Patricia Cornwell - The Scarpetta Factor

“We’re going to find out,” Berger said.

“If he’ll tell us or if he knows.” Bonnell meant Bobby. “And he might not, for the same reason Lucy might not. Some people who have that kind of money don’t know the details because other people do the investing and management and all the rest. That’s what happened to Bernie Madoff’s victims. Same thing. They didn’t know, and they didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Lucy isn’t the type not to know,” Berger said, and she also knew Lucy wasn’t the type to let it go.

Bay Bridge Finance was a brokerage that purportedly specialized in portfolio diversification ventures such as timber, mining, petroleum extraction, and real estate, including high-end waterfront apartments in South Florida. Based on what Berger knew about the magnitude of fraud perpetrated by that Ponzi-scamming entity exposed not so long ago, chances were good that Lucy’s losses were massive. She intended to find out what she could from Bobby Fuller, not only about Hannah’s finances but also her affair with Hap Judd, whose proclivities were deeply disturbing and possibly dangerous. It was time to confront Bobby about Hap and a number of things, to present him with myriad links in hopes he could enlighten them, and he seemed willing. When Berger had reached him on his cell phone less than an hour ago, he’d said he would be happy to talk with Bonnell and her as long as it wasn’t in a public place. Like last time, they needed to meet him here.

“Let’s go,” Berger said to Bonnell, and they got out of the unmarked car.

It was cold and very windy, and dark clouds streamed across the sky the way they did when a front was moving in. Probably a high-pressure system, and tomorrow would be clear skies, what Lucy called “severe clear,” but bitterly cold. They followed the walkway off the avenue, and over the mansion’s grand entranceway was a green-and-white flag with the Starr coat of arms, a rampant lion and a helmet and the motto Vivre en espoir, live in hope. An irony, Berger thought. Hope was the one emotion she didn’t feel right now.

She pushed a button on an intercom that had Starr on it and Private Residence. She burrowed her hands in the pockets of her coat as she and Bonnell waited in silence in the wind, the flag snapping loudly, mindful that they were likely being monitored by closed-circuit cameras and that anything they said might be overheard. The loud click of a deadbolt, and the ornately carved mahogany entry door opened, and then the shape of someone in the black-and-white uniform of a housekeeper showed through spaces in the wrought-iron gate.

Nastya, Berger presumed, was letting them in without asking who they were over the intercom because she knew, had observed them on a security monitor, and they were expected. Her legal immigration status had been all over the news, and several photographs were in circulation, accompanied by rumors of the services she supplied Bobby besides cooking his dinner and making his bed. The housekeeper the press had dubbed “Nasty” was in her mid-thirties, with pronounced cheekbones, olive skin, and striking blue eyes.

“Please come in.” Nastya stepped aside.

The foyer was travertine marble with open arches and a twenty-foot coffered ceiling centered by an antique chandelier of amethyst and smoky-quartz glass. Off to one side, a stairway with an elaborate iron railing curved upstairs, and Nastya asked them to follow her to the library. Berger remembered it was on the third floor, toward the back of the mansion, an enormous interior room where Rupe Starr had spent a lifetime accumulating an antiquarian library worthy of a university or a palace.

“Mr. Fuller had a very long night and a very early morning, and we are so upset by what’s been on the news.” Nastya stopped on the steps and looked back at Berger. “Is it true?” The sound of her feet on stone as she continued, talking with her back to them and turning her head slightly to the side. “I always worry about who’s driving the taxis. You get in, and what do you know, and off you go with a stranger who could take you anywhere. Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee or tea or water or something stronger? It’s all right to drink in the library, as long as you don’t set something near the books.”

“We’re fine,” Berger replied.

On the third floor they followed a long hallway that was covered by an antique silk runner in different shades of deep red and rose, and they passed a series of shut doors leading to the library, which smelled mustier than Berger remembered from three weeks ago. The silver chandeliers were electric, the lights turned low, and the room was chilly and unlived-in, as if no one had been in it since Berger was at Thanksgiving. The Florentine leather-bound photo albums she had looked at were still stacked on the library table, and in front of them was the needlework side chair where she had been sitting when she’d found several photographs of Lucy. On a smaller table with a griffin base was an empty crystal glass that she remembered Bobby setting down after drinking several fingers of cognac to settle his nerves. The paneled longcase clock near the fireplace hadn’t been wound.

“Remind me again about your situation here,” Berger said as she and Bonnell sat on a leather sofa. “You have an apartment on which floor?”

“On the fourth floor in the back,” Nastya said, and her eye caught the same details Berger had. The unwound clock and the dirty glass. “I haven’t been staying here until today. With Mr. Fuller away…”

“In Florida,” Berger said.

“He told me you were coming, and I hurried over. I’ve been in a hotel. He was kind enough to put me in one not far from here so I’m available when needed but not sleeping alone in this place. You can understand why that would be uncomfortable right now.”

“Which hotel?” Bonnell asked.

“The Hotel Elysée. The Starr family has used it for years when they have out-of-town guests and business associates who they didn’t want staying in the house. It’s only a few minutes’ walk. You can appreciate why I wouldn’t want to stay here right now. Well, it’s been very stressful these past weeks. What happened to Hannah and then the media, the vans with their cameras. You never know when they will appear, and it’s worse because of that same woman who said those things on CNN last night. Every night, it’s all she talks about, and she’s constantly bothering Mr. Fuller for interviews. People have no respect. Mr. Fuller gave me time off because why would I want to stay here alone right now?”

“Carley Crispin,” Berger said. “She bothers Bobby Fuller?”

“I can’t stand her, but I watch because I want to know. But I don’t know what to believe,” Nastya said. “That was terrible what she said last night. I burst into tears, I was so upset.”

“How does she bother Mr. Fuller?” Bonnell asked. “I would imagine he’s not easy to reach.”

“All I know is she’s been here before.” Nastya pulled an armchair close and sat. “At a party or two in the past. When she was a White House person, what do you call it? A press secretary. I wasn’t here, it was before my time, but you know about Mr. Starr and his famous dinners and parties. That’s why there are all these picture books.” She indicated the photo albums on the library table. “And many, many more on the shelves. Over thirty years of them, and you probably didn’t go through all of them?” she asked, because she hadn’t been here the day Berger and Marino had been.

Only Bobby had been home, and Berger hadn’t gone through all the albums, only a few. After she found the photographs from 1996, she’d stopped looking.

“Not that it’s surprising about Carley Crispin having been to dinners here,” Nastya went on proudly. “At one time or another, probably half the famous people in the world have been through this house. But Hannah probably knew her or at least met her. I hate how quiet it’s been. Since Mr. Starr died, well, those days are past. And we used to have so many celebrations, so much excitement, so many people. Mr. Fuller is much more private, and he’s gone most of the time.”