Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(34)

“I know he’s continued to try to talk to her.”

“Based on?”

“Phone records,” she says, and I don’t ask how she knows that.

Maybe she’s hacking again. Maybe Janet is. Even if it’s not all that necessary anymore with open-source data.

“He’d text or call, and she’d ghost him,” Lucy says.

“It sounds like she didn’t bother to change her phone number.”

“Which makes no sense at all if he was such a problem,” Lucy adds as I pause to catch the latest replay on TV.

It’s painful watching myself dodge Dana Diletti and her crew earlier, averting my face like someone on trial. I look a bit like a horror show myself, coatless and with wet hair, ducking under the yellow tape, striding with purpose toward the entrance. Worse is the caption spelling out the identity of the guilty party:

Dr. Kay Scarpetta, chief medical examiner, avoiding reporters at the scene . . .

“Her murder is a sexy story, and it’s only going to get bigger,” Lucy says.

She collects two glittery glass ball ornaments from the rug near the floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree. An artificial one, it’s overdecorated with multicolored LEDs and elaborate baubles and figurines that mean nothing to Benton or me. They don’t belong to us, aren’t from our past or exactly our taste.

Not the rampant gold Baroque angel on top of the tree. Or the perfectly wrapped gifts beneath it that are fake like everything else. Left to our own devices, we would have settled for a small living fir or spruce pine that later can be replanted outside.

But Marino and Dorothy would have none of it. Planning to spend Christmas here with us, they’ve appointed themselves in charge of festivities and set design as Dorothy put it. And I know when to pick my battles.

“I’ve caught Merlin in here showing way too much interest,” I let Lucy know as she rehangs the ornaments on crowded silver plastic branches. “Not that I’m pointing a finger,” I add, and truth be told, I’ve caught him in the act more than once, swatting at things, sending them flying.

INSIDE THE DINING ROOM, the alabaster chandelier and sconces glow warmly, the wavy glass windows shrouded by heavy drapes.

We follow the sound of a knife against a cutting board, entering the kitchen with its exposed brick walls, thick oak beams and fireplace. Benton is at the butcher block, arranging cheeses on a platter, no sign of my sister.

He’s taken off his suit jacket, tie and cufflinks, his shirtsleeves neatly folded up. Over his clothing is a black Tissage de L’Ouest apron I brought home from my recent trip to France. Wiping his hands on a matching dish towel, he opens a box of wheat crackers, arranging them in a basket that he’s lined with a cloth napkin.

“Sorry we took so long.” I’m mindful of what sad shape I’m in, eager to shower, to wash away the day as best I can. “Lucy’s been filling me in, and it’s frustrating that Gwen Hainey likely was selling us out to the Russians or God knows who and for how long.”

“I hate to think of the damage she’s done.” Lucy helps herself to a cracker.

“People like her are one of the reasons we’ve had recent massive cyberattacks on government facilities,” Benton says as he pops off the lid to a jar of cherry pepper rings. “All it takes is a few bad actors to bring down the house of cards.”

“I was telling Aunt Kay about your conversation with Jinx Slater,” Lucy says to Benton, trying the cheese next. “Too bad he didn’t come forward about her months ago.”

“When did he or Gwen come to the attention of the Secret Service?” I try the sharp provolone, realizing how hungry I am.

“The first time we heard of her was this morning, which is why I was called into headquarters,” Benton says. “We were contacted by a senior scientist at Thor who’s on loan from NASA. He’s the lab director, and was supposed to be supervising her.”

They were scheduled for an important meeting with the Department of Defense at nine A.M., and no one could get hold of her.

“She wasn’t answering calls, and her mailbox was full.” Benton arranges baby carrots on the platter.

“What was she working on at Thor?” I ask.

“A top secret project involving stem cells and the three-D printing of human organs,” he says.

Since starting there six weeks ago, some of her coworkers had been finding her behavior disturbing, he says, rinsing his hands in the sink.

“On top of everything else, she’s a no-show this morning, and her lab director reached out to us,” Benton says. “That’s who I was meeting with at headquarters earlier.”

“And then what? Did Jinx Slater reach out to the Secret Service next?” I preheat the oven.

“No, I reached out to him.”

“Benton knows about the walk-through Marino and I did,” Lucy says. “I passed on what Gwen told us.” She sits down on a barstool as I open the refrigerator. “Where’s Mom?”

“I think she may have had a wardrobe failure,” Benton says as I find the foil-wrapped garlic bread. “She’s upstairs borrowing a sewing kit, and I suspect busy with her latest posts on social media. I’m sure she’ll be down eventually.”

“This goes in the oven but wait about fifteen minutes.” I place the bread on the counter, heading out of the kitchen. “I’m going to clean up but not before picking out a perfect wine for the occasion. One that will need to breathe for a bit.”