No one is supposed to know about PREDATOR except the study team, the hospital’s president, the Internal Review Board and certain key prison officials. Even the normal subjects in the study don’t know the name of it or what it is about. Marino couldn’t know unless he has somehow broken into her e-mail or the hard copies she keeps locked up in file drawers. For the first time, it occurs to her that if anyone is breaching security, it might be him.
“What are you talking about?” she asks quietly.
“Maybe you should be more careful about forwarding files, make sure nothing is attached to them,” he replies.
“Forwarding what files?”
“The notes you typed up after your first meeting with Darling Dave about that shaken baby case he wants everyone to think is an accident.”
“I didn’t forward any notes to you.”
“Sure as hell did. Sent this past Friday, didn’t happen to open it until after I saw you on Sunday. Notes accidentally attached to an e-mail to you fromBenton. An e-mail I sure as hell wasn’t supposed to see.”
“I didn’t,” she insists with growing alarm. “I didn’t send you anything.”
“Maybe not on purpose. Funny how lies catch up with people,” he says as a light knock sounds at the door.
“Is that why you didn’t show up at my house Sunday night? Why you didn’t show up for the meeting with Dave yesterday morning?”
“Excuse me,” Rose says as she lets herself in. “I think one of you should handle this.”
“You could have said something, given me a chance to defend myself,” Scarpetta says to him. “I may not always tell you everything, but I don’t lie.”
“Lying by omission is still lying.”
“Excuse me,” Rose tries again.
“PREDATOR,” Marino says to Scarpetta. “Try that lie on for size.”
“Mrs. Simister,” Rose interrupts them loudly. “The lady from the church who called a little while ago. I’m sorry, but it seems rather urgent.”
Marino makes no move to go to the phone, as if to remind Scarpetta that he doesn’t work for her, that she can take the call herself.
“Oh for God’s sake,” she says, walking back to her desk. “Put her through.”
24
Marino digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leans against the doorway, watching her deal with whoever Mrs. Simister is.
In the old days, he used to enjoy sitting in Scarpetta’s office for hours, listening to her while he drank coffee and smoked. He didn’t mind asking her to explain what he didn’t understand, didn’t mind waiting when she was interrupted, which was often. He didn’t mind when she was late.
Things are different now, and it’s her damn fault. He doesn’t intend to wait for her. He doesn’t want her to explain anything and would rather remain ignorant than ask her a medical question, professional or personal, even if he was dying, and he used to ask her whatever he wanted. Then she betrayed him. She humiliated him and meant to, and is doing it again and means to, no matter what she says. She has always rationalized whatever suits her, done hurtful things in the name of logic and science, as if she thinks he is so stupid he’ll never see through it.
It’s no different than what happened toDoris. She came home one day crying, and he couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad but he knew she was upset, maybe as upset as he had ever seen her.
“What’s the matter? He going to have to pull your tooth?” Marino asked her as he drank beer in his favorite chair and watched the news.
Dorissat down on the sofa and sobbed.
“Shit. What is it, baby?”
She covered her face and cried as if someone were about to die, so Marino sat next to her and put his arm around her. He held her for a few minutes, and when no information was forthcoming, he demanded she tell him what the hell was wrong.
“He touched me,” she said, crying. “I knew it wasn’t right and I kept asking him why, but he said to relax, that he’s a doctor, and a part of me knew what he was doing but I was scared. I should have known better, should have said no but I just didn’t know what to do,” and she went on to explain that the dentist or root canal specialist or whatever the hell he called himself said Doris possibly had a systemic infection because of a root fracture and he needed to check her glands. That was the word he used, according toDoris.
Glands.
“Hold on,” Scarpetta is saying to whoever Mrs. Simister is. “Let me put you on speakerphone. I have an investigator sitting right here.”
She gives Marino a look, indicating she is concerned about what she is hearing, and he tries to chaseDorisout of his thoughts. He still thinks about her often, and it seems the older he gets, the more he remembers what went on between them and the way he felt when the dentist touched her and the way he felt when she left him for that car salesman, that fucking loser car salesman. Everybody leaves him. Everybody betrays him. Everybody wants what he has. Everybody thinks he’s too stupid to figure out their plots and manipulations. The last few weeks, it has been almost more than he can stand.
Now this. Scarpetta lies about the study up there. Excludes him. Degrades him. Helps herself to whatever she wants when it suits her, treats him like he’s nothing.
“I wish I had more information.” Mrs. Simister’s voice enters the room, and she sounds as old as Methuselah. “I certainly hope something bad hasn’t happened, but I fear it. It’s just awful when the police don’t care.”
Marino has no idea what Mrs. Simister is talking about or who she is or why she is calling theNationalForensicAcademy, and he can’t exorciseDorisfrom his head. He wishes he had done more than threaten the damn dentist or root canal specialist or whatever the hell he was. He should have destroyed the asshole’s face and maybe broken a few of his fingers.
“Explain to Investigator Marino what you mean by the police not caring,” Scarpetta says over speakerphone.
“The last I saw any sign of life over there was this past Thursday night, and when I realized everybody was gone without a trace, I called nine-one-one right away and they sent a police officer to the house and then he called a detective. She obviously doesn’t care.”
“You’re talking about theHollywoodpolice,” Scarpetta says, looking at Marino.
“Yes. A Detective Wagner.”
Marino rolls his eyes. This is unbelievable. With all his bad luck of late, he doesn’t need this.
He asks from the doorway, “You talking about Reba Wagner?”
“What?” the querulous voice asks.
He steps closer to the phone on the desk and repeats his question.
“All I know is the initials on her card are R. T. So I suppose it could be Reba.”
Marino rolls his eyes again and taps his head, indicating that Detective R. T. Wagner is as dumb as a rock.
“She looked around the yard and the house and said there was no sign of foul play. She felt they ran off on their own and said there’s nothing the police can do about it.”
“Do you know these people?” Marino asks.
“I live right across the water from them. And I go to their church. I just know something bad has happened.”
“All right,” Scarpetta says. “What is it you’re asking us to do, Mrs. Simister?”
“To at least look at the house. You see, the church rents it, and they’ve kept it locked up since they disappeared. But the lease is up in three months, and the landlord says he’ll let the church out of it without a penalty because he’s got someone else to rent it. Some of the ladies at the church plan to go over there first thing in the morning and start packing up. Then what happens to any clues?”
“All right,” Scarpetta says again. “I tell you what we’ll do. We’re going to call Detective Wagner. We can’t go in the house without permission from the police. We don’t have jurisdiction unless they ask for our help.”
“I understand. Thank you very much. Please do something.”