'But we don't know that they went in there.'
'We don't know a damn thing,' he said, letting out a long, weary breath. 'Certainly, we have recovered footwear impressions. But there are so many other footprints, hoof prints, dog prints and God knows what. Or at least there were.' He paused as snow streaked past the glass.
'You're thinking he's been living around there.'
'That subway station's not a transfer station. It's a destination station. People who get off there either live on the Upper West Side or are going to one of the restaurants, the museum or events in the park.'
'Which is why I don't think Gault has been living in that neighborhood,' I said. 'In a station like the one at Eighty-first or others nearby, you probably see the same people over and over again. It seems that the transit officer who gave Gault a ticket would have recognized him if Gault was local and used the subway a lot.'
'That's a good point,' Wesley said. 'It appears Gault was familiar with the area where he chose to commit the crime. Yet there's no indication he ever spent time in that area. So how could he be familiar with it?' He turned around to face me.
The lights were off in the room, and he was in the shadows before a marbled background of gray sky and snow. Wesley looked thin, dark trousers hanging from his hips, a belt pulled to a new notch.
'You've lost weight,' I said.
'I'm flattered you would notice,' he wryly said.
'I know your body well only when you have no clothes on,' I said matter-of-factly. 'And then you are beautiful.'
'Then is the only time it matters, I guess.'
'No it isn't. How much have you lost and why?'
'I don't know how much. I never weigh myself. Sometimes I forget to eat.'
'Have you eaten today?' I asked as if I were his primary care physician.
'No.'
'Get your coat on,' I said.
We walked hand in hand along the wall of the park, and I could not recall if we had shown affection before in public. But the few people out could not see our faces clearly, not that they would have cared. For a moment my heart was light, and snow hitting snow sounded like snow hitting glass.
We walked without talking for many blocks, and I thought about my family in Miami. I probably would call them again before the end of the day, and my reward would be more complaints. They were unhappy with me because I had not done what they wanted, and whenever that was the case, I furiously wanted to quit them as if they were a bad job or a vice. In truth, I worried most about Lucy, whom I had always loved as if she were my daughter. Mother I could not please, and Dorothy I did not like.
I moved closer to Benton and took his arm. He reached over with his other hand to take mine as I pressed my body against him. Both of us wore caps, which made it difficult to kiss. So we stopped on the sidewalk in the gathering dark, turned our caps backward like hoodlums and resolved the problem. Then we laughed at each other because of how we looked.
'Damn, I wish I had a camera.' Wesley laughed some more.
'No, you don't.'
I returned the cap to its proper position as I thought of anyone taking a picture of us together. I was reminded that we were outlaws, and the merry moment vanished. We walked on.
'Benton, this can't go on forever,' I said.
He did not speak.
I went on, 'In your real world you are a committed husband and father, and then we go out of town.'
'How do you feel about it?' he said, tension returning to his voice.
'I suppose I feel the same way most people do when they're having an affair. Guilt, shame, fear, sadness. I get headaches and you lose weight.' I paused. 'Then we get around each other.'
'What about jealousy?' he asked.
I hesitated. 'I discipline myself not to feel that.'
'You can't discipline yourself not to feel.'
'Certainly you can. We both do it all the time when we're working cases like this one.'
'Are you jealous of Connie?' he persisted as we walked.
'I have always been fond of your wife and think she is a fine person.'
'But are you jealous of her relationship with me? It would be very understandable-'
I interrupted him. 'Why must you push this, Benton?'
'Because I want us to face the facts and sort through them, somehow.'
'All right, then you tell me something,' I said. 'When I was with Mark while he was your partner and best friend, were you ever jealous?'
'Of whom?' He tried to be funny.
'Were you ever jealous of my relationship with Mark?' I said.
He did not answer right away.
'I would be lying if I didn't admit that I've always been attracted to you. Strongly attracted,' he finally said.
I thought back to times when Mark, Wesley and I had been together. I searched for the faintest hint of what he had just said. I could not remember. But when I had been with Mark, I was focused only on him.
'I have been honest,' Wesley went on. 'Let's talk about you and Connie again. I need to know.'
'Why?'
'I need to know if all of us could ever be together,' he said. 'Like the old days when you had dinner with us, when you came to visit. My wife has begun to ask why you don't do that anymore.'
'You're saying that you fear she is suspicious.' I felt paranoid.
'I'm saying that the subject has come up. She likes you. Now that you and I work together, she wonders why that means she sees less of you rather than more.'
'I can see why she might wonder,' I said.
'What are we going to do?'
I had been in Benton's home and watched him with his children and his wife. I remembered the touching, the smiles and allusions to matters beyond my ken as they briefly shared their world with friends. But in those days it was different because I had been in love with Mark, who now was dead.
I let go of Wesley's hand. Yellow cabs rushed by in sprays of snow, and lights were warm in apartment building windows. The park glowed the whiteness of ghosts beneath tall iron lamps.
'I can't do it,' I said to him.
We turned onto Central Park West.
'I'm sorry, but I just don't think I can be around you and Connie,' I added.
'I thought you said you could discipline your emotions.'
'That's easy for you to say because I don't have someone else in my life.'
'You're going to have to do it at some point. Even if we break this off, you're going to have to deal with my family. If we are to continue working together, if we are to be friends.'
'So now you're giving me ultimatums.'
'You know I'm not.'
I quickened my pace. The first time we had made love I had made my life a hundred times more complicated. Certainly, I had known better. I had seen more than one poor fool on my autopsy table who had decided to get involved with someone married. People annihilated themselves and others. They became mentally ill and got sued.
I passed Tavern on the Green. I stared up at the Dakota on my left, where John Lennon was killed on a corner years ago. The subway station was very close to Cherry Hill, and I wondered if Gault might have left the park and come here. I stood and stared. That night, December 8, I was driving home from a court case when I heard on the radio that Lennon had been shot dead by a nobody carrying a copy of Catcher in the Rye.
'Benton,' I said, 'Lennon used to live there.'
'Yes,' he said. 'He was killed right over there by that entrance.'
'Is there any possibility Gault cared about that?'
He paused. 'I haven't thought about it.'
'Should we think about it?'
He was silent as he looked up at the Dakota with its sandblasted brick, wrought iron and copper trim.
'We probably should think about everything,' he said.
'Gault would have been a teenager when Lennon was murdered. As I recall from Gault's apartment in Richmond, he seemed to prefer classical music and jazz. I don't remember that he had any albums by Lenno
n or the Beatles.'
'If he's preoccupied with Lennon,' Wesley said, 'it's not for musical reasons. Gault would be fascinated by such a sensational crime.'
We walked on. 'There just aren't enough people to ask the questions we need answered,' I said.
'We would need an entire police department. Maybe the entire FBI.'
'Can we check to see if anyone fitting his description has been seen around the Dakota?' I asked.
'Hell, he could be staying there,' Wesley said bitterly. 'So far, money hasn't seemed to be his problem.'
Around the corner of the Museum of Natural History was the snowcapped pink awning of a restaurant called Scaletta, which I was surprised to find lit up and noisy. A couple in fur coats turned in and went downstairs, and I wondered if we shouldn't do the same. I was actually getting hungry, and Wesley didn't need to lose any more weight.
'Are you up for this?' I asked him.
'Absolutely. Is Scaletta a relative of yours?' he teased.
'I think not.'
We got as far as the door, where the maitre d' informed us that the restaurant was closed.
'You certainly don't look closed,' I said, suddenly exhausted and unwilling to walk any more.
'But we are, signora.' He was short, balding and wearing a tuxedo with a bright red cummerbund. 'This is a private party.'
'Who is Scaletta?' Wesley asked him.
'Why you want to know?'
'It is an interesting name, much like mine,' I said.
'And what is yours?'
'Scarpetta.'
He looked carefully at Wesley and seemed puzzled. 'Yes, of course. But he is not with you this evening?'
I stared blankly at him. 'Who is not with me?'
'Signor Scarpetta. He was invited. I'm most sorry, I did not realize you were in his party . . .'
'Invited to what?' I had no idea what he was talking about. My name was rare. I had never encountered another Scarpetta, not even in Italy.
The maitre d' hesitated. 'You are not related to the Scarpetta who comes here often?'
'What Scarpetta?' I said, getting uneasy.
'A man. He has been here many times recently. A very good customer. He was invited to our Christmas party. So you are not his guests?'
'Tell me more about him,' I said.
'A young man. He spends much money.' The maitre d' smiled.
I could feel Wesley's interest pique. He said, 'Can you describe him?'
'I have many people inside. We reopen tomorrow. . .'
Wesley discreetly displayed his shield. The man regarded it calmly.
'Of course.' He was polite but unafraid. 'I find you a table.'
'No, no,' Wesley said. 'You don't have to do that. But we need to ask more about this man who said his last name was Scarpetta.'
'Come in.' He motioned us. 'We talk, we may as well sit. You sit, you may as well eat. My name is Eugenio.'
He led us to a pink-covered table in a corner far removed from guests in party clothes filling most of the dining room. They were toasting, eating, talking and laughing with the gestures and cadences of Italians.
'We do not have full menu tonight,' Eugenio apologized. 'I can bring you costoletta di vitello alia griglia or polio al limone with maybe a little cappellini primavera or rigatoni con broccolo.'
We said yes to all and added a bottle of Dolcetto D'Alba, which was a favorite of mine and difficult to find.
Eugenio went to get our wine while my mind spun slowly and sick fear pulled at my heart.
'Don't even suggest it,' I said to Wesley.
'I'm not going to suggest anything yet.'
He didn't have to. The restaurant was so close to the subway station where Gault had been seen. He would have noticed Scaletta's because of the name. It would have made him think of me, and I was someone he probably thought about a lot.
Almost instantly, Eugenio was back with our bottle. He peeled off foil and twisted in the corkscrew as he talked. 'See, 1979, very light. More like a Beaujolais.' He pulled the cork out and poured a little for me to taste.
I nodded, and he filled our glasses.
'Have a seat, Eugenio,' Wesley said. 'Have some wine. Tell us about Scarpetta.'
He shrugged. 'All I can say is he first come in here several weeks ago. I know he had not been in before. To tell the truth, he was unusual.'
'In what way?' Wesley asked.
'Unusual looking. Very bright red hair, thin, dressed unusual. You know, long black leather coat and Italian trousers with maybe T-shirt.' He looked up at the ceiling and shrugged again. 'If you can imagine wearing nice trousers and shoes like Armani and then wearing T-shirt. It was not ironed, either.'
'Was he Italian?' I asked.
'Oh no. He could fool some people, but not me.' Eugenio shook his head and poured himself a glass of wine. 'He was American. But he maybe spoke Italian because he used the Italian part of the menu. He ordered that way, you know? He would not order in English. Actually, he was very good.'
'How did he pay?' Wesley asked.
'Always charge card.'
'And the name on the charge card was Scarpetta?' I asked.
'Yes, I'm certain. No first name, just the initial K. He said his name was Kirk. Not exactly Italian.' He smiled and shrugged.
'He was friendly, then,' Wesley said as my mind kept slamming into this information.
'He was very friendly sometimes and not so friendly other times. He always had something to read. Newspapers.'
'He was alone?' Wesley asked.
'Always.'
"What kind of charge card?' I said.
He thought. 'American Express. A gold card, I believe.'
I looked at Wesley.
'Do you have yours with you?' he asked me.
'I would assume so.'
I got out my billfold. The card wasn't there.
'I don't understand.' I felt the blood rise to the roots of my hair.
'Where did you have it last?' Wesley asked.
'I don't know.' I was stunned. 'I don't use it much. So many places won't take it.'
We were silent. Wesley sipped his wine and looked around the room. I was frightened and bewildered. I did not understand what any of this meant. Why would Gault come here and pretend to be me? If he had my gold card, how did he get it? And even as I asked that last question, a dark suspicion stirred. Quantico.
Eugenio had gotten up to see about our food.
'Benton,' I said as my blood roared. 'I let Lucy use that card last fall.'
'When she began her internship with us?' He frowned.
'Yes. I gave it to her after she left UVA and was on her way to the Academy. I knew she'd be back and forth to visit me. She'd be flying to Miami for the holidays and so on. I gave her my American Express card to use mostly for plane and Amtrak tickets.'
'And you haven't seen it since then?' He looked dubious.
'I haven't thought about it, to tell you the truth. I generally use MasterCard or Visa, and it seems to me that the Amex card expires this February. So I must have figured Lucy could have it until then.'
'You'd better call her.'
'I will.'
'Because if she doesn't have it, Kay, then I'm going to suspect Gault stole it when the Engineering Research Facility was broken into last October.'
This was what I feared.
'What about your bills?' he asked. 'Have you noticed any strange charges over recent months?'
'No,' I said. 'I don't recall there being any charges at all during October or November, 'I paused. 'Should we cancel the card or use it to track him?'
'Tracking him with it may be a problem.'
'Because of money.'
Wesley hesitated. I'll see what I can do,'
Eugenio returned with our pasta. He said he was trying to remember if there might be anything else.
'I think his last time here was Thursday night,' He counted his fingers. 'Four days ago. He likes the bistecca, the carpaccio. Uhhh, let me see. He got funghi e carcio
fi one time and cappellini plain. No sauce. Just a little butter. We invite him to the party. Every year we do this to show appreciation to friends and special customers,'
From Potter's Field Page 7