Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(64)

“You lose or gain a hydrogen, a carbon, a nitrogen molecule,” Rex is saying. “Or add an extra bang for the user’s buck like designer benzodiazepines, and the drug screen’s going to miss it.”

That makes continued testing extremely difficult. At times it’s more like a crapshoot as toxicologists try to keep up with the latest potentially deadly spinoff.

“I’m worried that whatever we’re dealing with may have hit in the U.S. and is in the Northern Virginia area,” Rex says. “Possibly the greater D.C. area.”

Three deaths came in today that he’s pretty sure are opioid-related, and this is the first I’ve heard of them. But the drug screen in each was negative except for methadone in one case.

“A recovering heroin addict found dead in an alleyway near a methadone clinic in west Alexandria,” he explains. “I’m wondering if what we’re up against might be the same thing your wine was laced with. A new derivative of something like fentanyl that comes up negative.”

“That’s a disturbing thought,” I reply as Benton turns us inland toward my headquarters, picking up U.S. 1.

“It sure is if your bottle of Bordeaux was tampered with in Europe”—Rex’s voice over speakerphone—“and the same drug has followed you home to Virginia.”

“Or if the tampering was done here to begin with,” I add, a far worse thought for me personally as I wonder how that might have happened. “Some new deadly designer drug.”

I think of what Officer Fruge told me about being at a scene last week, using up all her Narcan reviving multiple people who had overdosed.

“Check back with me tomorrow,” Rex says.

He plans to spend time in the trace evidence lab looking at samples of residue found in the wine, seeing what might turn up on the scanning electron microscope. In the meantime, he’ll let me know if there are new developments, and I end the call, the lights of my building up ahead. I look over at Benton, feeling guilty before saying it.

“It may be rather late by the time I get home.” I tell him what he already knows. “Having been out the entire day with all that’s going on? There’s lasagna and extra sauce in the freezer, also the makings for salad.”

“Don’t worry about me.” He reaches for my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. “I have a feeling I’ll be pretty tied up with Lucy, following up on Jared Horton and everything else. Her data mining might be useful now that we’re getting a better idea what he and Gwen were up to.”

He’ll throw together something for a late supper, have it ready when I get there, he promises, always this thoughtful.

“For sure I’ve got to check in with Maggie, get up to speed on what I’ve missed.” I feel overwhelmed as I go down the list, this day a washout. “And Marino and I need to take a look at Daingerfield Island, at the areas where Gwen Hainey’s and Cammie Ramada’s bodies were found.”

“I understand but it’s already dark. I don’t suppose it can wait until tomorrow?”

“Since we don’t know who’s killing whom, it doesn’t seem anything can wait, Benton. I need to look around in the dark. It’s better for what I have in mind.”

“I prefer you’d get home at a decent hour tonight, that’s all.” He sounds like an overprotective husband, and I know when he’s unsettled.

“I wish I could,” I reply, my parking lot in the next block, an unbroken line of bright red taillights leading to it.

“Considering what the last twenty-four hours have been like, it would be good if you could get some rest, Kay,” he says, and by now if nothing else, we know how to negotiate.

“I have a thought.” I dig my keys out of my briefcase, mindful of the empty gun compartment.

Maybe my husband can pack a pistol on the White House grounds but people like me certainly can’t. The Sig Sauer is tucked in my bedside drawer, the trigger lock on.

“We’ll make a deal,” I suggest.

Instead of meeting Marino at Daingerfield Island or having him follow me there, I’ll ask him to pick me up here at the office. As I’m saying it, I’m sending him a text to that effect.

“Later he can drop me back at the house. We’ll deal with my car tomorrow,” I explain, and after the day I’ve had I wouldn’t mind being chauffeured by Marino in his big truck full of weapons.

“Fine,” Benton says. “That would make me much happier. With all that’s going on I don’t want you driving yourself around in the middle of the night.”





CHAPTER 26


REACHING MY PARKING LOT, we stop at the security gate. I take off my shoulder harness, placing my briefcase in my lap.

Benton opens his window, entering my code on the keypad, and I think of Marino driving me to Colonial Landing last night. Strains of the creepy Shock Theater theme play in my mind, and it’s ironic that the townhome development has better security than my state government headquarters.

The security gate’s red-striped wooden arm lifts, a barrier you can walk around. Some employees are headed to their cars, the streetlights on their tall masts pushing back the darkness. We park next to my take-home Subaru in its assigned spot where I left it barely twenty-four hours ago.

“I’ll be home as soon as possible.” I grab our White House takeout trash, walking around to the back, and Benton pops open the tailgate.