Patricia Cornwell - The Scarpetta Factor

Marino had mentioned he was on his way to Rodman’s Neck and he’d see Benton later on at the meeting, whenever the FBI got around to deciding on a time. Benton, having just gotten in the cab, was on his way downtown to the very meeting Marino was talking about, and Benton had chosen to say nothing. He’d rationalized that the information wasn’t his to offer. Clearly, Marty Lanier hadn’t requested Marino’s presence. Benton didn’t know whose presence she had requested, but Marino wasn’t on the list or he would be here and not on his way to the Bronx. Benton considered that when Marino had talked to Lanier earlier, maybe he’d said something to piss her off.

The elevator doors opened in front of the Executive Management Section, behind glass doors etched with the Department of Justice seal. Benton didn’t see any sign of anyone, and he didn’t go inside to sit down, preferring to wait in the corridor. He wandered past the typical display cases every Bureau headquarters he’d ever been in boasted-trophies from the hunt, as he thought of them. He took off his coat, looking and listening for any sign of anyone as he idly perused remnants of the Cold War. Hollowed-out rocks and coins and cigarette packs for the clandestine transfer of microfilm. Antitank weapons from the Soviet bloc.

He wandered past FBI movie posters. “G” Men, The FBI Story, The House on 92nd Street, Thunderheart, Donnie Brasco. A wall of them that kept on going, and he was constantly amazed by the public’s insatiable interest in all things Bureau, not just here but abroad, nothing about FBI agents ever boring unless you were one. Then it was a job, except they owned you. Not just you, but they owned everyone connected to you. When the Bureau had owned him, it had owned Scarpetta, and it had allowed Warner Agee to pry them apart, to tear them from each other, to force them on separate trains bound for different death camps. Benton told himself he didn’t miss his old life, didn’t miss the fucking FBI. Fucking Agee had done him a fucking favor. Agee was dead. Benton felt a spike of emotion, was startled by it, as if he’d been shocked.

He turned around at the sound of quick footsteps on tile, and a woman he’d never seen before was walking toward him, brunette, compellingly pretty, nice body, mid-thirties, dressed in a soft tawny leather jacket, dark slacks, and boots. The Bureau had a habit of hiring more than its quota of good-looking, accomplished people. Not a stereotype but a fact. It was a wonder they didn’t fraternize more, men and women shoulder to shoulder, day in and day out, high-caliber, a little power-drunk, and with a hefty dose of narcissism. They restrained themselves for the most part. When Benton had been an agent, affairs on the job were the exception or so deep undercover they were rarely found out.

“ Benton?” She offered her hand and shook his firmly. “Marty Lanier. Security said you were on your way up and I didn’t mean to make you wait. You’ve been here before.”

It wasn’t a question. She wouldn’t ask if she didn’t already know the answer and everything else she could possibly find out about him. He had her instantly typed. Smart as hell, hypomanic, didn’t know failure. What he called an IPM. In perpetual motion. Benton had his BlackBerry in hand. Didn’t care if she saw it. Was blatant about checking his messages. Don’t tell him what to do. He wasn’t a goddamn visitor.

“We’re in the SAC conference room,” she said. “We’ll get coffee first.”

If she was using the special agent in charge’s conference room, the meeting wasn’t going to be just the two of them. Her accent was shades of Brooklyn or uptown white New Orleans, hard to tell apart. Whatever her dialect, she’d worked to flatten it out.

“Detective Marino’s not here,” Benton said, tucking the BlackBerry in his pocket.

“He’s not essential,” she replied, walking.

Benton found the remark annoying.

“I spoke to him earlier, as you know, and in light of the most recent developments, he’s more helpful to all involved if he’s where he is.” She glanced at her watch, a black rubber Luminox popular with Navy SEALs, was probably a member of the Dive Team, another Bureau Wonder Woman. “He should be there soon.” She was referring to Rodman’s Neck. “Sun rises at oh-seven-hundred plus fifteen or so. The package in question should be rendered safe shortly, and we’ll know what it is and how to proceed.”

Benton didn’t say anything. He was irritated. Feeling hostile.

“I should say if. If there’s a reason to proceed. Don’t know for sure it’s germane to other matters.” She continued answering questions that hadn’t been asked.

Classic FBI, as if new agents go to some Berlitz school of bureaucratic language to learn to double-talk like that. Tell people what you want them to know. Doesn’t matter what they need. Mislead or evade or, most commonly, tell them nothing.

“Hard to know what exactly is germane to what at this moment,” she added.

He felt as if a glass dome had dropped over him. No point in commenting. He wouldn’t be heard. His voice wouldn’t carry. He may not even have one.

“I called him originally because he was listed as the contact on a data request electronically sent by RTCC,” she was saying. “A tattoo on a subject who delivered the package to your building. That much I explained to you during our brief phone conversation, Benton, and I realize what you don’t know is anything else. I apologize for that but can assure you we wouldn’t have summoned you out at this early hour if it wasn’t a matter of extreme urgency.”

They walked down a long corridor, passing interview rooms, each bare with a table and two chairs and a steel handcuff rail, everything beige and blue, what Benton called “federal blue.” The blue background of every photo he’d ever seen taken of a director. The blue of Janet Reno’s dresses. The blue of George W. Bush’s ties. The blue of people who lie until they’re blue in the face. Republican blue. There were a hell of a lot of blue Republicans in the FBI. It had always been an ultraconservative organization. No fucking wonder Lucy had been driven out, fired. Benton was an Independent. He wasn’t anything anymore.

“Do you have any questions before we join the others?” Lanier stopped before a beige metal door. She entered a code on a keypad and the lock clicked.

Benton said, “I infer you’re expecting me to explain to Detective Marino why he was told he should be here. And how it came to pass that we’re here for your meeting and he knows nothing about it.” Anger simmered.

“You have a long-standing affiliation with Peter Rocco Marino.”

It sounded odd hearing someone call him by his full name. Lanier was walking briskly again. Another hallway, this one longer. Benton ’s anger. It was beginning to boil.

“You worked a number of cases with him in the nineties when you were the unit chief of BSU. What’s now BAU,” she said. “And then your career was interrupted. I assume you know the news.” Not looking at him as they walked. “About Warner Agee. Didn’t know him, never met him. Although he’s been of interest for a while.”

Benton stopped walking, the two of them alone in the middle of an endless empty corridor, a long monotony of dingy beige walls and scuffed gray tile. Depersonalized, institutionalized. Intended to be unprovocative and unimaginative and unrewarding and unforgiving. He placed his hand on her shoulder and was mildly surprised by its firmness. She was small but strong, and when she met his eyes, a question was in hers.

He said, “Don’t fuck with me.”

A glint in her eyes like metal, and she said, “Please take your hand off me.”

He dropped it to his side and repeated what he’d said quietly and with no inflection, “Don’t fuck with me, Marty.”