Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(23)

I sense the disappointment beneath her seeming indifference, her flippant way of expressing herself that can come across as aggressive and too big for her britches. But she’s probably just persistent and eager to do well for herself, to be known for more than her very visible and successful mother.

“You’d already left Richmond, and probably didn’t hear about my dad falling off a ladder while cleaning the gutters,” Fruge says. “I’d just graduated from VCU, and stayed home to help take care of him.”

“No, I didn’t know about that,” I reply. “I’m very sorry.”

“Law school wasn’t going to happen, and I decided to be a cop. But forget working around Richmond. No way I would, because of Mom.”

“You didn’t want to be in her jurisdiction much less her shadow,” I reply, and I can understand that.

How awkward to testify in the same trial, and I’ve expe rienced similar conflicted situations most of my career. Not only with Marino and Benton but finding myself entangled in cases involving an only niece who may as well be my daughter.

“A lot of people in the Richmond area have heard of Tox Doc.” Fruge dramatically drops her voice again the way she did earlier. “I mean, you know my mom. Let’s be honest, she’s never met a camera she doesn’t like.”

We slowly bump over wet pavers past the backyards of historically registered estates. Fruge has her window down, the hand-controlled spotlight’s powerful beam painting over thick shrubbery, wooded lots and dormant gardens. Many properties like the one Benton and I found are older than America, our modest main house and two outbuildings built by a sea captain in 1770.

Fruge carefully probes any place where a killer might have tossed clothing, a blanket, a weapon or other evidence. I explain that I seriously doubt he did that around here. More likely, he got rid of anything incriminating in a less obvious location.

“Perhaps a landfill or dumpster between here and Daingerfield Island,” I suggest as we weave through cobblestone alleys and side streets originally meant for horses and carriages.

We’re taking a circuitous route like Marino did earlier. It’s not possible to travel along the river point to point as the crow flies. There are too many gated apartment complexes and new ones under construction. Also, the public parks, beaches, hotels and boat clubs crowd the waterfront.

“Where do you live?” I can see my house lights and gas lamps glowing through trees. “I hope I’ve not taken you too far out of your way.”

“Off Wilkes Street near Tannery House, not far from here.”

“That’s very close to where my secretary is.”

“I see her out walking her Corgi,” Fruge says, and of course Maggie has the same breed as the queen of England.

“If you’ll push the intercom button,” I suggest as we reach my gated driveway, “someone will let us in.”

I’m not giving out the code, not even to the police, and she rolls down her window. A loud tone sounds, then the noise of the gate sliding open on its tracks. As we drive through, it’s captured on the many cameras Lucy has installed on the property, and she’s probably watching right now. Or maybe Benton is, and it’s reassuring that I’m expected, cared for, and missed.

People who matter are waiting for me, and they’re glad I’m alive and well, that I’m still around. It’s become more of a comfort than I ever imagined, the pandemic giving as much as it’s taken depending on one’s perspective.

OLD TREES ARE WINTER-BARE, their branches rocking in the blustery night. Wavering gaslight barely pushes back the darkness as we follow the cobblestone driveway past Lucy’s detached cottage.

Small but cozy, it’s whitewashed brick with a slate roof, the same as the garage and house. When Benton and I found this property, it wasn’t with the thought that my niece would be moving in, and the first thing she did was install blackout shades. Any interior lights, televisions or computer displays aren’t visible from outside.

I can’t tell if she’s home right now, and it surprises me that she hasn’t stepped outside to greet me. Fruge stops in front of the house, wireless candles glowing in the windows, the boxwoods glittering with white LEDs. The door opens, and Benton appears dressed in a suit and tie, casting a long shadow, his silver hair bright as he walks through the headlights.

“Cool.” Fruge can’t take her eyes off him. “I mean, he’s a genuine legend. That’s saying a lot coming from me because I don’t like the Feds, especially the FBI.”

“He’s not been with the FBI for a long time.” I open my door.

“But he started out with them, was their superstar profiler, and probably does the same sort of thing for the Secret Service.” Fruge continues reciting our history, filling in the blanks as she sees fit.

“I’m Benton Wesley.” He introduces himself to her as I climb out with my bulletproof briefcase. “I appreciate you getting her home safely. Thank you.”

She introduces herself, making sure he knows she’s heard of him, that her mother used to talk about the psycho whisperer.

“I don’t need to tell you of all people to be careful around here.” Fruge leans across the front seat, talking to him through the open passenger door. “Whoever murdered Gwen Hainey knew exactly what he was doing.”