Autopsy(Kay Scarpetta #25)(28)

It’s not like Lucy to allow such a thing, and I’ve been concerned for a while about how distracted she’s become. At times forgetful or simply bored, doesn’t care, and I’m liking it less that she’s been alone all day. I suspect I know what she’s been doing, and birthdays and other special occasions will always be painful.

“Okay, let’s hope for the best,” I say to Merlin, and I’d never let myself into Lucy’s place unannounced unless I thought something terrible had happened.

Fast reaching that point, I unlock the door.

“Anybody home?” I step inside, and the alarm is off. “Hello, Lucy? It’s me!”

Merlin is on my heels, and I continue calling out but my niece isn’t answering. Quietly, I close the door, on high alert, my heart thudding hard.

“Lucy?” I call out.

My briefcase is back at the house, my pistol inside it, I’m unpleasantly reminded. Inside the small kitchen, I detect the familiar odor of Hoppe’s gun-cleaning oil as I look around for anything out of the ordinary.

“It’s me!” I yell.

The soapstone countertops are tidy, and there’s nothing in the cast-iron sink, only a plate and coffee cup in the drain rack. Nearby is Lucy’s Kevlar briefcase similar to the one I carry. Her tactical pump-action 12-gauge shotgun is propped in its usual corner, and on top of the butcher block is a disassembled Heckler & Koch P30 pistol and a gun-cleaning kit.

As usual, my niece has quite the deadly collection, and opening the drawer under the toaster oven, I lift out the gun I know she keeps there. A .40 caliber Smith & Wesson, double-action with a double-stack capacity, and then I hear her voice inside the living room.

“Okay, okay, I’m listening,” she’s saying to someone. “I know everything’s about attitude and perspective . . .”

It sounds like all is safe and sound on the western front, thank God. I return the gun to the drawer, grabbing a dish towel. I can hear only one side of the conversation, and I dry off Merlin while he nuzzles and purrs. I’m not sure who my niece is talking to but I have my suspicions.

“Now on top of everything else, someone we could have helped ends up with her throat cut,” she says. “And I’ll be honest, I wasn’t paying close attention. When probably I would have in the past no matter what I thought of the person.”

I open a closet, leaving the towel on top of the washing machine.

“Do you have any idea how hard I’m trying?” Lucy then says.

She’s unaware of my entering her small living area of dark oak beams and redbrick walls that are original to the property.

“You’d feel the same way under the circumstances,” she adds. “And you’d be talking to me right now just like I’m talking to you. Or at least I hope so.”

Merlin silently slinks past, jumping up on his favorite leather ottoman. He stares at me, tail twitching, perched protectively near Lucy’s desk facing the fireplace. Her back is to us, giving me but a glimpse of her striking profile as she gestures and talks.

Headphones on, she’s surrounded by an array of big flat-screen displays. As I ease in closer, I see that Janet’s lovely face fills one of them, and the sight runs through me like a blade. I can’t hear what she’s saying but have no doubt it’s understanding, kind but firm and wise.

“I realize you’re trying to make me feel better,” Lucy says. “But there’s no point in wasting your words.”

Try as I might, I’m having a hard time getting used to this, and not sure I should, considering the risks.

“The fact is, if I’d been there things would be different.” Lucy adds what she can’t possibly know.

It’s what she’s decided, and maybe getting back to London in time would have changed the outcome. But I don’t believe it, and I’m certain Janet would agree, her face on the display somberly empathetic.

“I wouldn’t be screwing up every which way but loose,” Lucy says. “And that’s all I’ve been thinking about this birthday if you want the honest truth. I wasn’t there with you. Now you aren’t here with me. Nothing’s turning out the way it should with anything I do, and maybe never will again.”

I can’t hear Janet’s answer, and Merlin saunters over to the desk. He jumps on top of it, and Lucy turns her head enough to catch me behind her. She’s neither surprised nor startled, her green eyes wide, almost trancelike as she talks to someone dead.

“HEY THERE, I SAW you coming.” My niece takes off her headset. “And where’s your coat? It’s close to freezing out there.”

“Tweaking software?” I ask gently and without judgment. “Or are you having another visit?”

It’s the latter I’ve become most concerned about as I’ve witnessed her spending time with the love of her life, asking for guidance and advice. While perhaps convincing herself that the image on her screen is more than a computer-generated avatar. The animation before us is an interface, a language-generating AI persona modeled after Janet while she was alive.

Code name Adam, the project is one she and Lucy had been working on for years, both of them computer jocks who met during their early days at the FBI Academy. As I look at Janet’s face on the display, I continue to fret about Lucy’s obsessive development of what’s turning into her partner’s surrogate.