Autopsy (Kay Scarpetta, #25)(89)

I close the file, having heard as much as I can stand at the moment.

“Where do you suppose she heard about Cammie Ramada?” I ask rhetorically because I can guess.

“Only two suspects I can think of, and I don’t think Fruge did it,” Marino says.

“Maggie. So, she can blame me for creating a carnival, as she puts it, and do so on national television.”

“If Elvin Reddy wasn’t pissed before,” Marino replies, “now he’s really going to rip you a new one.”

“Thanks for that. I feel much better.”

“You got any bourbon in the house?” he says. “Something strong like Booker’s, because I plan to get into it.”





CHAPTER 35


EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, we find ourselves inside his big bad truck again as the sun begins peeking above the dark horizon. The pale crescent moon reminds me of fingernail clippings I took in the morgue last night, my mood foul and impenetrable.

The way I feel is the antithesis of the weather, and that’s good at least. Skies are clear, the temperature in the low forties, and it’s a fine day for flying, but the winds are picking up dramatically.

“Twenty knots and getting stronger, and we’d better hope it’s blowing in our favor.” I’m looking at my weather app while Marino starts on a second Egg McMuffin. “If the wind is on our nose, it will take forever to get there.”

“How long is forever?” He reaches for his coffee.

“Long enough for you to be miserable.” I’ll just keep warning him. “Drinking a large coffee isn’t the smartest plan right before boarding a helicopter. It might help your headache but soon enough you’ll have a more pressing problem.”

I told him the same thing when he decided to stop at McDonald’s, and he didn’t listen. But in all honesty, he’s a little hungover. It was a long night, everybody gathering in the kitchen, including my sister after sleeping off her margaritas.

Marino got into the bourbon with a vengeance while I whipped up a parmesan frittata, and a tomato and cucumber salad tossed with olive oil and sea salt. As best I could, I explained what’s going on, telling them about my unexpected trip to Richmond. I’ve been ordered back to my professional roots, the former capital of the Confederacy.

I’m about to be called on the carpet by the health commissioner. Possibly, he’s incensed because of what’s all over the media about a serial killer on the loose. But I don’t talk about my fear of being fired. If that’s what really happens, I’ll deal with it then.

“There’s no bathroom on board,” I remind Marino as he takes the exit for Reagan National Airport, the traffic almost normal at this early hour. “What do you think will happen after drinking all that coffee? Nothing good.”

“Lucy’s landed in a field before,” he says with a shrug, pretending he’s not nervous about what’s ahead.

In addition to being a terrible passenger whether on the ground or in the air, he’s worried about me. He’s also worried about himself, maybe most of all, because that’s human nature. Once Elvin Reddy hands me my walking papers, assuming that’s the case, what happens to my new forensic operations specialist?

As much as Marino loves Virginia, he won’t want to stay if Benton and I are forced to relocate again. Lucy probably won’t hang around, either. I might not be working cases anymore period, end of story, and that’s about as much as I can contemplate at the moment without getting completely dispirited.

“The big advantage of choppers is you can set them down anywhere.” Marino goes on as if he has no fear of heights or someone else in control. “You know how many times Lucy’s landed on farms and places like that when a pit stop was called for and nothing else was close? Point being, you don’t need a bathroom if push comes to shove.”

“There’s no push coming to shove when a TSA escort is riding shotgun,” I reply. “We’re not allowed to set down anywhere that’s not on the flight plan. Not even at another airport along the way. Your only choice will be to hold it or have a pee bottle handy.”

“Okay, okay.” He returns the coffee to the cupholder, stuffing the last of his breakfast sandwich into his mouth.

Moments later, we’ve parked at the airport’s Marine Air Terminal, where he makes a beeline for the men’s room. Lucy is waiting in the lounge area, and I’ve not seen her in a flight suit in a while. She has on a baseball cap, sunglasses, her favorite flying boots, and there’s an energy, a lightness of spirit that’s been absent for too long.

“How’s he doing this morning?” She’s well aware of how much bourbon he threw back last night.

She also knows that he doesn’t like riding in the back of anything, getting far more anxious than he lets on.

“Other than drinking too much coffee?” I look around, seeing a lot of Transportation Security Agency (TSA) officers, and few other passengers or pilots inside the spacious old terminal.

“That wasn’t very smart,” she says as we watch him emerge from the bathroom, looking ominous in jeans and a tactical jacket.

“He’s worried about flying with you. Thinks you’re rusty,” I tell Lucy.

“Good,” she replies with a sly smile.

“What’s good?” Marino says, reaching us.