Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

B enton’s ex-wife, Connie, wasn’t as interested in him as in the Wesley family money. He didn’t share his work with her, nor did she want to hear about it. And my first husband was forgettable, my brief marriage to Tony by prescription. I thought it the sensible thing to do after graduate school, for reasons I don’t entirely understand. I suspect that it had much to do with my mother and Dorothy, both worried I’d never find anyone.

“There’s nothing I regret about you.” I tell Benton the truth. “There’s no one I want to be with more.”

“No one? Not even Sal?”

“Not even close.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You shouldn’t need to hear it. But regardless of what we think we know, we can get surprised.” I take another swallow of my drink as it melts away inhibitions that hold me tightly wrapped. “And I was surprised to realize you told your colleagues about my history with Sal before discussing it with me first.”

“I should have said something to you earlier.” Benton uncorks the bottle again.

“Yes, you should have.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“The professional thing was to inform those involved that you and Sal were close. In fact, you were lovers once.”

“In another life.”

“It could cause trouble if not handled appropriately. It doesn’t matter how long ago.” He splashes more tequila into his glass, and it’s not like him to drink this much. “Mainly, I was thinking of what the media will do when it’s discovered that you did the autopsy. I wanted us getting on top of it with full disclosure.”

“That’s what you told yourself, but it’s not the real reason,” I reply. “My early relationship with Sal bothers you, and you didn’t want your colleagues thinking that it did. So, you volunteered my business for me. As if to imply my past was no big deal to you. That you were comfortable discussing it. And that the information was yours to offer when it wasn’t.”

“Ouch. That sounds petty. Not to mention damn stupid. I would have hoped I’m better than that.” He swirls the drink in his glass.

“We’re all capable.”

“I admit it gets under my skin that you two were together first. I wasn’t in your life except from a professional distance.”

“And now I’m here exactly where I want to be,” I reply as he places takeout boxes into the microwave.

“I won’t zap anything until you’re ready,” he says, and my attention is snagged by the TV news playing.

Dana Diletti is talking about her visit to Berkeley Plantation tomorrow morning, I can tell from the captions and film clips. Then the scene cuts to her live, standing in front of Sal’s gated driveway, Secret Service SUVs parked with headlights burning. I pick up the remote control from the coffee table, turning on the sound.

“ … And tomorrow morning on First Up in Virginia I’ll reveal more about the shocking death of Nobel Prize winner Sal Giordano, known as the ET Whisperer. He’s spent years trying to connect with intelligent life from beyond. Did he finally succeed? Did it kill him, and what might that mean for the rest of us? I’ll be sharing the details as our investigation continues… ”

“What about searching his house?” I ask, muting the sound again. “I assume that by now someone’s gotten in there.”

“Agents are inside as we speak,” Benton says. “The five dozen white roses delivered included an explosive device for no extra charge.”

“How horrifying.” I think about what could have happened.

“A pipe bomb that would have been triggered by anyone picking up or moving the vase,” Benton adds.

“But Sal told me he carried it into the house himself,” I reply. “How does that make sense?”

“The device was remotely armed after he was on his way to West Virginia. The booby trap was left for whoever searched the house eventually. Our crime scene investigators. Agents like me. It could have been anyone.”

“How did someone know when he was leaving and where he was going?” I ask. “Unless the person was watching.”

“His property has been hacked. When you were talking on the driveway yesterday, it was recorded by the camera in front. You should expect that someone was monitoring your entire conversation.”

“What about the safe in his home office?” I ask.

“A dial safe but no luck. The cryptic code he microphotographed doesn’t work,” Benton says. “It must mean something else, could be anything.”

“Well, not anything.” I think of the numbers and letters written in Sal’s distinctive hand. “If he intended for us to find his note? Then he believed we’d figure out what it means.”

I go on to say that I need to call his sister and hope the number is still good. The last time I talked to Sabina Giordano was when their mother died a few years ago.

“We can send an officer to her door if that’s better. I have contacts with the carabinieri,” Benton suggests.

“That wouldn’t be better.” I imagine her shock at hearing police knocking on her door. “I’ll see you in a few minutes. When I’m clean, I’ll greet you properly.”

“You don’t have to be clean.”

“Yes, I do.”

I carry my drink through the bedroom, hoping I can reach Sabina Giordano before she hears about Sal in the news. She’s a few years younger than him, and it was always the two of them against the world when they were young. As close as they were, she’ll be completely undone. I find her number in my phone’s contacts list, and it’s a few minutes past five A.M. in Rome.

“ Pronto ,” she answers groggily.

“Sabina?” Digging inside my briefcase, I pull out my Moleskine notebook.

“ Si? Chi è questo? ”

“It’s Kay Scarpetta. So sorry to call you at this hour,” I say to her in Italian.

“Oh! What a lovely surprise, Kay! How are you?” Sabina answers in English, suddenly alert and happy. “Sal and I were just talking about you yesterday when I called to cheer him up about turning sixty. I told him not to feel bad because I’m not far behind.”

“Yes, I went by to see him…”

“ Si, si, he told me you were planning on dropping by, and I said that next time he comes to Italy he has to bring you. We talked about taking you back to Trattoria da Enzo in Trastevere where we got a bit drunk on a bottle of very nice Chianti. Well, more than a bit, and more than one bottle. Remember?”

Grief wells up as I envision the three of us at an outdoor table in the cobblestone alleyway, light spilling from the restaurant. Sal continued refilling our glasses as we feasted on Roman cuisine, that night’s menu written on a blackboard. Panzanella. Burrata di Andria. Pennette con cozze e pecorino …

“I could never forget our times together,” I tell her.

“Are you here now?” Her tone is touched by misgiving.

“I’m in Virginia.”

“Is everything all right?” She’s instantly somber.

“I have something very unfortunate to tell you, Sabina.” I sit down on the edge of the bed. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”

I explain that her brother disappeared Monday night and has been found dead.

“That can’t be right,” she says in a shocked voice. “No, that can’t be!”

“DNA has confirmed his identity. I’m so very sorry.”

“What do you mean he disappeared?” Her voice quavers.

“He was abducted after leaving a restaurant last night in the mountains of West Virginia. This morning, police found his body in an abandoned theme park some ninety miles from there.”

“Oh my God,” she gasps. “He was kidnapped and murdered?”

“His death was violent, but we’re not sure who or what is responsible,” I answer carefully.

“No, oh no…!”

“I’m sorry I’m not there with you right now, Sabina…”

“I’ve never liked him going there. It’s so desolate. And he’s too trusting.” She’s sobbing. “I never liked him driving in the mountains and staying in that old lodge.”

“There’s much we don’t know. I’m hoping you might help with a few details.”

“Anything I can.” She blows out a long shaky breath, and I can feel her grief and horror.

“When you called him yesterday, what time was it?” I have my notebook and pen ready.

“Midmorning his time.”

“Not long after that, a florist appeared at his house with a delivery of five dozen long-stemmed white roses in a hand-painted ceramic vase.” I refrain from telling her that it was rigged with explosives. “I’m wondering if you have any idea who might have sent something like that to him?”

“ Scusa? ”

“They were delivered just minutes before I arrived at eleven.”

“I do not know and can’t imagine. That’s very strange. Morbosa. Non bene .” She doesn’t like the gesture, finding it as morbid as I do. “And Sal told you he had no idea who would they were from?”

“The card had nothing on it but his name.” I don’t mention that he thought the roses were from me. “When he visited you in Rome several weeks ago, did he mention having concerns about anything or anyone? Did he seem like himself then?”

“No, not really. He was not himself.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“He said the world is more dangerous than it has ever been and he should redo his will,” Sabina explains. “We were having dinner in the Quartiere Coppedè, and I told him I did not wish to discuss anything so depressing while eating a perfect carbonara with a beautiful Abruzzo rosé.” Her voice sounds tragic.

“Did he mention anything specific? I know how hard this is. But anything you remember might be helpful, Sabina.”

“He was sure someone was following him. He said that since he’d arrived in Rome he kept seeing the same person. First, when he was waiting for a taxi outside Fiumicino Airport. Then the next day when he was walking through the Piazza della Rotonda. And the day after that when he was returning from the Vatican Observatory.”

“A man or a woman?” I’m taking notes.

“It was hard to tell.” Her voice trembles. “But he thought it was a woman, about my same height and slender, wearing a black baseball cap. He didn’t notice her hair and assumed it was very short. She looked to be in her thirties or forties with scars on her face. Each time he saw her she was wearing dark glasses, a long leather coat and the cap.”

“When he’d notice her, did he get the sense that she was aware of him?” I envision Carrie Grethen’s androgynously pretty face and the scars from our last encounter.

“He wasn’t sure if she noticed him but felt she did,” Sabina is saying. “He told me he picked up a very bad energy from her.”

“And he had no clue who this person might be?”

“He said he didn’t, but if something happened to him, to remember how much I mean to him.” She can barely talk. “He’s all I have, Kay! It’s always been just the two of us. What will happen now?”

“I’ll make arrangements to send the ashes,” I tell her delicately. “Then he can be buried with your family if that’s what you wish.”

“He would not want that. You know how he felt about our family. He would want to be buried in Alexandria,” she sobs. “It’s been his home for many years.”

“Is there someone you can call? Someone who can come over? I don’t want you to be alone.”

But she’s crying too hard to answer, quickly getting off the phone. My heart hurts as if someone is squeezing it, and I step into the bathroom, closing the door.

The cargo pants and polo shirt I put on this morning are wilted and clammy. I can’t get undressed fast enough, stuffing my clothing into a trash bag liner I find under the sink. Peeling open a bar of soap with Langley Inn on the wrapper, I step into the shower.

I close my eyes in the floral-scented steam, scrubbing and shampooing away death and disaster, letting the hot water drum my neck and shoulders. When I’m done, I’m much better. I feel a resolve settling over me as I put on a bathrobe and blow-dry my hair. Sipping my drink, I look at my face in the mirror over the sink. I recognize the hard set of my mouth, the perfectly calm expression, my anger a steady flame that won’t waver.

The harm she’s done yet again. I realize there’s no proof it was Carrie Grethen following Sal in Rome. We can’t be sure she’s responsible for what’s happened to him. But I know what I feel. I probably know what she feels too every time she looks in the mirror just as I’m doing. Using my fingers to comb back my hair, I study my face.

For an instant I see myself as I looked when Sal and I first met. I envision the Kay Scarpetta he fell for, and then the reflection staring back is who I am now. I don’t look the same. Yet I feel the same in the important ways. But I’m losing people who should still be here, and she’s not finished. I don’t want to lose anyone else, and I return to the kitchen, the microwave oven beeping.

“Almost ready.” Benton lifts out the cardboard containers, setting them down on the counter.

“It’s sounding like someone was following Sal in Rome last month. Yet he didn’t say a word to me. Maybe not to anyone except Sabina. The choices we make in life, and here we are.” I take a swallow of my drink, feeling a spark of anger toward him.

A part of me wants to yell at Sal. He knew better and should have been more careful. He should have told me. Or Benton. Or someone.

“Choices we don’t fully understand at the time. In fact, I’m not sure we understand them at all.” Benton wraps his arms around me. “Learning from our mistakes is the circle of life,” he says into my hair. “You smell good.”

“Air Force shampoo.” I pass on the rest of what Sabina said.

“The question is whether someone was really following Sal.” Benton opens takeout boxes, steam rising. “And was it Carrie Grethen.”

“He wouldn’t have noticed her unless she wanted him to. If he saw her scarred face, then that’s exactly what she intended.”

“To taunt and goad us. To play her games,” Benton says. “It’s precisely the sort of thing she’d do and has done before.”

“I suppose it’s possible that Sal just thought he was seeing the same person. Maybe he was mistaken.”

“Carrie followed him in Rome and wanted us to know. Plain and simple.” Opening a cupboard, Benton finds two plates. “She wants our attention and knows how to get it.” He’s said this in the past, and the thought is enraging.

“Toying with us. Cat and mouse. Her specialty,” I reply as Benton begins serving our dinner.

“Buttermilk fried chicken, fries, and green beans cooked with bacon,” he says. “Also, mashed potatoes.”

“Very considerate of you to get the diet special.” I kiss him.

“By now I think I know what you like after a godawful day.”

“You do. More than anyone.”

We carry our plates to the table, the curtains drawn in the window. Sitting down, both of us are ravenous. I tell him about the helicopter ride in terrible weather, and the chain breaking free as we sling-loaded Sal’s truck out of the ravine. I describe the large African cat that disappeared in the fog, and what happened when we were leaving in the storm.

“We’re lifting off from the parking lot as tornadoes are touching down nearby,” I’m saying between bites. “When suddenly the lights, rides and music turned on. Not all of them, of course, because much isn’t working anymore. But how could anything at all turn on when the power’s been off since the place was shuttered?”

“We’ve since discovered it was turned back on two weeks ago.” Benton twists the cap off a bottle of water.

“Turned back on by whom?”

“The park’s original account was reactivated over the internet, the charges invoiced to the owner’s credit card.”

“Ryder Briley’s credit card?” I ask.

“Briley Enterprises specifically.”

“And the explanation?” I dip another piece of fried chicken into honey mustard.

“Ryder Briley pleads ignorance, claiming someone must have gotten hold of his company’s credit card information. He went on to say that he’d been planning on putting Oz on the market this spring. But now because of the murder there, he won’t be able to sell it.”

“How convenient. Another hefty business loss he can deduct.”

“He’s claiming that Sal Giordano’s death has tanked the property value.” Benton sprinkles pepper on a drumstick.

“Do you believe that he’s the victim? That he had no idea about the power being turned back on?” I reply as Carrie circles my thoughts.

“Hard to know. But I believe he’s in the mix somehow.” Benton drops bones into an empty box. “I have a bad feeling he’s gotten tangled up with her.” He means Carrie. “And no one better at hacking and creating a spectacle.”

“The power was turned back on two weeks ago even though there appears to be no work going on. Then suddenly this afternoon, the lights and other things go haywire.” I give him the chronology. “Just like things have been going haywire in my office.”

I tell Benton about the parking lot’s security gate. And the cameras inside the vehicle bay turning on and off for no apparent reason. Also, the elevator is having fits, all of it happening rather much at once.

“Just when I’m certain it’s deliberate, I start wondering if I’m paranoid,” I explain.

“You’re not.”

“Do you think she’s hacked into my building?”

“It’s been five months since she resurfaced, causing her usual mayhem.” He tears open a packet of ketchup. “She didn’t accomplish what she wanted then, and now she’s at it again with a vengeance. While at it, she’s having her fun. That’s what I think we’re going to find out.”

“And whatever her ultimate goal, she didn’t get started yesterday.” I add. “She’s been thinking about it for a while.”

“That’s part of the thrill. Premeditating. Fantasizing in advance.” He bites into a buttermilk biscuit, melted butter oozing from it. “Lucy needs to sweep your building for anything that might have been planted there,” he adds, and I think of the exterminator on top of the tall ladder.

It wasn’t the usual person, someone unfamiliar, I’m telling Benton as I get an incredulous feeling. The cargo van parked inside the vehicle bay was white with a logo on the side. The florist’s van was white with a bogus logo, and those can be attached with magnets. Plastic signs can be 3-D printed these days.