Patricia Cornwell - The Scarpetta Factor

She reached the top of the ramp, staying close to the wall in incomplete darkness, the only lights on in the area near the far left corner where the voices came from, but she couldn’t see anyone. Berger and probably Bonnell and Nastya were hidden behind vehicles and thick columns that had been boxed in with mahogany and protectively wrapped in black neoprene so precious cars didn’t get dings on their doors. Lucy moved closer, listening for distress or any hint of danger, but the voices sounded calm, engaged in an intense conversation that at intervals was confrontational.

“Well, someone has. Obviously.” Unmistakably Berger.

“People have always been in and out. They entertain so much. They have always.” The accent again.

“You said that had tapered off after Rupe Starr died.”

“Yes. Not so much. But still there are a few people who come. I don’t know. Mr. Fuller is very private. He and his friends come down here. I don’t intrude.”

“We’re supposed to believe you don’t know who’s in and out?” The third voice had to be Bonnell.

Rupe Starr’s cars. A collection as thoughtful and sentimental as it was impressive and rare. The 1940 Packard like the one his father had owned. The 1957 Thunderbird that had been Rupe’s dream when he was in high school and drove a VW Bug. The 1969 Ca maro like the one he’d owned after he’d gotten his MBA from Harvard. The 1970 Mercedes sedan he’d rewarded himself with when he’d started doing well on Wall Street. Lucy walked past his prized 1933 Duesenberg Speedster, his Ferrari 355 Spyder, and the last car he’d gotten before his death and hadn’t had a chance to restore yet, a 1979 yellow Checker cab because it reminded him of New York in his heyday, he’d said.

The new additions to his collection, the Ferraris, the Porsches, the Lamborghini, had been recent purchases influenced by Hannah and Bobby, including the white Bentley Azure convertible that was parked nose-in against the far wall, Bobby’s red Carrera GT blocking it in. Berger, Bonnell, and Nastya were standing by the Bentley’s rear fender, talking, their backs to Lucy, not noticing her yet, and she called out hello and told them not to be startled as she reached the Checker cab and noticed a residue of sand on its tires and tracks leading to them. She loudly alerted everyone that she was armed as she continued to walk closer, and they turned around and she recognized the look on Berger’s face because she’d seen it before. Fear. Distrust and pain.

“Don’t,” Berger said, and it was Lucy she feared. “Put the gun down. Please.”

“What?” Lucy said, dumbfounded, and she noticed Bonnell’s right hand twitch.

“Please put down the gun,” Berger said, with no emotion in her tone.

“We’ve been trying to call, been trying to get you on the radio. Careful, easy does it,” Lucy warned Bonnell. “Slowly move your hands away from your body. Hold them out in front of you.” Lucy had her pistol ready.

Berger said to her, “Nothing you’ve done is worth this. Please put it down.”

“Easy does it. Be calm. I’m coming closer, and we’re going to talk,” Lucy said to them as she walked. “You don’t know what’s happened. We’ve not been able to get through. Jesus fuck!” she yelled at Bonnell. “Don’t fucking move your hand again!”

Nastya muttered something in Russian and began to cry.

Berger stepped closer to Lucy and said, “Give me the gun and we’ll talk. Talk about anything you want. Everything’s all right. It doesn’t matter what you’ve done. Whether it’s money or Hannah.”

“I haven’t done anything. Listen to me.”

“It’s all right. Just give me the gun.” Berger stared at her while Lucy stared at Bonnell, making sure she didn’t go for her weapon.

“It’s not all right. You don’t know who she is.” Lucy meant Nastya. “Or who any of them are. Toni came here. You don’t know because we couldn’t get through. The watch Toni was wearing has a GPS in it, and she was here. She came here on Tuesday and died here.” Lucy glanced at the yellow Checker cab. “And he kept her here for a while. Or they did.”

“No one has been here.” Nastya was shaking her head side to side and crying.

“You’re a fucking liar,” Lucy said. “Where’s Bobby?”

“I don’t know anything. I just do what I’m told,” Nastya cried.

“Where was he Tuesday afternoon?” Lucy said to her. “Where were you and Bobby?”

“I don’t come down when they show people the cars.”

“Who else was here?” Lucy said, and Nastya didn’t answer. “Who was here Tuesday afternoon and all day Wednesday? Who drove out of here at four-something in the morning, yesterday morning? Drove that.” Lucy nodded her head at the Checker cab and said to Berger, “Toni’s body was in it. We couldn’t get through to tell you. The yellow paint chips collected from her body are from something old. An old car painted that color.”

Berger said, “Enough damage has been done. Somehow we’ll fix it. Please give me the gun, Lucy.”

It began to occur to her what Berger meant.

“No matter what you’ve done, Lucy.”

“I’ve not done anything.” Lucy talked to Berger but kept her eyes on Bonnell and Nastya.

“It doesn’t matter to me. We’ll get past it,” Berger said. “But it has to stop now. You can stop it now. Give me the gun.”

“Near the Duesenberg over there are boxes,” Lucy said. “The stationary system that has jammed your phones, your radio. If you look, you can see them. They’re to my left against that wall. They look like a small washer and dryer with rows of lights in front. Switches for different RF bands, radio frequency bands. Rupe had it installed, and you can see from here it’s on. The rows of lights are red because all of the frequencies have been jammed.”

Nobody moved and nobody looked. Their eyes were fastened on Lucy as if she might kill them any moment, do to them what Berger had gotten into her head that Lucy did to Hannah. “And you were home that night. Too damn bad you didn’t see anything.” Berger making that remark repeatedly these past few weeks because Lucy’s loft was on Barrow Street and Hannah was last seen on Barrow Street, and Berger knew what Lucy could do and didn’t trust her, was scared of her, thought she was a stranger, a monster. Lucy didn’t know what to say to change it, to roll their lives back to where they used to be, but she wasn’t going to let the destruction advance. Not one more inch. She was ending it.

“Jaime, walk over there and look,” Lucy said. “Please. Walk over to the boxes and look. Switches designated for different megahertz frequencies.”

Berger walked past her but didn’t get close, and Lucy didn’t look at her. She was busy watching Bonnell’s hands. Marino had mentioned that Bonnell hadn’t been a homicide detective long, and Lucy could tell she was inexperienced and didn’t recognize what was going on because she wasn’t listening to her instincts, she was listening to her head and she was panicky. If Bonnell listened to her instincts she would sense that Lucy was being aggressive because Bonnell was, that it wasn’t Lucy who had instigated what was now a standoff, a showdown.

“I’m at the boxes,” Berger said from the side wall.

“Flip all the switches.” Lucy didn’t look at her, would be god-damned if she was going to be killed by a fucking cop. “The lights should turn green, and you and Bonnell should see a lot of messages land on your phones. That will tip you off that people have been trying to reach you, that I’m telling you the truth.”

The sound of switches being flipped.

Lucy said to Bonnell, “Try your radio. Marino’s out front on the street. If the A team hasn’t already rammed in the front door, he and the others are just outside. Get on your radio. He’s on Tac Ida.”