Autopsy(Kay Scarpetta #25)(44)

“What I think is that nobody bothered following up on her death. Certain parties hoped it would just go away,” Benton is saying about Cammie Ramada.

“I worry they did more than hope,” I reply.

“That’s what it’s sounding like.”

“Of all days to get called to some emergency meeting in D.C., when what I really need is to go through her case,” I reply. “Well, chances are I won’t be getting around to that in the near future but at least I can get people started.”

I try Lucy first, and most of all I want to check on her.

“How far out are you?” Her voice through the speakers, and she sounds in decent enough spirits.

“Depending on traffic,” Benton says, “maybe fifteen. Not including checkpoints.”

“Do you know what they want yet?” she says, and by they she means Benton’s Secret Service colleague Tron.

The two of them are warily acquainted, and I would have predicted they wouldn’t get along. Certainly not at first. They’re too much alike.

“I have no idea why I’m being summoned,” I reply.

Lucy hasn’t been informed about the White House, only that the Secret Service needs us, that we’re headed to a highly secure area in D.C. She may figure it out. But what she won’t do is prod or pry.

“How’s it going with Cammie Ramada?” I take a sip of water. “There certainly seem to be questions about what happened to her.”

“I’m on it but nothing much out there, almost nothing in the media,” she says, and I hear keys clicking. “There was some chatter on social media at the time. We’re still digging,” she adds, and I wonder if she’s looking at Janet’s avatar as we’re speaking.

“I’ll be off the radar for a while, possibly most of the day,” I reply. “But you and Marino can conspire.”

“You sure you’re feeling okay?” she says, and I’ll forever see her terrified eyes as I began feeling the effects of the poisoned wine.

“Almost as good as new.” I’m not really. “Hopefully we can have dinner later.”

I end the call as Benton follows George Washington Memorial Parkway, and Daingerfield Island is off to our right. It’s not really an island but a forested swath in the northernmost part of Alexandria, between a major highway and the Potomac River.

“I have a feeling Cammie is what I call a nuisance case, a threat to local business and everything else,” Benton concludes from what he’s overheard so far.

“That’s what I’m guessing Elvin Reddy thinks about it. Well, as my mother used to say, he’s got another think coming,” I reply, looking out my window at dense trees, most of them bare this time of year.

The park at Daingerfield Island is popular with runners, cyclists, bird-watchers, and it has a marina and a sailing club that I can’t see in the overcast. Also, there’s a bar and grill that Benton and I have enjoyed on occasion, looking out at the water and the boats, catching glimpses of red-tailed hawks and bald eagles.

I can see the Tidal Basin, and the Thomas Jefferson Memorial’s pristine white rotunda up ahead, vague in the swirling fog, the oncoming headlights bleary. Checking my messages, I’m waiting to hear from Rex Bonetta, and I try calling him again. This time he answers, and I let him know he’s on speakerphone.

“It’s okay to talk. I’m in the car with Benton,” I explain.

“How are you doing?” he asks.

“Much better than I was, thanks.”

“I’m very glad to hear it, and my lab’s in overdrive trying to find out what you got hold of last night.” My chief toxicologist’s quiet voice through the surround-sound speakers. “Or better put, what got hold of you.”

“I’m very sorry you were visited at home in the middle of the night.” I hope Marino didn’t scare him to death, ringing the bell, pounding on the door. “Please apologize to your family. But as you know, the circumstances are highly unusual.”

“You sound all right, what a relief.”

“I have strange flashbacks occasionally. Otherwise, doing fine, headed to a meeting.” I don’t say where as we drive through the heart of Washington, D.C., in the dreary overcast and drizzle.

“I’ve got good news and bad,” Rex says. “But mostly bad.”

On 14th Street now, we’re passing the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, colorful bunting hanging between its soaring stone columns. Concrete barricades in front of government buildings make it impossible to get close to anything in a world turned so destructive and disrespectful.

“While I had the evidence in my custody, I took it upon myself to take a look at the cork and the foil wrapper that covered it,” Rex explains. “I wanted to see if I noticed anything under the microscope because the obvious mystery is how did a toxin get into the wine. And I’m assuming the tampering happened after it was bottled.”

“We’d better hope so,” Benton replies, and there are military vehicles, police cars at every corner. “I would hate to think there might be multiple other bottles out there, although I suspect we’d know that by now. Someone would have died, possibly many would have.”

I can’t get past the surreal experience. Watching my personal property packaged as evidence. Realizing how close I came to ending up in my own morgue. Imagining my biological fluids, my pieces and parts making the rounds floor to floor inside my building. What a way to return to Virginia, what a way to finish what I started.