Autopsy(Kay Scarpetta #25)(22)

I wonder what else she knows about my life as we walk off in the drizzly fog. Crime scene investigators suited up in protective garb are carrying equipment and forensic supplies through the front door, and another television news truck is pulling up. At least Dana Diletti and her crew have left, and uniformed officers are guarding the perimeter.

Marino and August are ghostly figures in white Tyvek probing the patio with flashlights. Fruge walks swiftly toward them, returning Marino’s key while neighbors walk their dogs around the cul-de-sac, staring at what’s going on. I text Benton that I’m headed home, informing him that an officer is driving me.

Getting out the Scotch, he answers.

I text for him to make it a double as I watch Marino disappear with August around back toward the wrought-iron fencing and boat slips. Fruge trots back to me, ready to take me home.

“What would be most helpful is if you drop me at my office,” I suggest as she unlocks her Ford Explorer Interceptor parked at the curb. “That’s where my car is. There shouldn’t be much traffic at this hour, and I’d very much appreciate it.”

“No can do, Chief.” She opens a back door of the SUV. “My orders are to take you directly home, to get you there safe and sound,” she adds to the thudding of our doors shutting, and I don’t ask whose orders.

I have no doubt they’re Marino’s, and once again I’ve been hijacked, left horseless, and I ponder how I’ll get to work tomorrow. If I’m called to another scene after hours, it could present a problem. Fruge sets my Pelican case on the seat, and plastic clasps snap loudly as I open it.

“This should tide you over.” Finding four doses of Narcan inside, I hand them to her.

“Thanks, but I don’t want to take all you’ve got.”

“I have more where these came from,” I assure her.

She slides behind the wheel, her duty belt creaking, the keys on it jingling. Setting her portable radio on the charger, she arranges herself and all her bulky ballistic gear, a pistol on one hip, a stun gun on the other.

“I don’t miss much around here. Not just because it’s my job, but it’s my personal responsibility to protect Old Town’s assets,” she finds it necessary to let me know. “Politicians, other important people like you and yours have a huge impact on what happens in the world.”





CHAPTER 9

CRANKING THE ENGINE, SHE doesn’t bother with her seat-belt, reminding me of Marino.

He incorrectly assumes his chances of survival are better when unrestrained. God forbid he has to bail in a hurry before getting shot, blown up, set on fire, dragged out and beaten by violent mobs.

“I make it my business to notice most of what goes on when I’m out on patrol.” Fruge slows to a stop at Colonial Landing’s exit gate. “Old Town is Mayberry, and it’s not hard to know which residents are home, getting along, fighting, you name it.”

She waits until the gate slides open before bringing up my niece, asking what it’s like having her on the property.

“I heard what happened.” Fruge fills the silence when I don’t answer. “It must be really hard for her. I can’t imagine it. Losing your partner and child at the same time.”

“I wasn’t aware that you and Lucy are acquainted,” I finally reply.

“Only in passing. I’ve seen Marino and her cruising around on their Harleys now and then. The other week I noticed her coming out of the vet’s office with her cat in the carrier.”

I wonder how she knew it was a cat as opposed to some other small animal.

“And I’m pretty sure I saw her helicopter flying along the Potomac some months back,” she says as I wonder how she knew it was Lucy’s. “I’ve never been in one.”

“Were you on duty last Friday night?” I get her off the subject of my life and those in it.

“Sure was. But like I said, I was tied up with those O.D.s where I used up all my Narcan.”

“Then you wouldn’t have noticed any strange vehicles around here during the interval when Gwen might have been attacked and abducted.”

“About the time we’re thinking that happened, I was several miles west near a methadone clinic, in the alley where the two victims had been shooting up,” Fruge says. “I was there for hours, and that’s too bad. Had I been on patrol as usual, maybe I would have seen something.”

“I strongly suspect that whoever appeared at Gwen’s townhome has spent time in this area. Driving or walking around, finding the best ways in and out, using side streets and alleyways the same way we are.” I crack my window to get a little fresh air.

The worst of the weather has moved on, and people are venturing out. I notice a few customers picking up dinner at the Fish Market restaurant where Lucy is a fan of the clam chowder and lobster avocado toast. Bugsy’s is up next for the best pizza and wings in town if you ask Dorothy, and several cars are parked in front.

I ask Fruge to tell me something about herself, figuring it will get her off subjects I prefer avoided, and she says she graduated from Virginia Commonwealth University (VCU) fifteen years ago. Since she was a kid, she’s wanted to be a prosecutor, her dream to go to law school. But she never got as far as applying.

“I’d hear Mom talking about all these cool court cases she’d testified in,” Fruge explains. “But as it’s turned out, my being in front of a jury wasn’t in the cards.”