Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(10)

“She’d been dead several hours,” I estimate. “But I don’t think she was outside all of that time or even most of it.”

I look out at scenery strange and familiar, nothing seeming the same because of what I know. Wrought-iron gas lamps flicker in the overcast, dully shining on wet brick pavers littered with dead leaves and broken branches. Nobody is out walking their dogs or jogging.

Buildings are pristinely preserved, many of them historically registered, and George Washington really did sleep in a number of places. Wooded properties are tastefully decorated, not a single inflatable Santa or reindeer. There’s nothing worthy of a tacky tour, much to Marino’s disappointment when he was informed of residential covenants.

Old Town is perfectly appointed and cared for, no improvements or ornamentations allowed that aren’t deemed appropriate. I’ve learned the hard way that you can’t repaint your shutters, replace the roof or install a backup generator without permission. The list of restrictions has been the only liability in what otherwise are ideal living conditions. Or that’s how I felt until now.

Surroundings I’ve found charming and a comfort in the past suddenly seem ominous. Tall evergreens and winter-bare trees rock violently on the roadside, the Baptist church shrouded in veils of fog. Its steeple light eerily turns off and on as the recording of the tolling bell plays nonstop, caught in some kind of computer glitch.

FLASHES OF LIGHTNING ILLUMINATE huge trees that have blown over in Ivy Hill Cemetery, where the father of the U.S. space program Wernher von Braun is buried, among other notables. I catch a glimpse of muddy exposed roots and upended centuries-old monuments as more alert tones sound on the scanner and our phones.

Ten out, I text August to the kerblam of thunder.

In the manager’s office, he writes back, and I continue to fret.

Perception is a problem but a much bigger one is August and Marino getting along. None of this is helped by the fact that my new forensic operations specialist also happens to be my brother-in-law.

“Jinx manages a restaurant in Boston’s North End, picks up extra money bartending when he can.” Marino tells me what Gwen said about her ex. “He’s mostly been unemployed these past two years, and started drinking more, doing drugs, getting increasingly unstable.”

“Are we certain about any of this?”

“Nope.” Opening the ashtray, he grabs the pack of gum again. “But I should have looked into it, Doc.”

“We’re looking into it now,” I reply. “Boston’s a long way from here, and it shouldn’t be hard to find out if Jinx Slater made a recent trip to this area. Does he have a history of violence?”

“After she told him she didn’t want to see him anymore, he started acting out in ways that were disturbing. Like you said, supposedly.”

“Such as?”

“Constant phone calls. Leaving a strangled teddy bear by her front door. Dead roses in her mailbox. Following her slowly in his car when she was out jogging.”

“Did she report any of this to the police?”

“She didn’t, and I was pretty sure she was lying like a dog.”

“You and I both know that not all victims are honest or innocent.” Resting my pen on my notebook, I look over at him.

“No kidding, and I have a feeling she’s one of them.”

“People who have terrible things happen to them can be terrible people themselves. And some might think they got what’s coming.” I offer an ugly truth I wouldn’t say in public.

“Gwen wasn’t all that nice, seemed pretty stuck on herself, like she’s smarter than everybody else,” Marino says. “But you know how it goes. Dorothy asked if Lucy and I would help, and we tried.”

Knowing Dorothy, she stopped by with a housewarming gift accompanied by her snooping around and gathering information. Boundary crashing under the guise of southern hospitality, she volunteered Marino and Lucy’s services. It would be just like Dorothy to play the hero.

“Did Gwen ever take out a restraining order against her ex?” I text Benton again, wondering if he’s home yet. “Not that they solve the problem most of the time.”

“She didn’t.”

“Is there any evidence to support her accusations, is what I’m wondering.”

“She said the only way to be safe from him was to go far away to someplace where he can’t find her,” Marino says. “So she took the job with Thor and moved here. That’s her story. Some of it might be true, a lot of it probably isn’t. Lucy and I didn’t check it out. We didn’t get further involved because Gwen didn’t want us to, wasn’t interested.”

“Then why go along with it to begin with?”

“Dorothy’s not good at taking no for an answer,” he says. “Besides, it would have made Gwen look suspicious if she’s so worried but doesn’t want help.”

“It’s all looking suspicious,” I reply, and we’ve reached Alexandria’s old brick train station.

Crossing Callahan Drive, we bump over the same railroad tracks the murdered woman was found along just north of here. Gwen Hainey, I have no doubt, envisioning the copper coin on a rail, deformed and flattened as thin as paper. It bothered me when August found it, and bothered Benton even more when we talked about it later.