But somehow Shrew didn’t think so, and her intuition gave rise to an awful speculation she’d never before considered. How did she know she didn’t work for a terrorist organization that used the infamous, highly profitable Internet gossip column to subliminally communicate with extremist sympathizers and spread propaganda and, most important, fund terrorist plots?
Shrew didn’t know. But if she was right, it was simply a matter of time before someone came looking for her, either Homeland Security or a member of the very terrorist sect behind Shrew’s highly secretive and, frankly, suspicious job—one she had never uttered a word about to anyone.
To her knowledge, the only people who knew she worked for Gotham Gotcha were the Italian agent who had hired her over the phone (a man she’d never met and whose name she didn’t know), and the anonymous celebrity who actually wrote the columns and e-mailed them to Shrew for a light copyedit and format. Then she’d post them, and the programming would do the rest, and the columns would go live at one minute past midnight. If terrorists were involved, then Dr. Scarpetta was a target. They were trying to destroy her professionally and personally, and her life could be in danger.
Shrew needed to warn her.
How could she do that without admitting she was the anonymous system administrator for the anonymous website?
She couldn’t.
She pondered this as she sat in front of her computer, staring out her window at the police car, wondering if there might be a way to get an anonymous message to her.
At the very moment she was having these paranoid and decidedly unpleasant thoughts, someone pounded on her door, startling her. Maybe it was that strange young man in the apartment across from hers. Like most people who had caring families, he had gone away for the holidays. Maybe he was back and wanted to borrow something or ask a question.
She looked through the peephole and was shocked to see a big rugged face, a balding head, and out-of-style wire-rimmed glasses.
Oh God in heaven.
She snatched up the phone and called 911.
Inside Bellevue’s cafeteria, Benton Wesley and Jaime Berger sat in a pink booth against the back wall, where they could have privacy. People who didn’t recognize Berger often noticed her anyway.
She had compelling good looks, was of medium height and slim, with deep blue eyes and lustrous dark hair. Always smartly dressed, today she wore a charcoal cashmere blazer, a button-up black sweater, a black skirt with a slit in back, and black pumps with small silver buckles on the sides. Berger wasn’t provocative, but she wasn’t afraid to look like a woman. It was well known that if the attention of lawyers, cops, or violent offenders began wandering over her physical landscape, she’d lean close, point at her eyes, and say, “Look here. Look right here when I’m talking to you.”
She reminded him of Scarpetta. Her voice had the same low timbre that commanded attention because it didn’t ask for it, her features similar in their keenness, and her physical architectural style completely to his liking, simple lines that led to generous curves. He had his fetishes. He admitted it. But as he had emphasized to Dr. Thomas a short while ago over the phone, he was faithful to Scarpetta and always would be. Even in his imagination, he was faithful to her, would instantly change channels when his fantasies strayed to erotic dramas that didn’t feature her. He would never cheat on her. Never.
His behavior hadn’t always been so virtuous. What Dr. Thomas had said was true. He’d cheated on his first wife, Connie, and if he was honest about it, the betrayal had begun early on when he’d decided it was perfectly admissible and, in fact, healthy to enjoy the same magazines and movies other males did, especially during his four monk-like months at the FBI Academy when there was little to do at night except have a few beers in the Board-room, then return to his dorm where he could briefly relieve his stress and escape his uptight life.
He had maintained this clandestine but healthy sexual routine throughout his sensible marriage until he and Scarpetta had worked one too many cases together and ended up in the Travel-Eze Motel. He’d lost his wife and half of a considerable inheritance, and their three daughters continued to have nothing to do with him. To this day, some of his former colleagues from his FBI past still had no respect for him, or at least they blamed it on his morals. He didn’t care.
Worse than not caring and a vacuum where there should be a spark of remorse was the truth that he would do it all again, if he could. And he did do it all again, often, in his mind. He would replay that scene in the motel room, where he was bleeding from cuts that required stitches, and Scarpetta had tended to him. She’d barely dressed his wounds before he was undressing her. It was beyond fantasy.
What always struck him when he looked back on it was how he’d managed to work around her for the better part of five years and not succumb sooner. The more he’d flipped back through the pages of his life during his talks with Dr. Thomas, the more amazed he was by a number of things, not the least of which was Scarpetta’s imperviousness. She honestly hadn’t known how he felt, was far more aware of how she felt. Or at least that’s what she told him when he’d admitted that with rare exception, whenever she’d seen him with his briefcase in his lap, it meant he was hiding an erection.
Including the first time we met?
Probably.
In the morgue?
Yes.
Reviewing cases in that awful conference room of yours at Quantico, going through reports, photographs, having those relentless, endless, serious conversations?
Especially then. Afterward, when I’d walk you back to your car, it was all I could do not to get in it and . . .
If I’d known,Scarpetta had told him one night, when they were drinking a lot of wine, I would have seduced you immediately instead of wasting five goddamn years singing solo.
Singing solo? Do you mean . . . ?
Just because I work around dead people doesn’t mean I am one.
“This is the main reason I’m not going to,” Jaime Berger was saying to Benton. “Political correctness. Political sensitivity. Are you paying any attention to me at all?”
“Yes. If I seem glazed, I’m slightly sleep-deprived.”
“The last thing I want is a perception of prejudice. Especially now, when there’s much more public awareness about dwarfism and the misconceptions and stereotypes historically associated with it. This morning’s Post, for example. The headline about this big.” She held her hands about two inches apart. “ Midget Murder.Horrible. Exactly what we don’t want, and I expect a backlash, especially if other news sources pick it up and it’s all the hell over the place.” Her eyes were on his, and she paused. “Unfortunately, I can’t control the press any more than you can.”
She said it as if she meant something else.
It was the something else that Benton was anticipating. He knew damn well the Terri Bridges case wasn’t Berger’s only agenda. He’d made a tactical error. He should have brought up the Gotham Gotcha column while he’d had the chance.