Blow Fly (Kay Scarpetta #12)(56)

"I can call an ambulance," Nic says. "Not much else I can do, ma'am. I'm not a doctor."

A look takes over the woman's face, making it harsher in the glow of the parking lot lamps.

"No, I don't need an ambulance. Like I said, I have this happen all the time." She tries to get up.

"Then why do you have just one bruise?"

"I always fall the same way."

Nic keeps her distance. She has no intention of offering further assistance. The woman is dirty, maybe mentally ill, and Nic knows better than to tangle with that type. They can be contagious, unpredictable, even violent if one has physical contact with them. The woman is on her feet now, favoring her left leg.

"Believe I'll get me a coffee and rest for a bit," she says. "I'll be fine, just fine."

Slowly, she limps away from the Chevrolet, back toward the store.

Nic softens. She digs in a pocket of her jeans as she trots after the woman.

"Here." She hands her a five-dollar bill.

The woman smiles, her quick dark eyes hot on Nic's.

"God bless you." She clutches the money. "You're a lamb," she says.

48

THE DOOR ACROSS THE HALLWAY opens and an older man in an undershirt and sweatpants studies Marino suspiciously.

"What's all the racket about?" he inquires, his gray hair sticking up Jike the bristles of a hedgehog, his wrinkled face patchy with stubble, his eyes puffy and bJoodshot.

Marino knows the look all too well. The mans been drinking, probably since he got up and downed his first eye-opener.

"You seen Tom?" Marino asks, sweating and struggling for air.

"Can't say I really know him. Don't have a heart attack. I can't do CPR, although ? am familiar with the Heimlich maneuver."

"He promised to meet me"-Marino catches a breath-"and I came all the friggin' way from California."

"You did?" The man is very curious now and steps out into the hallway. "What for?"

"What do you mean, what for?" Marino recovers enough to snap at him, as if it is any of the man's business. " 'Cause the friggin' gold rush's over. 'Cause I'm tired of sittin' on the friggin' dock of the bay. 'Cause I got bored being a friggin' movie star."

"If you were in the movies, I've never seen you, and I rent movies all the time. What else is there to do around here?"

"Have you seen Tom?" Marino persists, trying in vain to force the knob by turning it hard and shaking the door.

"I was asleep when you started all the racket," says the man, who looks at least sixty and a bit deranged. "I haven't seen Tom and don't care for the likes of him, if you get my drift."

He scrutinizes Marino.

"What do you mean, the likes of him?"

"Homo."

"That's news to me, not that I give a shit what people do, as long as I ain't around to see it. He bringing men to his apartment or something? 'Cause I'm not sure I want to get in if..."

"Oh, no. Never saw him bring anybody to his apartment. But another homo in the building who wears leather and earrings told me he's seen Tom in some of those bars where homos go and pick each other up for a quick visit to the bathroom."

"Listen, jerkface, I'm supposed to be subletting this dump from the son of a bitch," Marino heatedly informs the man. "Already paid him the first three months' rent, and drove from California to get the key and move in. All my stuff's down there in my damn truck."

"That would really piss me off "

"No joke, Sherlock."

"I mean, really piss me off Who's Sherlock? Oh, yes. That detective with the hat and pipe. I don't read violent books."

"So if you hear any noise coming from this apartment, ignore it. If I have to use dynamite, I'm getting in."

"You don't really mean that," the old man worries.

"Right," Marino says sarcastically. "I walk around with dynamite in my pockets. I'm a suicide bomber with a New Jersey accent. Know how to fly planes, just can't take off or land."

The old man disappears inside his apartment, and a burglar chain rattles.

49

MARINO STUDIES the hollow metal door of unit 56. Some twelve inches above the knob is a deadbolt lock. He lights a cigarette, squinting through smoke at the enemy: a cheap brass knob with a push-button lock and the more problematic single cylinder dead bolt. None of the other doors along the hallway have dead bolts, confirming Marino's suspicion that Benton installed the lock himself. Knowing him, he opted for a jimmy-proof deadbolt that neither a thief nor a hit man nor an aggravated Marino can drill through without a spring-actuated plate sliding shut like a bank window and foiling the drill bit. One security risk that Benton couldn't have done much about was the door frame, which is a thin strip of metal screwed into wood.

Piece of cake, Marino says to himself as he unsnaps a bucktool from his belt and slides it out of its worn leather sheath.

The hinges are the common loose-pin variety, and Marino unfolds a pair of pliers from his all-purpose tool, attacks the pin and works it out of the hinge like a cork out of a bottle. Soon, three pins are on the floor, the door free on the left side. With two powerful yanks, Marino breaks the locks loose from the metal jamb. Inside the apartment, he props the door against the opening to give himself a little privacy. He flips on the overhead lights.