Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(18)

“Everything about this just gets crazier,” Fruge replies. “So, you could flush a note down the toilet and bye-bye it’s gone forever?”

“Easier than that, you could drop it in a glass of water and drink it,” I reply as Marino emerges from the master bedroom.

“What gets crazier?” he says. “What now?”

“How did things look in there?” August answers him with a question.

“The same as when I was here last month. She definitely had a blanket on the bed. A kid’s blanket with a Star Wars theme. Darth Vader and a flametrooper.”

“Do you recall the colors?” I envision the magnified images of multicolored fibers I recovered from the body.

“Black and orange. And white. Also, some yellow and red,” Marino says.

“Possibly consistent with the fibers I collected,” I reply. “Under the microscope, you can see red, yellow, black and orange pigments on cross section, a polyester blend.”

Obviously, we’re not in possession of whatever she might have been wrapped in, I explain. I wish we were but had it been on the bed, there should be fibers transferred to the linens.

“We’ll see if they match the ones I collected from the body,” I add.

“HITTING HER IN THE head with something at the scene?” August tries to work out what might have gone on. “Using some type of cover he took off her bed if that’s what he did? Doesn’t sound like he showed up with a murder kit.”

“Most violent psychopaths don’t show up with freakin’ murder kits.” Marino isn’t very diplomatic about it. “I’ve seen victims stabbed with screwdrivers, scissors, beaten to death with a clothes iron, a teapot, a laptop computer, a stick or a rock. Whatever’s in reach. They show up with their bare hands and sicko fantasies. It’s part of the thrill.”

“When you did your walk-through with Gwen last month,” I say to him, “did she mention anything about paper and ink that can be dissolved in water like a magic trick? Did you notice anything like that anywhere inside the townhome when you did your security check?”

I can tell by the blank look on Marino’s face that he has no idea what I’m talking about. I show him the fabric markers, the pads of white notepaper on the card table.

“Nope, there was nothing like that here when I walked through.” He leaves out that Lucy was with him. “Nothing I saw, anyway.”

“I’ll bet Gwen Hainey didn’t say a word, making sure certain items were tucked out of sight,” Fruge replies, and I suspect she’s right.

“I’m glad you noticed because I’m not sure I would have,” August says to me, going out of his way to ignore Fruge. “I’ve never heard of dissolving paper.”

“I’m worried we may be dealing with more than one crime.” I state the obvious. “Espionage could be a possible explanation for what we’re discovering so far. Industrial spying if nothing else. But it could be much more dangerous than that since the companies she’s been involved with do a lot of highly sensitive work for various governments including ours.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” Marino agrees. “It might be the real explanation for her sudden change of jobs and living like a fugitive. And believe me, if I’d known any of this when I met her, my antenna would have gone up, all right.”

August is looking at the laptops, his gloved fingers tapping keys.

“Password protected, of course,” he says, and I leave them so I can finish my walk-through.

Fruge bird-dogs me as I reach a door that opens onto the patio. It’s off the dining area, another barren space with more empty picture hooks and wires dangling from an electrical box in the ceiling where a light fixture once hung.

“This door is locked, and was when I got here,” she says. “I walked around outside earlier and didn’t notice anything unusual. Just some furniture, a barbecue, the bird feeders. And the crime scene guys looked around, too.”

“But this is another possible egress, another way to access the house,” I reply. “There’s the front door. The back door off the sunporch. And this one, each with an alarm keypad.”

“Also, the garage. Except it would be trickier leaving that way,” Fruge says. “You can’t close the garage door from the outside. Not unless you have a remote.”

“Have you seen one anywhere?”

“Actually, now that you mention it, I haven’t.” Surprise glints in her eyes, followed by a spark of irritation. “That’s two strikes, Fruge,” she chastises herself, her voice dropping an octave. “First you forget to ask about the rent. Then you don’t notice there’s no garage opener. But Gwen doesn’t have a car.” Talking to me again, her voice back to normal. “Not even a bicycle that I’ve seen.”

Outside the kitchen is a granite countertop, and on it a small unopened FedEx package with the return address of an electronics company. The receipt shows the delivery was this past Friday morning.

“I find it interesting she didn’t get around to opening whatever she’d ordered,” I say to Fruge as I walk into the kitchen.

“Sometimes I leave mail and stuff lying around unopened for days,” she feels compelled to share.

On the windowsill over the empty sink is a terra-cotta bonsai pot of parched cacti, zebra plants, aloe variegata, and African violets. The dish garden is the very sort of thoughtful gift Dorothy would present to a stranger she’s descended upon with friendly suggestions in addition to helpful guidance and histories about the area.