Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(81)

I went so far as to become an ordained minister by mail so I could marry them in Benton’s and my Cambridge backyard. I wanted their relationship to work, didn’t matter the complications it would cause. Most of all, I wanted Marino to be happy. As long as I’ve known him, he’s been trying to fill an emptiness that goes back to his earliest years in the wrong part of New Jersey.

No one quicker to fill a void, no one more exciting than Dorothy. She dotes on him, and has plenty of money, but it can’t replace what he lost when he and I stopped working together.

“I’m sorry I can’t talk about what Benton and I were doing in D.C. I wish I could tell you everything.” I look over at Marino’s strong profile in the glow of taillights ahead, chewing gum, wishing he were smoking.

I know what it is to want what you can’t have. When I was a child taking care of my father as he was dying of cancer, I wanted him to get better. I wanted it more than anything. I wanted him in my life, and I’ve never stopped wanting it.

“Look, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Marino says. “I’m wondering if your being at the White House might be related to where we’re headed this minute. Maybe what’s going on in Alexandria is of interest because of Gwen Hainey’s spying.”

“As they say in quantum physics, everything’s connected,” I reply, and out my window is the Mount Vernon Trail, the dark void of Daingerfield Island just ahead. “Her illegal activities have caused a number of catastrophes even if indirectly, and I shouldn’t tell you even that much.”

“The funny thing is her killer may not have known anything about what she was doing. That’s not why he targeted her,” Marino says, and I agree with him, thinking about what was inside Gwen’s townhome.

“If her killer knew she was a spy, and that’s the motive? Then why leave her laptops and other electronic devices? Why leave thousands of dollars in her wallet?” I point out.

“Because he was more caught up in the thrill of the hunt,” Marino says. “He didn’t show up to steal anything, and it seems he didn’t except maybe her phone.”

“Cammie’s phone was never found, either,” I reply as we take the exit for the park.

Following the only road leading in and out, we pass the shadowy shapes of moored boats shrink-wrapped in plastic for the winter, scores of them dry-docked, with just as many in the water. Parking lots are empty, buildings dark, no sign anyone is here but us.

“Geez.” He drives slowly through the billowing mist, and at least the drizzle has stopped. “You wouldn’t catch me jogging out here at this hour. I can’t imagine anyone doing that, especially a woman alone.”

“People get lulled into a sense of false security. They leave their doors open, don’t lock their windows. They let a stranger inside to use the phone, and these days post their most personal information online.”

The woods are dense, and crisscrossed with narrow access roads that the park police patrol. Typically, they make their presence known when there are large crowds or if a presidential motorcade is passing by on the George Washington Memorial Parkway.

It’s not possible to have a constant presence, and I wouldn’t expect to see the police or anybody else out here in these conditions. Nothing is lighted except the paved fitness path that’s just wide enough for cyclists and runners to pass each other. Iron lamps dimly nudge the foggy darkness, and in poor visibility like this you’d better pay attention to where you’re going.

“No question you’d be a sitting duck if someone was hiding out here, waiting.” Marino parks near a grassy clearing, cutting the lights and the engine.

We sit quietly in his truck for a moment, looking out at the river obscured by rolling fog, and it was right around here where Cammie lost a shoe and drowned. She didn’t end up by the river on her own. If I had the slightest doubt before, I don’t anymore.

“All you have to do is look around,” I say to Marino. “That’s the most glaring thing wrong with this case. Even if you could explain everything else? There’s no logical reason why she ended up on the other side of the woods with her face in the water.”

“Unless she was meeting somebody,” he considers. “It’s within the realm of possibility that whoever killed her was someone she knew, maybe someone she’d agreed to hook up with.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute.” I wrap my gum in a tissue, tucking it in a jacket pocket, setting an example Marino is certain to ignore. “No way she came out here to meet anyone.” I open my door.

We climb out to the roar of jets we can’t see flying in and out of Reagan National less than two miles north of here. Behind us are the woods, and no one would run through them voluntarily. After dark it would be treacherous, especially if one were panicking.

There was no one to hear Cammie crashing through underbrush, weaving through trees, gasping for breath, possibly screaming. I imagine her running blindly, getting bruised and lashed by branches and other foliage before emerging into the opening where Marino and I are standing.

“It was overcast after raining most of the day, and there wasn’t much of a moon the night of April tenth,” I describe, checking the weather app again. “Once she left the path, she wasn’t going to be able to see very well if at all.”

“She freaked out and bolted.” Marino opens the back of his truck, getting out my scene case. “That’s the only reason I can think of for her ending up here by the water. She was trying to get away from someone.”