I was told she was on her lunch break in the Madison Building cafeteria. At quarter past one, I found Gloria alone at a table, eating vanilla yogurt and canned fruit cocktail. Mostly, she was reading a thick paperback thriller that was a New York Times bestseller, according to the cover.
"If I had to eat lunches like yours, I wouldn't bother," I said, pulling out a chair. She looked up at me, her blank expression followed by joy.
"Goodness gracious! Why, my Lord. What on earth are you doing here, Kay?"
"I work across the street, in case you've forgotten." Delighted, she laughed.
"Can I get you a coffee? Honey, you look tired." Gloria Loving's name had defined her at birth, and she had grown up true to her calling. She was a big, generous woman of some fifty years who deeply cared about every certificate that crossed her desk. Records were more than paper and nosology codes to her, and she would hire, fire, or blast General Assembly in the name of one. It did not matter whose.
"No coffee, thanks," I said.
"Well, I heard you didn't work across the street anymore."
"I love the way people resign me when I've not been here for a couple of weeks. I'm a consultant with the FBI now. I'm in and out a lot."
"In and out of North Carolina, I guess, based on what I've been following in the news. Even Clan Rather was talking about the Steiner girl's case the other night. It was on CNN, too. Lord, it's cold in here."
I looked around at the bleak state government cafeteria where few people seemed thrilled with their lives. Many were huddled over trays, jackets and sweaters buttoned to their chins.
"They've got all the thermostats reset to sixty degrees to conserve energy, if that isn't the joke of all time," Gloria went on.
"We have steam heat that comes out of the Medical College of Virginia, so cutting the thermostats doesn't save one watt of electricity."
"It feels colder in here than sixty degrees," I commented.
"That's because it's fifty-three, which is about what it is outside."
"You're welcome to come across the street and use my office," I said with a sly smile.
"Well, now, that's got to be the warmest spot in town. What can I do to help you, Kay?"
"I need to track down a SIDS that allegedly occurred in California around twelve years ago. The infant's name is Mary Jo Steiner, the parents' names Denesa and Charles."
She made the connection immediately but was too professional to probe.
"Do you know Denesa Steiner's maiden name?"
"Where in California?"
"I don't know that, either," I said.
"Any possibility you can find out? The more information, the better."
"I'd rather you try running what I've got. If that fails, I'll see what else I can find out."
"You said an alleged SIDS. There's some suspicion that maybe it wasn't a SIDS? I need to know in case it might have been coded another way."
"Supposedly, the child was a year old when she died. And that bothers me considerably. As you know, the peak age for SIDS is three to four months old. Over six months old, and SIDS is unlikely. After a year, you're almost always talking about some other subtle form of sudden death. So yes, the death could have been coded a different way." She played with her tea bag.
"If this was Idaho, I'd just call Jane and she could run the nosology code for SIDS and have an answer for me in ninety seconds. But California's got thirty-two million people. It's one of the hardest states. It might take a special run. Come on, I'll walk you out. That will be my exercise for the day. "
"Is the registrar in Sacramento?" We followed a depressing corridor busy with desperate citizens in need of social services.
"Yes. I'm going to call him as soon as I go back upstairs."
"I assume you know him, then."
"Oh, sure." She laughed.
"There are only fifty of us. We have no one to talk to but each other." That night I took Lucy to La Petite France, where I surrendered to Chef Paul, who sentenced us to languid hours of fruit-marinated lamb kabobs and a bottle of 1986 Chateau Gruaud Larose. I promised her crema di cioccolata eletta when we got home, a lovely chocolate mousse with pistachio and mars ala that I kept in the freezer for culinary emergencies. But before that we drove to Shocko Bottom and walked along cobblestones beneath lamplight in a part of the city that not so long ago I would not have ventured near. We were close to the river, and the sky was midnight blue with stars flung wide. I thought of Benton and then I thought of Marino for very different reasons.
"Aunt Kay," Lucy said as we entered Chetti's for cappuccino, "can I get a lawyer?"
"For what purpose?" I asked, although I knew.
"Even if the FBI can't prove what they're saying I did, they'll still slam me for the rest of my life." Pain could not hide behind her steady voice.
"Tell me what you want."
"A big gun."
"I'll find you one," I said.
I did not return to North Carolina on Monday as I had planned but flew to Washington instead. There were rounds to make at FBI headquarters, but more than anything I needed to see an old friend. Senator Frank Lord and I had attended the same Catholic high school in Miami, although not at the same time. He was quite a lot older than I, and our friendship did not begin until I was working for the Dade County Medical Examiner's Office and he was the district attorney. When he became governor, then senator, I was long gone from the southern city of my birth. He and I did not become reconnected until he was appointed chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee. Lord had asked me to be an adviser as he fought to pass the most formidable crime bill in the history of the nation, and I had solicited his help, too. Unbeknownst to Lucy, he had been her patron saint, for without his intervention, she probably would not have been granted either permission or academic credit for her internship this fall. I wasn't certain how to tell him the news. At almost noon, I waited for him on a polished cotton couch in a parlor with rich red walls and Persian rugs and a splendid crystal chandelier. Outside, voices carried along the marble corridor, and an occasional tourist peeked through the doorway in hopes of catching a glimpse of a politician or some other important person inside the Senate dining room. Lord arrived on time and full of energy, and gave me a quick, stiff hug. He was a kind, unassuming man shy about showing affection.
"I got lipstick on your face." I wiped a smudge off his jaw.
"Oh, you should leave it so my colleagues have something to talk about."
"I suspect they have plenty to talk about anyway."
"Kay, it's wonderful to see you," he said, escorting me into the dining room.
"You may not think it's so wonderful," I said.
"Of course I will." We picked a table before a stained-glass window of George Washington on a horse, and I did not look at the menu because it never changed.
Senator Lord was a distinguished man with thick gray hair and deep blue eyes. He was quite tall and lean, and had a penchant for elegant silk ties and old-fashioned finery such as vests, cuff links, pocket watches and stickpins.
"What brings you to D.C.?" he asked, placing his linen napkin in his lap.
"I have evidence to discuss at the FBI labs," I said. He nodded.
"You're working on that awful case in North Carolina."
"Yes."
"That psycho must be stopped. Do you think he's there?"
"I don't know."
"Because I'm just wondering why he would be," Lord went on.
"It would seem he would have moved on to another place where he could lay low for a while. Well, I suppose logic has little to do with the decisions these evil people make."
"Frank," I said, "Lucy's in a lot of trouble."
"I can tell something's wrong," he said matter-of factly