Patricia Cornwell - Red Mist

“No.”

“Any reason Marino would have?”

“Why would he? What damn reason would he have to contact her?” Lucy says, as if it would be a massive betrayal for Marino, who used to work for Jaime, to talk to her about anything. “To have some friendly chat and divulge private information about what you’re doing? No way. Wouldn’t make sense,” she adds, and her jealousy is palpable.

It doesn’t matter how attractive and formidable my niece is, she doesn’t believe she will ever be the most important person to anyone. I used to call her my green-eyed monster because she has the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen and can be monstrously immature, insecure, and jealous. She’s not to be trifled with when she gets that way. Hacking into computers is as effortless as opening a cupboard for her, and she’s not bothered by spying or paying people back for what she perceives as crimes against her or someone she loves.

“I certainly hope he wouldn’t divulge information to her or anyone,” I reply, and I wish the man in the baseball cap would finish up at the ATM. It occurs to me he might be listening to my conversation. “Well, if Marino’s said something,” I add, “I’ll find out soon enough.”

I can hear Lucy typing on a keyboard. “We’ll just see. I’m in his e-mail. No. Doesn’t look like anything to or from her.”

Lucy is the CFC’s systems administrator and can get into any electronic communications or files on the server, including mine. She can get into virtually anything she wants, period.

“Not recently,” she then says, and I imagine her executing searches, scrolling through Marino’s e-mails. “Don’t see anything for this year.”

She’s indicating she sees no evidence that Marino has e-mailed Jaime since she and Lucy broke up. But that doesn’t mean Marino and Jaime haven’t had contact by phone or some other means. He’s not naïve. He knows Lucy can look at anything on the CFC computer. He also knows that even if she didn’t have legal access, she’d look anyway, if that’s what she feels like doing. If Marino’s been in contact with Jaime and hasn’t mentioned it to me, it’s going to bother me considerably.

“Would you mind asking him about it?” I say to Lucy as I rub my temples, my head throbbing.

She does mind. I can hear her resistance when she says, “Sure. I can talk to him, but he’s still on vacation.”

“Then interrupt his fishing trip, please.”

I hang up as the man in the baseball cap disappears inside the gun store, and I decide he wasn’t paying attention to me, that I’m of no interest and am acting slightly paranoid. I follow the sidewalk past the hardware store, noticing what appears to be the same black Mercedes wagon with the Navy Diver bumper sticker parked in front of Monck’s Pharmacy. Small and overstocked, with no other customers in sight, it is reminiscent of a country store with aisles of home-care supplies such as walking aids, vascular stockings, and seat-lift chairs. Friendly signs posted everywhere promise customized medications and same-day delivery right to your doorstep, and I scan shelves for pain relievers as I try to come up with any possible reason why Jaime Berger might have an interest in Lola Daggette.

What I don’t doubt is that Jaime is relentless. If Lola Daggette has information that is important for some reason, Jaime will do everything she can to make sure the convicted killer doesn’t take it to the grave. I can think of no other explanation for Jaime’s visiting the GPFW, but what I can’t fathom is how I factor in and why. Well, you’re about to find out, I tell myself, as I carry a bottle of Advil gel-caps to the counter, where no one is working. In a couple of hours you’ll know what there is to know. I decide water would be a good idea and return to the refrigerated section, selecting an iced tea instead, and I return to the counter and I wait.

An older man in a lab coat is busy counting pills in back, filling prescriptions, and I don’t see anyone else, and I wait. I open the Advil and take three gelcaps, washing them down with the iced tea as my impatience grows.

“Excuse me,” I announce myself.

The pharmacist barely glances at me and calls out to someone behind him, “Robbi, can you get the register?” When no one answers, he stops what he’s doing and comes to the counter.

“I sure am sorry. I didn’t realize I’m the only one here. Guess everybody’s out making deliveries, or maybe it’s break time again. Who knows?” He smiles at me as he takes my Visa card. “Will there be anything else?”

It has stopped raining when I return to the van, and I notice that the black Mercedes wagon is gone. The sun breaks through the clouds as I drive away, and the wet pavement is bright in the sunlight. Then the old city comes into view, low brick and stone buildings spreading out to the Savannah River, and in the distance, silhouetted against the churning sky, is the familiar cable-stayed Talmadge Memorial Bridge, which would take me into South Carolina, were that my destination. I imagine splendid haunts such as Hilton Head and Charleston, envisioning the oceanfront condo Benton used to have in Sea Pines, and the historic carriage house with its lush garden that once was mine.

So much of my past is rooted in the Deep South, and my mood is nostalgic and edgy as I reach the gray granite Customhouse and the gold-domed City Hall, then my hotel, a stolid Hyatt Regency on the river, where tugs and tour boats are moored. On the opposite shore is the posh Westin Resort, and farther down, cranes look like gigantic praying mantises perched above shipyards and warehouses, the water flat and the gray-green of old glass.

I climb out of the van and apologize to a valet who looks very Caribbean in his white jacket and black Bermuda shorts. I warn him about my cranky, undependable rental vehicle and feel obliged to let him know it wasn’t what I reserved and that it wanders all over the road and the brakes are bad, while I grab my overnight bag and other belongings. A hot breeze stirs live oaks, magnolias, and palms, and traffic bumping over brick pavers sounds like the rain, which has completely stopped, the sky patched with hints of blue as the sun sinks and shadows spread. This part of the world, where I’ve been so many times before, should be a welcome respite and a rich indulgence. Instead it feels unsafe. It feels like something to fear. I wish Benton were here. I wish I hadn’t come, that I had listened to him. I must find Jaime Berger without delay.

The lobby is typical of most Hyatts I’ve stayed in, an expansive atrium surrounded by rooms on six floors, and as I ride the glass elevator up, I replay the exchange I just had with the clerk at the front desk, a young woman who claimed my reservation had been canceled hours earlier. When I said that wasn’t possible, she replied that she had taken the call herself not long after she started her shift at noon. A man called and canceled. Whoever it was had my reservation number and the correct information and was very apologetic.

I asked the clerk if whoever did this was from my office in Cambridge, and she said she thought so. I asked if his name was Bryce Clark, and she wasn’t sure, and then I suggested it probably was my office calling to confirm, not to cancel, and there had been a misunderstanding. No, she shook her head. Absolutely not. The clerk said the person called to cancel with the explanation that Dr. Scarpetta was very disappointed she couldn’t make it to Savannah because it’s one of her favorite cities, and he hoped there would be no charge for the room even through he was canceling at the last minute. Supposedly I’d missed my connection in Atlanta and therefore couldn’t possibly get here in time for the appointment I had. The man was quite chatty, the clerk said, convincing me it was my extroverted chief of staff, Bryce, who has yet to call me back.