Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

M inutes later we’re driving past the serpentine stone wall enclosing the Shady Acres compound. Across from the soaring wrought iron entrance one of their billboards advertises, Whatever floats your boat, we wait with open arms . It shows customers in swan boats on the cemetery’s fake lake. In other ads, the bereft sprinkle ashes from a hot air balloon.

“I texted Dorothy that we’re not available for dinner,” I tell Marino, the Safeway grocery store ahead reminding me of errands I need to run. “I explained why without going into detail. I’ve not had a chance to catch up with her, but she seems excited about her award and your weekend in Atlantic City.”

“Yeah, she had quite the time.” He stares straight ahead as he drives, chewing gum because he wants to smoke.

“Have you talked to her recently?” I want to know why he didn’t inform her that we’re on our way out of town.

“Not since I saw her last. Although I wouldn’t call what we were doing talking by that point, as bitchy as she was.”

“Everything all right?”

“She wanted all of us to have dinner tonight at that French place she’s been bugging me to try, which is the last thing I feel like after the weekend from hell.” He’s chomping on the gum, his jaw muscles flexing. “I asked why we couldn’t have a quiet night at home just me and her. She said it would be good to see everyone. Like she’s lonely after being around mobs nonstop. Which I don’t get.”

“I’m sorry you two are having a rough patch. Even so, I would have assumed you’d let her know that you’ve been called out of town and aren’t sure when you’ll be home. I didn’t expect that you’d leave it up to me to let her know,” I reply, and he’s pulled this before when he doesn’t want to be the messenger.

“She’s already irritated enough.”

“About what?”

“Supposedly I ignored her the entire weekend,” he replies in frustration. “After I followed her from slot machine to slot machine three nights in a row? And I was right there for her karaoke contests acting like her bodyguard. You wouldn’t believe the people wanting to buy her drinks. And throwing shit at her. Room keys. Money and notes folded up. A sports bra.”

“That sounds pretty stressful and chaotic.” I study his tense face, and my sister wouldn’t be easy for anyone to manage. Maybe none of us are, if we’re honest.

“When Dorothy’s in front of people, I can see how happy she is.” Marino takes the gum out of his mouth, dropping it in the trash bag hanging from the gearshift. “If everyone’s clapping and cheering, she’s over the moon , as she describes it. She used to feel that way about me.”

“You know how much she loves an audience.” I sidestep what he’s really saying. I’m wading in deep enough and resisting further detail. “You’ve always known how outgoing she is. And yes, she craves attention, and it’s not new.”

“It’s worse, and we’re getting along like crap.” He’s out with it. “We argued most of the drive home. What the hell did I do to screw this up?”

He seems genuinely hurt and lost. I’ve seen the look before when my charismatic sister goes through men like Kleenex, as our mother used to say.

“You and Dorothy have big personalities, and it’s to be expected that you’ll clash from time to time.” I hope their relationship doesn’t crash and burn. “That’s why it’s for better or worse.” I’ve worried about them ever since they suddenly married during the pandemic.

“You predicted she’d get bored with me, and I guess you were right,” he replies, and I’m taken aback.

“I’ve never predicted or intimated any such thing.” I can’t help but sound indignant.

Past the Sunoco gas station where I often stop, Marino turns left on North Quaker Lane. The name is ironic at the moment, nothing peaceful about our conversation.

“Please don’t take it out on me,” I say in a quieter voice. “I can’t be in the middle of what goes on between you and my sister.”

“I know.” He blows out an exasperated breath.

“Just remember that people don’t always get along, and she’s complicated. She’s also worth it.”

“Not always.” Turning on the blinker, he guns the big engine, switching lanes. “She’s not a fair fighter, spends a huge amount of time plotting and planning. Then there’s hell to pay when you least expect it,” he explains, and how well I know.

My sister mastered the art of mean tricks and slights early on. Hiding my homework and textbooks or the school uniform I’d laid out the night before. Making untrue comments to the nuns that came back to haunt me. Mislabeling the test tubes in my chemistry set. Telling the neighborhood bad boy that I had a crush on him.

“I’m sorry you had an unpleasant trip to Atlantic City, and of all times for you to be out of town,” I say to Marino. “I wish you’d been with me at the Briley scene yesterday, truth be told. I would have been better off. As would Fabian. You know how thin-skinned he is, and the Brileys sensed it. I don’t know if you’ve seen him today but he’s a wreck.”

“People like the Brileys eat the Fabians of the world for breakfast.” Marino picks up I-395, the traffic not terrible at this hour. “Anybody wide open like him is an easy target for jerking around.”

“That’s rather much what happened. Ryder Briley was relentless.”

“He’s a lot more dangerous than most people would imagine,” Marino says. “Fabian needs to stay the hell away from him and his Stockholm syndrome wife. The minute I got to the office this morning I started doing some deep diving. Looking for shit you’re not going to dig up from the regular news. What I’m finding out so far is pretty damn disturbing.”

By deep diving Marino means he’s logged into Lucy’s AI chatbot that’s now a handy app on our personal computers and phones. We don’t have to sit at her office workstation if we want questions answered instantly. Opening the ashtray while keeping his eyes on the road, Marino digs out a pack of Teaberry gum, offering it to me.

“No thanks,” I reply, and to our left is the golf course at the Army Navy Country Club, a rolling sea of green grass dotted by white carts.

“I wanted information that’s not easy to dig up. The kind of stuff Fruge’s never going to find. And Fabian sure as hell won’t either.” Marino crams two sticks of gum into his mouth, the sharp minty fragrance reminding me of my childhood. “So, I ran it past Janet. I asked her to find out everything she could.”

He doesn’t mean it literally. My niece’s partner, the Janet we once knew and loved, is dead. But her animated AI avatar created in her likeness is alive and constantly evolving. She’s personable, user friendly, and it’s been only recently that Marino has felt comfortable enough to start querying her without going through Lucy. How quickly something becomes a habit.

“I wanted to see what Janet could find, asking her to look for any references to Ryder or Piper Briley,” Marino explains. “Not just reports made to the police that were a dead end or shit people say about them in interviews. But anything posted on social media or anywhere else that’s been missed over the years. And what I’ve been finding out is pretty alarming.”

We curve around the Pentagon City shopping mall as Marino tells me about an internet journalist named Mattie Fey. Six years ago, she complained to the police that the Brileys had been harassing her about a fence she was building. Around this time her service dog was poisoned with fentanyl, and soon after Mattie Fey crashed down the cellar stairs in her wheelchair.

“She lived alone and had been dead for days by the time her body was found.” Marino continues telling me what the AI chatbot we call Janet has uncovered so far. “And what do you know? Her tox screen was positive for a high level of fentanyl when she wasn’t known to take it. She worked remotely, and had most things delivered to her house, including food.”

“Making her an easy mark,” I reply. “Just add a grain of fentanyl to something she eats or drinks. Then show up to finish her off, assuming she’s not already dead. Try to make it appear she died from a fall.”

“Same thing I’m thinking,” he says as we near Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. “Her place was near Lake d’Evereux and really isolated.”

“That’s not where the Brileys live now, not even close,” I reply, a passenger jet roaring low overhead. “They’re here in Alexandria near Northridge.”

“But at the time Mattie Fey’s property backed up to the Brileys’. She told friends she was building the fence because of what awful neighbors they were,” Marino explains.

“Luna was a year old then, and her parents claimed the construction noise was making her cry constantly,” Marino is saying as he takes the airport exit. “Several months after the journalist tumbled down the stairs, the Brileys moved to some other big property.”

“I’ve never heard of this case. How was it signed out?” I ask.

“An accident. Elvin Reddy didn’t even question it.”

“That figures. Were the Brileys ever mentioned in connection to it?”

“No. And two years later they were living near Fort Belvoir, where he got into a road rage altercation when a car supposedly cut him off. Two days later the other driver was shot to death while walking to his mailbox,” Marino says, the Potomac River straight ahead sparkling deep blue beyond the tree-lined shore.

“And how was he signed out?”

“Same thing. An accident. Elvin Reddy decided the bullet was a stray from a hunter. Apparently where it happened is fairly close to a hunting camp.”

“That sounds like something he would concoct,” I reply. “Especially if he was appropriately persuaded it was in his best interest.”

When I was hired to replace the former chief medical examiner, I knew the legacy he left would be abysmal. His messes are why I was called back to Virginia after decades away. Roxane Dare appointed me as a fixer, and it seems all I do is clean up after Elvin while he and my former secretary, Maggie Cutbush, watch from a distance.

Since I fired her last summer she’s resurfaced as the deputy director of the useless Department of Emergency Prevention that Elvin now heads. Their northern district office is located on the top floor of my building, and a perfect example of my going from the frying pan into the fire.

Marino follows Smith Boulevard through the airport as it loops around Alaska Airlines and United. Then the statue of Ronald Reagan appears around a copse of flowering trees. Marino keeps glancing at his mirrors, and I know when he’s not liking something he’s seeing.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I’m wondering if the Brileys own a silver Suburban,” he replies. “I hate that I can’t run plates anymore. Drives me batshit.”

“I didn’t notice a silver Suburban at their house yesterday, but that doesn’t mean much.”

“One’s been on our tail for the past few minutes,” Marino says. “Some bald guy with a beard behind the wheel. He looks sort of familiar, maybe? And there’s a woman with long blond hair in the passenger’s seat.”

Ahead on our left is the small terminal where we typically meet Lucy when flying with her. Marino drives into the parking lot, and I turn around to catch the silver Suburban swinging in behind us.

“Okay, now I’m really not liking this,” he says.

“I’m not either.” I watch in my side mirror as he stops close to the entrance.

“Sit tight.” Marino opens his door as the Suburban’s driver opens his, and I can’t believe it.

Fired security officer Norm Duffy climbs out. He’s grown a mustache and beard since I last saw him. In jeans and lace-up boots, he has on a loose-fitting button-up shirt that likely hides whatever firearm he’s carrying. He’s gained considerable muscle mass, the top of his shaved head tattooed.

“What the hell…?” Marino’s hand is within easy reach of his pistol as he shuts his door.

I roll down my window to hear them as Norm Duffy walks in my direction, reaching into his tactical sling bag. He coughs quietly, clearing his throat as if he has a cold or allergies.

“Hey, Norm! What are you doing?” Marino raises his voice, his hand on his gun.

“I’m fucking you. That’s what I’m doing.” Norm slides out a large manila envelope, shoving it through the open window, and it lands in my lap. “Have a good one! Because I know I will!”

He’s laughing and coughing as he returns to the Suburban, sliding back behind the wheel. Marino types the plate number into his phone as I climb out of his truck.

“Shit!” he explodes. “I’m sorry, Doc. He’s damn lucky I didn’t shoot him. Damn, I came close.”

“I’m very glad you didn’t, and there’s nothing for you to be sorry about.” I watch Norm Duffy and the woman with him take a shortcut through a parking lot, bumping over a curb onto Smith Avenue.

“I should have stopped him.” Marino’s Ray-Bans stare after them. “What the hell is he up to? Who’s he working for? Let me see it.”

Marino holds out his hand as I follow him to the back of his truck. I give him the envelope, and he tears it open, sliding out a document printed on heavy-stock cream paper with an elaborate Washington, D.C., law firm letterhead. Marino skims through several pages, making outraged quiet grunts.

“Well, I think we know who Norm’s working for now,” he informs me. “Ryder Briley’s giving notice that he’s suing you, the medical examiner’s office, the governor, and listing the reasons why.”

“No huge surprise. I figured this was coming.” I can’t stop seeing the mocking look on Norm’s face as he shoved the envelope at me. I could feel his hatred like heat.

“The Brileys’ daughter hasn’t even been dead twenty-four hours and they’re threatening to take people to court?” Marino says.

“And what’s he accusing me of??”

“Making false claims and disparaging statements that are politically motivated because of your mutually advantageous relationship with the governor.” He tucks the document back inside the envelope. “Also racketeering.”

“I’m a mob boss? Maybe I should be flattered.”

“It’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing,” I reply as we collect our bags and gear.

We follow the sidewalk to the private terminal’s entrance, walking into a hushed lobby of formal furniture upholstered in chocolate-brown leather. Paneled walls are arranged with modern art, and splendid arrangements of fresh flowers center tables. Granite countertops offer coffee and tea, the small refrigerators stocked with beer, wine, bottles of flavored vitamin water and other beverages.

I stop at a wall arranged with clear plastic bins of sweet treats for guests to help themselves. Small packs of Life Savers, mints and gum with sugar and without, bite-size candy bars, licorice drops, and my attention is fixed on the brightly colored candy-coated peanuts.

“Not M&M’s per se, but the same sort of thing,” I point out while helping myself to a small paper bag that has Briley Flight Services printed on it.

As I’m saying this, I’m aware of the dome camera in the ceiling overhead. Turning a handle above the opening in the bin, I fill the bag with enough candy-coated peanuts to test in the labs. But I don’t let on that my interest goes beyond wanting a snack. I crunch on a few of the candies in case anybody’s watching.

Marino helps himself to a bag of his own, shoveling a handful into his mouth as we reach the front desk. The older woman behind it looks up from her computer, giving us a practiced smile. In front of her is a microphone that enables her to deal with UNICOM calls from inbound pilots requesting parking and fuel. I look around for Lucy, not seeing her.

“We’re meeting the pilot of a helicopter that should have just landed.” I recite the tail number to the woman at the desk.

“She stepped out for a minute… And here she comes,” she replies as Lucy appears on the other side of the glass door leading out to the ramp.