never seen you, and I rent movies all the time. What else is there to do around here?”
“Have you seen Tom?” Marino persists, trying in vain to force the knob by turning it hard and shaking the door.
“I was asleep when you started all the racket,” says the man, who looks at least sixty and a bit deranged. “I haven’t seen Tom and don’t care for the likes of him, if you get my drift.”
He scrutinizes Marino.
“What do you mean, the likes of him?”
“Homo.”
“That’s news to me, not that I give a shit what people do, as long as I ain’t around to see it. He bringing men to his apartment or something? ’Cause I’m not sure I want to get in if . . .”
“Oh, no. Never saw him bring anybody to his apartment. But another homo in the building who wears leather and earrings told me he’s seen Tom in some of those bars where homos go and pick each other up for a quick visit to the bathroom.”
“Listen, jerkface, I’m supposed to be subletting this dump from the son of a bitch,” Marino heatedly informs the man. “Already paid him the first three months’ rent, and drove from California to get the key and move in. All my stuff’s down there in my damn truck.”
“That would really piss me off.”
“No joke, Sherlock.”
“I mean, really piss me off. Who’s Sherlock? Oh, yes. That detective with the hat and pipe. I don’t read violent books.”
“So if you hear any noise coming from this apartment, ignore it. If I have to use dynamite, I’m getting in.”
“You don’t really mean that,” the old man worries.
“Right,” Marino says sarcastically. “I walk around with dynamite in my pockets. I’m a suicide bomber with a New Jersey accent. Know how to fly planes, just can’t take off or land.”
The old man disappears inside his apartment, and a burglar chain rattles.
MARINO STUDIES the hollow metal door of unit 56.
Some twelve inches above the knob is a dead-bolt lock. He lights a cigarette, squinting through smoke at the enemy: a cheap brass knob with a push-button lock and the more problematic single cylinder dead bolt. None of the other doors along the hallway have dead bolts, confirming Marino’s suspicion that Benton installed the lock himself. Knowing him, he opted for a jimmy-proof deadbolt that neither a thief nor a hit man nor an aggravated Mari
no can drill through without a spring-actuated plate sliding shut like a bank window and foiling the drill bit. One security risk that Benton couldn’t have done much about was the door frame, which is a thin strip of metal screwed into wood.
Piece of cake, Marino says to himself as he unsnaps a bucktool from his belt and slides it out of its worn leather sheath.
The hinges are the common loose-pin variety, and Marino unfolds a pair of pliers from his all-purpose tool, attacks the pin and works it out of the hinge like a cork out of a bottle. Soon, three pins are on the floor, the door free on the left side. With two powerful yanks, Marino breaks the locks loose from the metal jamb. Inside the apartment, he props the door against the opening to give himself a little privacy. He flips on the overhead lights.
Benton had moved out, leaving nothing behind but food in the cupboards, a refrigerator full of Budweiser and half a bag of trash in the kitchen. May as well grab a beer while I’m here, Marino thinks. The bottle opener is on the counter where Marino saw it last, seeming to welcome him in a generous, affectionate way, like a Christmas stocking. Nothing else is out of place. Even the dishwasher is empty.
Strange.
Benton was careful not to offer so much as a partial fingerprint on windowpanes, tabletops or drinking glasses, dishes, cookware or silverware. Marino continues to hold up objects and look at them in oblique light. Sweep marks of the vacuum cleaner are visible on the carpet. Benton wiped down the entire place, and when Marino digs through the garbage bag, he finds nothing but his own empty Budweiser bottles and the broken glass from the Dos Equis he smashed in the sink. Every piece of glass is clean, the labels wet and soapy.
“What the hell is going on?” Marino asks the living room.
“I don’t know,” a male voice answers from behind the propped-up door. “Everything all right in there?”
Marino recognizes the neighbor from across the hall. “Go to bed,” he gruffly tells him. “And if you and me are gonna get along, you need to mind your own business . . . what’s your name?”
“Dave.”
“That’s funny, I’m Dave, too, as in t-o, not t-w-o.”
“T-o-o.”
“Sorry, I forgot to bring spell-check with me.” Marino glares through the space between the propped-up door and the frame.
Dave appears more curious than frightened, peering in, trying to look around the room. Marino’s considerable size blocks the nosy neighbor’s view.
“Can’t believe the bastard left like this,” Marino says. “How’d you like to break into your own damn apartment?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Not only that, the joint’s a pigpen, and he made off with the silverware, pots and pans, and every bar of soap and roll of toilet paper.”
“Silverware and cookware belong to the apartment,” Dave says disapprovingly. “But from where I’m looking, the place looks quite tidy.”
“Yeah, from where you’re looking.”
“I always thought he was an odd man. I wonder why he took the toilet paper.”
“I only hooked up with him a couple months back, answering his ad for subletting,” Marino comments.
He straightens up and steps away from the door, scanning the inside of the apartment again as Dave peers in. His eyes are red-rimmed and glassy, his cheeks sagging and rosy with broken blood vessels, probably from years of living inside a whiskey bottle.
“Yup,” he says. “He never talked, I mean never, not even when he passed me in the hall or we both just happened to open our doors at the same time. There we are, face-to-face, and the most he ever did was sort of give me a little smile and a jerk of his chin.”
Marino isn’t a great believer in coincidences and suspects Dave listened for Benton to come and go and just happened to open his door when Benton was opening his.
“Where were you this afternoon?” Marino wonders if Dave heard the altercation, a loud one, coming from Benton’s apartment.
“Oh, I don’t know. After lunch, I sleep a lot.”
Drunk, Marino thinks.
“He’s the sort who didn’t have friends,” Dave goes on.
Marino continues looking around, standing near the door while Dave peers through the crack.
“Never saw him have a single visitor, and I’ve been living here five years. Five years and two months. Hate this place. He seemed to go away sometimes. Since I retired from being the head chef at the Lobster House, I have to watch my pennies.”
Marino has no idea how watching pennies has anything to do with the man’s mysterious neighbor.
“You was the head chef there? Every time I come to Boston, I eat at the Lobster House.”
This isn’t true, nor is Marino a frequent visitor to Boston.
“You and the rest of the world, yessir. Well, I wasn’t the head chef, but I damn well should’ve been. I’ll cook for you one of these days.”
“How long did the weirdo live here?”
“Oh.” Dave sighs, his eyes shining through the space as he watches Marino. “I’d say goin’ on two years. On and off. What was your favorite dish at the Lobster House?”
“Two damn years. That’s interesting. Told me he’d just moved in and gotten transferred or something, which is why he had to give up the apartment.”
“Well, probably lobster,” Dave remarks. “All tourists get the lobster and sop it in so much butter it’s a wonder they taste anything but butter, so I was always commenting to the other workers in the kitchen, what was the point of bringing in nice fresh lobsters if nobody tastes anything but the butter?”
“I hate seafood,” Marino says.
“Well, we do have mighty fine steaks. Aged one-hundred-percent-prime Angus.”
“Aged always worries me. In the grocery store, aged means spoiled. You know, clearance buggy shit.”
“Now, he wasn’t here all the time,” Dave says. “In and out, sometimes gone for weeks. But no way he’d just moved in. I’ve seen him coming in and out for two years, like I said.”
“Anything else you can tell me about this homo who locked me out and made off with half the stuff in the joint?” Marino asks. “When I find him, I’m gonna kick his ass.”
Dave shakes his head and disappointment glints. “Sure wish I could help you out, but like I’ve been saying, I didn’t know the man and I’m glad he’s gone, and it’s looking like you and me will be great neighbors, Dave Too.”
“Thick as thieves. Now you go on to bed. Let me get a few things done in here, and I’ll catch you later.”
“So nice to meet you. I guess I’ll be calling you Dave Too from now on, if that’s okay with you.”
“Nighty-night.”
BENTON LIVED HERE TWO YEARS and nobody knew him, not even his lonely, busybody neighbor Dave.
Not that Marino is really surprised, but the realization is a reminder of Benton’s desolate, confining life, which is all the more reason his refusal to return to himself, his friends and those who love him makes no sense. Marino sits on Benton’s perfectly made bed, staring in a glazed way at the mirror over the dresser. As well as Benton knows him, he must have suspected that Marino would come back and rant and rail at him again. Not much could be more wounding than for him to have said he doesn’t want to see Marino again—ever.
He focuses on his big, unhealthy self in the mirror, sweat rolling down his face, and it occurs to him that Benton turned off the air-conditioning in the living room when he and Benton were arguing. But when Marino just broke in, the air-conditioning was back on in that room but turned off in this one. Virtually every move Benton makes is deliberate. That’s the way he is, and for him to crank the air-conditioning on high in the living area and turn it off in the bedroom was for a reason. Marino gets off the bed and walks to the window unit, noticing an envelope taped to the side of it.
Perfectly centered on it in block letters are the initials PM.
Excitement kicks in but is tempered by Marino’s wariness. He returns to the kitchen for a sharp knife. Back i
n the bedroom, he sets it on top of the air-conditioning unit. Then he heads to the bathroom and yanks off several long sections of toilet paper, wrapping it around his fingers. He returns to the window unit and carefully removes the envelope, noticing that both ends of the tape are folded over so that they adhere to themselves, the same technique police use to prevent fingerprint tape from sticking to their gloves.
He slits the top of the envelope and pulls out a folded sheet of plain white paper and smooths it open. Written in the same block printing that’s on the envelope is: “Please keep on.”
Baffled, Marino considers for a moment that the note wasn’t intended for him and wasn’t written by Benton. He considers that neither the tape nor the paper is old, and they are very clean, and the folded ends of the tape hint that whoever used it might have been wearing latex gloves. Marino’s initials are PM, and Benton knows that handwriting comparisons are usually foiled by block printing unless a documents examiner is comparing block printing exemplars written by the same individual. Benton also knows that Marino would be hot as hell in this room and would turn on the air conditioner. Or if nothing else, Marino would notice the inconsistency of one window unit left on while the other isn’t and would wonder about it.
“Keep on the air conditioner?” Marino says out loud, frustrated and exhausted.
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