Patricia Cornwell - The Scarpetta Factor

“He said he talked to her just for a minute. He didn’t tell her what’s happened. He’ll fill her in when they’re on the ground. I’m sure she’ll call you. Don’t worry. They’re fine.” Benton ’s face looking at her through steam.

She was drying off inside the shower with the glass door half open. She didn’t want to come out. He didn’t ask her what was wrong, why she was hiding inside the shower like a little kid.

“I’ve searched everywhere-again-for your phone. It’s not in the apartment,” he added.

“Did you try calling it?”

“Betting it’s on the closet floor in the makeup room at CNN. Where you always hang your coat, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Lucy can find it if I ever talk to her again.”

“I thought you talked to her earlier today while she was still in Stowe.” His way of encouraging her to be reasonable.

“Because I called her.” It wasn’t possible for Scarpetta to be reasonable right now. “She never calls me, hardly ever these days. Maybe if she ever gets around to calling once in a while, such as when she’s delayed because of a blizzard or hasn’t landed yet.”

Benton looked at her.

“She can find my damn phone then. She sure as hell should, since it was her idea to install a Wide Area Augmentation System- enabled receiver in my BlackBerry, in your BlackBerry, in Jaime’s BlackBerry, in Marino’s BlackBerry, in the nape of her bulldog’s neck, so she can know where we are-or, more precisely, where our phones and her dog are-with a position accuracy of something like ten feet.”

Benton was quiet, looking at her through the steamy air. She was still in the shower drying off, which was useless because of the steam. She would dry herself and then sweat.

“Same technology the FAA’s considering for use in flight approaches and autopilot landings, of course.” It was as if someone else was talking through her mouth, someone she didn’t know or like. “Maybe they’re using it in drones, who the hell gives a shit. Except my goddamn phone knows exactly where it goddamn is even if I don’t right this goddamn minute, and that sort of tracking is child’s play for Lucy. I’ll send her an e-mail. Maybe she’ll get around to finding my phone.” Toweling her hair, about to cry and not sure why. “Maybe she’ll call because she’s just a little concerned that someone might have left a bomb for me.”

“Kay, please don’t be so upset…”

“You know I really hate it when someone tells me not to be upset. I spend my entire life not being upset because I’m fucking not allowed to be fucking upset. Well, right now I’m upset and I’m going to feel it because I can’t seem to help it. If I could help it I wouldn’t be upset now, would I.” Her voice shook.

She felt shaky all over, as if she was coming down with something. Maybe she was getting sick. A lot of the staff at the OCME had the flu. It was going around. She closed her eyes, leaning against wet tile that was getting cool.

“I told her to call me before they took off from Vermont.” She tried to calm down, to ward off the grief and rage overwhelming her. “She used to call me before she took off and landed or just to say hello.”

“You don’t know that she didn’t call. You can’t find your phone. I’m sure she’s tried to call.” Benton ’s conciliatory voice, the way he sounded when he was trying to de-escalate a situation that was rapidly becoming explosive. “Let’s try to retrace your steps. Do you remember taking it out at any time after leaving the apartment?”

“No.”

“But you’re sure it was in your coat pocket when you left the apartment.”

“I’m not sure of a damn thing right now.”

She remembered dropping her coat in one of the makeup chairs when she was talking to Alex Bachta. Maybe it had fallen out then, was still in the chair. She’d send Alex an e-mail, ask him to have someone look for it and keep it locked up until she could retrieve it. She hated that phone, and she’d done something stupid. She’d done something so stupid she almost couldn’t believe it. The BlackBerry wasn’t password-protected, and she wasn’t going to tell Benton. She wasn’t going to tell Lucy.

“Lucy will track it down,” Benton said. “Marino mentioned you might want to go to Rodman’s Neck to see what they find, if you’re curious. He’ll pick you up whenever you want. First thing, like around seven. I’ll go with you.”

She wrapped the towel around her and stepped onto a no-slip bamboo mat. Benton, shirtless and barefoot, pajama bottoms on, sat with his back to the vanity. She hated how she felt. She didn’t want to feel like this. Benton hadn’t done anything to deserve it.

“I think we should find out everything we can from the bomb guys, the labs. I want to know who the hell sent that package and why and what exactly it is.” Benton was watching her, the air warm and filmy with steam.

“Yes, the box of cookies some thoughtful patient of yours left for me,” she said cynically.

“I guess it could be battery-operated cookies and a test tube- shaped bottle of liquor that smells like an accelerant.”

“And Marino wants you to go, too? Not just me? Both of us?” She combed her hair, but the mirror over the sink was too steamed up to see.

“What’s the matter, Kay?”

“I’m just wondering if Marino specifically invited you, that’s all.” She wiped off the mirror with a washcloth.

“What’s wrong?”

“Let me guess. He didn’t invite you. Or if he did, he didn’t mean it.” Combing her hair, looking at her reflection. “I’m not surprised he didn’t invite you or didn’t mean it if he did. After the way you treated him today. On the conference call. Then in his car.”

“Let’s don’t get started about him.” Benton lifted his glass, straight bourbon on the rocks.

She could smell Maker’s Mark, reminding her of a case she’d worked in the long-ago past. A man scalded to death in a river of fire when barrels of whisky began bursting in a distillery warehouse engulfed in flames.

“I wasn’t friendly or unfriendly,” Benton added. “I was professional. Why are you in such a bad mood?”

“ ‘Why’?” she asked, as if he couldn’t possibly be serious.

“Besides the obvious.”

“I’m tired of the cold war you have with Marino. No point in pretending. You have one, and you know it,” she said.

“We don’t have one.”

“I don’t think he does anymore; God knows he used to. He honestly seems beyond it, but you don’t, and then he gets defensive, gets angry. I find it a remarkable irony, after all those years he had a problem with you.”

“Let’s be accurate, his problem was with you.” Benton ’s patience was dissipating with the steam. Even he had his limits.

“I’m not talking about me right this minute, but if you’re going to bring it up, yes, he had a significant problem with me. But now he doesn’t.”

“I agree he’s better. We’ll hope it lasts.” Benton played with his drink as if he couldn’t make up his mind what to do with it.

In the diffusing steam, Scarpetta could make out a note she’d left for herself on the granite countertop: Jaime-call Fri. a.m. In the morning she would have an orchid delivered to One Hogan Place, Berger’s office, a belated birthday gesture. Maybe a sumptuous Princess Mikasa. Berger’s favorite color was sapphire blue.

“ Benton, we’re married,” Scarpetta said. “Marino couldn’t be more aware of that and he’s accepted it, probably with relief. I imagine he must be much happier because he’s accepted it, has a serious relationship, has made a new life for himself.”

She wasn’t so sure about Marino’s serious relationship or his new life, not after the loneliness she’d sensed earlier when she was sitting next to him in his car. She imagined him dropping by the ESU garage, by the Two, as he called it, in Harlem, to hang out with a rescued dog.