Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(40)

I walk past a mirror that murkily reflects the oil paintings on the opposite wall. It’s too dim to make out the Miró farm scenes or other fine art that I can’t afford on my government salary. Most of what’s rare and expensive doesn’t come from my side of the equation, the property we’re living on a perfect example.

Also, the Stickley trestle coffee table, the brown leather sofa, the barristers bookcases filled with old leather-bound volumes. My husband’s New England pedigree traces back to the Pilgrims, his father a wealthy art collector. I’m the product of first-generation Italians who settled in Miami after the Second World War.

My father owned a small grocery store in a neighborhood made up of Cubans and Italians. I have no ancestral heirlooms, no inherited antiques or art, and it’s safe to say that Benton Wesley didn’t marry me for money.

“When we started living on the property a month ago, I put the wine in the basement refrigerator.” I’m trying to work out what could have happened. “Meaning the bottle from Interpol was here while the alarm people and possibly others including the police have been on our property.”

“To leave no stone unturned, Marino and I went through the basement.” Benton waits by the bed, his eyes on me. “We especially focused on the area where you store the wine. We made sure there wasn’t anything that might make us think someone was in there who shouldn’t have been.”

“Except I’m not sure what you’d be looking for that we wouldn’t have noticed long before now. Assuming it was something that would be noticed at all.”

“What I can say is nothing jumped out at us but that doesn’t mean much,” he agrees. “Certainly, there’s no evidence that anyone has tried to break into the basement.”

“Like I said, I think we would know that by now,” I reply, looking out a window at the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge spanning a wide swath of the Potomac, connecting Virginia to Maryland.





CHAPTER 16


THE COLOR OF THE water this morning is the gray-green of old glass. Protruding from it is a stubble of dark wooden pilings left from the dock that was there centuries earlier. I imagine the sea captain who built our house watching his moored ship from this very spot.

“Are you okay to be on your own while I go downstairs?” Benton asks as I walk away from a view I’ve come to love. “Or do you want me to stay up here while you clean up? I don’t want you alone if you’re dizzy or even slightly unsteady on your feet.”

“I’m feeling much better, will be down in a few.” I hug and kiss him, grateful he takes such good care of me. “You could have married somebody easier, you know. I warned you often enough.”

“How boring that would be,” he says, walking off.

The old pumpkin pine flooring is smooth and cool beneath my feet as I head to the bathroom with its white subway-tile walls, the claw-foot tub and glass-enclosed shower. Flipping on the light, I squint at my pale reflection in the mirror over the marble washbasin.

“Goodness,” I mutter under my breath.

I look like death on a cracker, to quote my sister, my hair sticking up, and I hear Benton’s phone ring on the stairs. Then mine does, the area code in the display 202 for Washington, D.C., the exchange 538, and that can’t be good.

“Dr. Scarpetta,” I answer over speakerphone.

“It’s Tron,” the familiar voice says.

The U.S. Secret Service cyber investigator’s actual name is Sierra Patron, and she’s a member of the Doomsday Commission task force. She’s not calling to check in or chat because that’s not what she does, and I squeeze hot water from a washcloth, apologizing for the noise.

“Hold on a second.” I turn off the water in the sink.

Closing the toilet lid, I sit down. Tilting my head back, I place the hot compress over my eyes, and I can’t let on how bad I’m feeling and why.

“How are you, Tron? What’s going on?” I can hear the vague murmur of Benton downstairs, possibly getting the same notification I am.

“You’re needed at the White House complex ASAP,” she says, and of all times to feel as hungover as I’ve ever been in my life.

“I’m assuming Benton is being told the same thing. I hear him downstairs, our phones rang simultaneously.” I remove the washcloth, running more hot water over it.

“That’s correct.”

“Both of us are needed?” I want to make sure, and what he mentioned a few minutes ago is exactly right.

I shouldn’t be driving anywhere for a while, and how embarrassing. Closing my eyes again, I drape the steaming cloth over them.

“That’s correct.” Tron confirms that Benton will be accompanying me, thank goodness. “We’ve got a situation and need you here as fast as you can manage.” She hopes that won’t be a problem.

The way she says it makes me suspect she somehow knows I’m under the weather, and if I felt ashamed before, now I’m mortified. I hate to think what she would say about my carelessness, both of us in Lyon at the same Doomsday symposium.

I seriously doubt she carried gifts of food or drink home from France to share with family and friends. Wouldn’t matter who gave it to her, and I’ll never make that mistake again.

“I’m getting ready now,” I let her know with enthusiasm I don’t feel, back on my feet, opening the medicine cabinet. “Are there special considerations or instructions? Other details I should be aware of?”