"When did she do this?" Marino asked as we walked briskly through the motel's parking lot.
"Right before the funeral," I replied.
"Have you got your car keys?"
"Yeah."
"Then why don't you drive."
I had a nasty headache I blamed on formalin fumes and lack of food and sleep.
"Have you heard from Benton?" I asked as casually as possible.
"There should have been a bunch of messages at the desk for you."
"I came straight to your room. And how would you know if I had a lot of messages?"
"The clerk tried to give'em to me. He figured between the two of us I look like the doctor."
"That's because you look like a man." I rubbed my temples.
"It's mighty white of you to notice."
"Marino, I wish you wouldn't talk like such a racist, because I really don't think you are one."
"How do you like my ride?" His car was a maroon Chevrolet Caprice, fully loaded with flashing lights, a radio, telephone, scanner. It had even come equipped with a mounted video camera and a Winchester stainless steel Marine twelve-gauge shotgun. Pump action, it held seven rounds and was the same model the FBI used.
"My God," I said in disbelief as I got into the car.
"Since when do they need riot guns in Black Mountain, North Carolina?"
"Since now." He cranked the engine.
"Did you request all this?"
"Nope."
"Would you like to explain to me how a ten-person police force can be better equipped than the DEA?"
"Because maybe the people who live around here really understand what community policing's all about. This community's got a bad problem right now, and what's happening is area merchants and concerned citizens are donating shit to help. Like the cars, phones, the shotgun. One of the cops told me some old lady called up just this morning and wanted to know if the federal agents that had come to town to help would like to have Sunday dinner with her."
"Well, that's very nice," I said, baffled.
"Plus, the town council's thinking about making the police department bigger, and I have a suspicion that helps explain some things."
"What things?"
"Black Mountain's gonna need a new chief."
"What happened to the old one?"
"Mote was about as close to a chief as they had."
"I'm still not clear on where you're going with this."
"Hey, maybe where I'm going is right here in this town. Doc. They're looking for an experienced chief and treating me like I'm 007 or something. It don't take a rocket scientist to figure it out."
"Marino, what in God's name is going on with you?" I asked very calmly. He lit a cigarette.
"What? First you don't think I look like a doctor? Now I don't look like a chief, either? I guess to you I don't look like nothing but a Dogtown slob who still talks like he's eating spaghetti with the mob back in Jersey and only takes out women in tight sweaters who tease their hair. " He blew out smoke furiously.
"Hey, just because I like to bowl don't mean I'm some tattooed redneck. And just because I didn't go to all these Ivy League schools like you did don't mean I'm a dumb shit."
"Are you finished?"
"And another thing," he railed on, "there's a lot of really good places to fish around here. They got Bee Tree and Lake James, and except for Montreal and Biltmore, the real estate's pretty cheap. Maybe I'm just sick as shit of drones shooting drones and serial killers costing more to keep alive in the pen than I friggin' get paid to lock their asses up. J/the assholes even stay in the pen, and that's the biggest'if of all. " We had been parked in the Steiner driveway for five minutes now. I stared out at the house lit up wondering if she knew we were here and why.
"Now are you finished?" I asked him.
"No, I ain't finished. I'm just sick of talking."
"In the first place, I didn't go to Ivy League schools…"
"Well, what do you call Johns Hopkins and Georgetown?"
"Marino, goddam it, shut up." He glared out the windshield and lit another cigarette.
"I was a poor Italian brought up in a poor Italian neighborhood just like you were," I said.
"The difference is that I was in Miami and you were in New Jersey. I've never pretended to be better than you, nor have I ever called you stupid. In fact, you're anything but stupid, even if you butcher the English language and have never been to the opera.
"My list of complaints about you all go back to one thing. You're stubborn, and when you're at your worst, you're bigoted and intolerant. In other words, you act toward others the way you suspect they're acting toward you." Marino jerked up the door handle.
"Not only do I not got time for a lecture from you, I ain't interested in one." He threw down his cigarette and stamped it out. We walked in silence to Denesa Steiner's front door, and I had a feeling when she opened it she could sense Marino and I had been fighting. He would not look my way or acknowledge me in any way as she led us to a living room that was unnervingly familiar because I had seen photographs of it before. The decor was country, with an abundance of ruffles, plump pillows, hanging plants, and macrame. Behind glass doors, a gas fire glowed, and numerous clocks did not argue time. Mrs. Steiner was in the midst of watching an old Bob Hope movie on cable. She seemed very tired as she turned off the television and sat in a rocking chair.
"This hasn't been a very good day," she said.
"Well, now, Denesa, there's no way it could have been." Marino sat in a wing chair and gave her his full attention.
"Did you come here to tell me what you found?" she asked, and I realized she was referring to the exhumation.
"We still have a lot of tests to conduct," I told her.
"Then you didn't find anything that will catch that man." She spoke with quiet despair.
"Doctors always talk about tests when they don't know anything. I've learned that much after all I've been through."
"These things take time, Mrs. Steiner."
"Listen," Marino said to her.
"I really am sorry to bother you, Denesa, but we've got to ask you a few more questions. The Doc here wants to ask you some." She looked at me and rocked.
"Mrs. Steiner, there was a gift-wrapped package in Emily's casket that the funeral director says you wanted buried with her," I said.
"Oh, you're talking about Socks," she said matter- of-factly.
"Socks?" I asked.
"She was a stray kitten who started coming around here. I guess that would have been a month or so ago. And of course Emily was such a sensitive thing she started feeding it and that was it. She did love that little cat." She smiled as her eyes teared up.
"She called her Socks because she was pure black except for these perfect white paws." She held out her hands, splaying her fingers.
"It looked like she had socks on."
"How did Socks die?" I carefully asked.
"I don't really know." She pulled tissues from a pocket and dabbed her eyes.
"I found her one morning out in front. This was right after Emily… I just assumed the poor little thing died of a broken heart." She covered her mouth with the tissues and sobbed.
"I'm going to get you something to drink." Marino got up and left the room. His obvious familiarity with both the house and its owner struck me as extremely unusual, and my uneasiness grew.
"Mrs. Steiner," I said gently, leaning forward on the couch.
"Emily's kitten did not die of a broken heart. It died of a broken neck." She lowered her hands and took a deep, shaky breath. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wide as they fixed on me.
"What do you mean?"
"The cat died violently."
"Well, I guess it got hit by a car. That's such a pity. I told Emily I was afraid of that."
"It wasn't hit by a car."
"Do you suppose one of the dogs around here got it?"
"No," I said as Marino returned with what looked like a glass of white wine.
"The kitten was killed by a person. Deliberately."
"How could you know such a thing as that?" She looked terrified, and her hands trembled as she took the wine and set it on the table next to her chair.