Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(7)
“I’m pretty sure I know who the murdered lady is from Friday night. Someone Lucy and me tried to help, someone Dorothy was friendly with. Our damn neighbor.” He’s out with the name, my stress spiking.
“You and Lucy tried to help her?” I don’t understand.
“We gave her security advice once. Obviously, she didn’t listen. And whoever did this? He has to be familiar with the area right here where we live. You, me, all of us. He had to be watching Gwen and no telling who else.”
Like Hannibal Lecter says, it all starts with what you see. Marino repeats one of his favorite lines, pointing two fingers at his eyes. Rain hammers the roof as we drive through my parking lot, passing the OCME’s small fleet of windowless vans, shiny black like limousines, the crest of Virginia in gray on the doors.
“Point being, it might not be a domestic homicide,” he adds.
“I’m not aware that anyone’s thinking the homicide from Friday night is domestic,” I reply, baffled. “And where did you hear about—”
“I dropped off Dorothy at your house.” Interrupting, he’s barely listening. “We were out running an errand when I heard the call over the scanner. A wellness check at an address two houses down from ours. I didn’t want Dorothy staying alone at our place right now. She’s with Lucy.”
He says he has information about his missing neighbor but it’s not a subject I can discuss easily. Marino isn’t a police officer anymore. He has no official capacity, and Lucy doesn’t either, their new investigative company private. Truth be told, I shouldn’t be comfortably ensconced inside his truck right now, everything black leather and carbon fiber.
His new ride is but one of my sister’s many grand gestures since the two of them got married last year during the worst of the pandemic. He also has a sport boat docked behind their waterfront townhome, a tricked-out Harley-Davidson touring motorcycle in the garage, and an unlimited budget for his growing arsenal.
My sister does well as a graphic novelist, and I’m still getting used to Marino’s newly acquired affluence and management. Hardest for me is not confiding in him like I used to, going back to our earliest years working together. It’s not really possible to ring him up or have a drink, to brainstorm about murder, mayhem or anything much. I wouldn’t dream of discussing cases or anything private, not with my only sibling hovering.
“I think we know what’s happened to the woman whose place you’re headed to.” He slows to a stop at a red light, a lot of churches and funeral homes within a stone’s throw of my headquarters.
“How did you hear about where I’m headed?” I hope it wasn’t over his portable scanner charging on the console, the volume turned down to a faint chatter.
“Maggie called to postpone dinner tonight, saying August Ryan needed you to meet him, and I put two and two together,” Marino says as I glance at more messages landing on my phone, one of them from Lucy:
You with Marino yet? she texts.
In his truck, I answer, and obviously they’ve been in touch and are coconspirators.
Assuming she knows where I’m going and why, there’s no question my niece realizes someone she and Marino gave advice to briefly and informally likely has been murdered.
“Thankfully, Gwen Hainey’s name hasn’t been mentioned over the air, just the address,” Marino is saying as Lucy and I continue texting.
I let her know I’m thinking about her. I’ll see her later. We’ll toast her birthday with something special I’ve been saving since my last trip to France, I promise.
“Do you know Gwen Hainey personally? More than just neighbors and someone you tried to help?” I ask Marino.
“Lucy and I both were around her only once.” He adjusts the defrost while inching along, an accident up ahead. “This wasn’t long after Gwen moved in, we were with her maybe an hour and a half max trying to help out.”
“How did you get involved with her in the first place? Because you both live in the same development?” I’m thinking of my sister, having an idea I know the answer.
“DOROTHY MET HER FIRST,” he confirms my suspicions.
Apparently, Gwen told her that the reason she moved to Old Town was to get away from an ex-boyfriend who’s been stalking her. She gave that as the reason for taking the job at Thor Laboratories.
“In a lot of ways her ex, Jinx Slater, fits the bill of someone who could be violent. But what’s happened might not have anything to do with him,” Marino says.
“Where was Gwen before moving here?” I’m wondering what she told Marino and Lucy compared to what I know from August Ryan.
“Boston, where her ex still lives.” Marino offers me a pack of gum, and I shake my head no thanks. “After MIT, she went to work in that huge lab up there, Red Feather Biomedical.” He crams two sticks of gum into his mouth because he’s desperate to smoke.
“Like Thor they’re in the business of artificial human organs, skin, brain machine interfacing, that sort of thing.” I give him the upshot, blue lights flashing ahead, traffic cops detouring drivers around a crashed black SUV.
For a moment my heart stops. Benton drives a black SUV, but this one is a BMW. It’s not him.
“What can you tell me about the dead lady from Friday night, Doc?” Marino begins his inevitable probing.