"Which theory?" Marino tried to cut into his fried steak with a fork, and when that didn't work, he reached for the pepper and AI. sauce.
"Temple Gault," Wesley said.
"It would appear that you aren't looking for him anymore."
"I didn't say nothing like that."
"Marino," I said, "what about this hit-and-run business?" He raised his hand and motioned for the waitress.
"Dot, I guess I'm going to need a sharp knife. The hit-and-run is important because this guy's got a history of violence. The local people are real antsy about him because of that and also because he paid a lot of attention to Emily Steiner. So I'm just letting you know that's what's going down."
"How would that theory explain the human skin in Ferguson's freezer?" I asked.
"And by the way, the blood type is the same as Emily's. We're still waiting on DNA."
"Wouldn't explain it worth a damn." Dot returned with a serrated knife, and Marino thanked her. He sawed into his fried steak. Wesley nibbled broiled flounder, staring down at his plate for long intervals while his VI CAP partner talked.
"Listen, for all we know, Ferguson did the kid. And sure, we can't rule out the possibility Gault's in town, and I'm not saying we should."
"What more do we know about Ferguson?" Wesley asked.
"And are you aware that the print lifted from the panties he was wearing comes back to Denesa Steiner?"
"That's because the panties was stolen from her house the night the squirrel busted in and snatched her kid. Remember? She said while she was in the closet she thought she heard him going through her drawers, and later was suspicious he took some of her clothing. "
"That and the skin in his freezer certainly cause me to want to look very hard at this guy," Wesley said.
"Is there any possibility he'd had contact with Emily in the past?"
I interjected, "Because of his profession, he certainly would have had reason to know about the cases in Virginia, about Eddie Heath. He could have tried to make the Steiner murder mimic something else. Or maybe he got the idea from what happened in Virginia."
"Ferguson was squirrelly," Marino said, sawing off another piece of meat.
"That much I can tell you, but nobody around here seemed to know a whole hell of a lot."
"How long did he work for the SBI?" I asked.
"Going on ten years. Before that he was a state trooper, and before that he was in the army."
"He was divorced?" Wesley asked.
"You mean there's somebody who ain't?" Wesley was quiet.
"Divorced twice. Got an ex-wife in Tennessee and one in Enka. Four kids all grown and living the hell all over the place."
"What does his family have to say about him?" I asked.
"You know, it's not like I've been here for six months." Marino reached for the AI. sauce again. "} can only talk to so many people in one day, and that's only if I'm lucky enough to get them the first or second time I call.
And seeing's how you two haven't been here and all of this has been dumped in my lap, I hope you won't take it personal if I say that there's only so much goddam time in a day."
"Pete, we understand that," Wesley said in his most reasonable tone.
"And that's why we're here. We are well aware there is a lot of investigating to do. Maybe even more than I originally thought, because nothing's fitting together right. It seems this case is going in at least three different directions and I'm not seeing many connections, except that I really want to look hard at Ferguson. We do have forensic evidence that points at him. The skin in his freezer. Denesa Steiner's lingerie. "
"They got good cherry cobbler here," Marino said, looking for the waitress. She was standing just outside the kitchen door watching him, waiting for his slightest signal.
"How many times have you eaten here?" I asked him.
"I got to eat somewhere, isn't that right. Dot?" He raised his voice as our ever-vigilant waitress appeared. Wesley and I ordered coffee.
"Why, honey, wasn't your salad all right?" She was sincerely distressed.
"It was fine," I assured her.
"I'm just not as hungry as I thought."
"You want me to wrap that up for you?"
"No, thank you." When she moved on, Wesley got around to telling Marino what we knew about the forensic evidence. We talked for a while about the pith wood and the duct tape, and by the time Marino's cobbler had been served and eaten and he had started smoking again, we had pretty much exhausted the conversation. Marino had no more idea what the blaze orange flame-retardant duct tape or pith wood meant than we did.
"Damn," he said again.
"That's just strange as shit. I haven't come across a thing that would fit with any of that."
"Well," said Wesley, whose attention was beginning to drift, "the tape is so unusual that someone around here has to have seen it before. If it's from around here. And if it isn't, I'm confident we'll track it down." He pushed back his chair.
"I'll take care of this." I picked up the bill.
"They don't take American Express here," Marino said.
"It's one-fifty now." Wesley got up.
"Let's meet back at the hotel at six and work out a plan."
"I hate to remind you," I said to him.
"But it's a motel, not a hotel, and at the moment you and I don't have a car."
"I'll drop you at the Travel-Eze. Your car should already be there waiting. And Benton, we can find you one, too, if you think you're gonna need it," Marino said as if he were Black Mountain's new chief of police, or perhaps the mayor.
"I don't know what I'm going to need right now," he said.
13
Detective Mote had been moved to a private room and was in stable but guarded condition when I went to see him later that day. Not knowing my way around town very well, I'd resorted to the hospital gift shop, where they had but a very small selection of flower arrangements to choose from behind refrigerated glass.
"Detective Mote?" I hesitated in his doorway. He was propped up in bed dozing, the TV on loud.
"Hi," I said a little louder. He opened his eyes and for an instant had no idea who I was. Then he remembered and smiled as if he'd been dreaming of me for days.
"Well, Lord have mercy. Dr. Scarpetta. Now I never would've thought you'd still be hanging'round here."
"I'm sorry about the flowers. They didn't have much to choose from downstairs." I carried in a pitiful bunch of mums and daisies in a thick green vase.
"How about if I just put them right here?"
I set the arrangement on the dresser, and felt sad that his only other flowers were more pathetic than mine.
"There's a chair right there if you can sit for a minute."
"How are you feeling?" I asked. He was pale and thinner, and his eyes looked weak as he stared out the window at a lovely fall day.
"Well, I'm just trying to go with the flow, like they say," he said.
"It's hard to know what's around the corner, but I'm thinking about fishing and the woodworking I like to do. You know, I've been wanting for years to build a little cabin someplace. And I like to whittle walking sticks from basswood."
"Detective Mote," I said hesitantly, for I did not want to upset him, "has anyone from your department come to visit?"
"Why sure," he answered as he continued staring out at a stunning blue sky.
"A couple fellas have dropped by or else called."
"How do you feel about what's going on in the Steiner investigation?"
"Not too good."
"Why?"
"Well, I'm not there, for one thing. For another, it seems like everybody's riding off in his own direction. I'm worried about it some."
"You've been involved in the case from the start," I said.
"You must have known Max Ferguson pretty well."
"I guess not as well as I thought."
"Are you aware that he's a suspect?"
"I know it. I know all about it." The sun through the window made his eyes so pale they seemed made of water. He blinked several times and dabbed tears caused by bright light or emotion. He talked some more.