Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(68)

“I just got here at long last.” I place half a dozen doses inside my scene case, promising never to be without them again. “Between traffic jams and protests, and I appreciate your waiting for me.”

“I wasn’t actually, you got here just in time. I was taking care of a few things before leaving.” She watches my every move as if trying to figure me out. “You have a lot of phone messages, I just e-mailed you the list of them. And there’s a stack of cases and death certificates for you to initial. I’ll have them ready shortly.”

“When we texted while Benton and I were stuck in gridlock, you said things are a mess, and I quote. What’s going on besides the day shift security guard calling in sick again? I believe his name is Nathan.” I envision him, built like a bullet, a perpetual sour expression on his face.

“Yes, he called in with a migraine late last night, said it was so bad he was in bed with the lights out. Which is exactly where he should have been anyway at almost midnight,” Maggie says. “In a nutshell, today has been chaotic.”

“If he continues being this undependable, we may have to let him go,” I reply. “We can’t have security working double shifts, and we don’t force people to eat in their offices, by the way, Maggie. Not ever. Especially if it’s downstairs or anywhere near bodies and other biohazards.” I do my best to keep a check on my indignation.

“I’ve had every reason imaginable to worry about the security of our building with all that’s been going on,” she says presumptuously, and not a day goes by when I don’t miss my former secretary Rose.

I couldn’t have asked for a better aide-de-camp during my Richmond years. She was warm, trustworthy, a force to be reckoned with, and of the district offices I oversaw, she found this one the most difficult. Referring to the staff as “Northern aggressors” and “Beltway snobs,” she’d shake her head if she could see me now.

“I’m sorry to hear things have been chaotic but I’m not surprised,” I say to my secretary who’s certainly not a Rose, more like a sharp thorn in my side.

ROOTING AROUND INSIDE THE supply closet, I can’t find the premixed Bluestar reagent I know I have, and I ask Maggie about it.

“I’m not sure I know what that is.” She stands nearby, watching me like a hawk.

“When sprayed on nonvisible bloodstains, it causes them to luminesce,” I explain in frustration.

“Oh, yes, the sort of hocus-pocus one sees on CSI.” She all but rolls her eyes. “That must be what Fabian borrowed the other day and promised to replace.”

“I need to know things like that,” I almost snap, and fortunately I have a jar of luminol powder.

It will work fine for my purposes but isn’t as easy to use and has its limitations.

“People can’t just help themselves to my supply closet.” I shouldn’t have to remind her of common courtesy.

“I’ll have a word with Fabian,” Maggie says, and their allegiance couldn’t be more apparent.

“We need to communicate better.” It’s not the first time I’ve said this to her, and likely won’t be the last. “Had I known the office was out of Bluestar or anything else, we could have reordered it ourselves, and I wouldn’t be on my way to a scene without it.”

“What scene?”

“There’s something I need to check.”

“I see. Well, it’s difficult to communicate when I don’t know where you are much of the time, today being a perfect example. You never mentioned you were leaving town until you were already gone.”

She continues to complain as I find a spray bottle, hydrogen peroxide, a liter of distilled water.

“And now you’re headed out into the night, and won’t tell me where or why,” she adds. “You’re making it almost impossible for me to do my job.”

Putting on a pair of exam gloves, a face mask, I measure fifteen grams, about a tablespoon of the luminol powder, sprinkling it into the plastic bottle.

“If I don’t inform you, it’s because I can’t.” I sound like a broken record. “Certainly, it’s never my intention to make things more difficult.” I screw on the spray top.

“I’ve never worked for anyone who marginalizes me the way you do,” she says.

I feel her eyes fastened to me as I pack up my scene case, closing it with louds snaps, and I don’t like her choice of words.

“I’m not marginalizing you or anyone,” I reply, and that’s what I call lawsuit talk. “As a rule, my government responsibilities aren’t open for discussion. Sensitive investigative information isn’t either.” Taking off my mask and gloves, I notice the thick manila file on my desk chair.

“As you requested,” she says as I walk that way. “I also e-mailed the electronic version to you. Why the sudden interest? Is this related to where you’re going tonight? What scene do you need to check? Are you talking about Daingerfield Island?”

“Officer Fruge mentioned the Cammie Ramada case when I was with her last night,” I reply. “And speaking of? Before you leave, I need you to track down a current phone number for her mother, Greta Fruge, the toxicologist. She’s now retired from the state but works for a private lab in Richmond.”

Carrying the case file to the conference table, I add that I worked with Greta years ago, and what a small world.