The FBI’s DNA, not Marino’s, will be all over the house.
“That’s the NTSB’s conclusion or yours?” I inquire.
“Took off in an overloaded aircraft, failed to maintain airspeed, possible the nine-year-old daughter, Sally, might have been at the controls—”
“A nine-year-old child was flying the plane?”
“She’d been taking lessons, apparently was quite skilled, a lot of media attention about the latest little Amelia Earhart.”
Live feeds from headquarters, I think. Search engines chugging through the news and downloading it to Burke so she can ambush me while she’s got the chance. I could walk out, leave.
“Anyway, the plane went into a stall after taking off from Nantucket. One hundred percent pilot error. One hundred percent parental error.” Burke says it judgmentally.
“That’s very sad. I’m sure a father would never mean to make such an error,” I reply. “And what did Peggy Lynn do in life after her entire family was gone?”
“It appears she received a few public-service awards that made the news,” Burke says. “Volunteer work with the elderly, teaching them hobbies, arts and crafts. Exactly how long do you think she’s been dead?” she asks, as if I’ve yet to answer that.
The black granite countertop is neat and mostly bare, a pad of paper and a pen next to the phone, and I notice a six-ounce pouch of salmon-flavored cat treats that has been torn open and resealed.
“I think this should be collected.” I nudge the cat treats with my gloved finger, and the space beneath it is free of dust.
Burke stares at the bag on the counter without stepping closer, a blank expression on her splotchy face.
“The cat appears to be missing,” I remind her. “And it appears someone gave it treats, which suggests the cat wasn’t missing while the house was still occupied.”
“She would have taken the cat with her wherever she went when she left here.” Her voice is nasal. “And she obviously left here, and I would say willingly as opposed to having been abducted. And it’s obvious that when she left this house she wasn’t coming back for a while.” She fires this off at me as if I’m trying her patience and have about used it up.
“So she left with her cat but without her car, possibly for Illinois or Florida, and along the way something happened that ended with her being dumped in the bay,” I summarize what is illogical.
“We can’t assume she wasn’t meeting up with someone.” She pulls a fresh tissue out of her Tyvek sleeve. “Someone who perhaps picked her up, which is why her car’s still here. That maybe she got involved with the wrong person, someone she met on the Internet, for example.”
The cat bowls are on a mat on the floor near the door leading outside, and one is empty, and the other has a hard residue, what’s left of wet food.
“You’ve known Pete Marino a long time,” Burke says.
“I would collect it,” I repeat my suggestion about the cat treats. “It strikes me as out of place. Nothing else is left out and opened. It should go to the labs to be checked for fingerprints, for DNA. It’s best you don’t touch it.”
She’s wiping her nose and sneezing. Her gloves aren’t clean.
“Benton’s told me a little bit about him.” She intends to ignore me about the cat, and I won’t let her.
“One dish is empty because the water would have evaporated,” I continue. “The other dish had food in it and wasn’t washed. Sometimes it’s the one little thing that doesn’t seem to matter.”
“A troubled volatile marriage. Abusive to his wife.”
“I’m not aware he was abusive to Doris. Not physically,” I say, and I can’t imagine Doris’s shock if she picked up the phone or opened her door and the FBI was there to question her about Marino.
“A son who was involved in organized crime and was murdered in Poland.” Burke is looking at her phone.
I can take care of the bag myself, but I prefer not to because it’s not related to the body, it’s not biological, and I open my scene case. Burke has left me no choice. I collect the cat treats and label the bag and initial it.
“You shouldn’t dismiss the possibility that whoever might be responsible for what happened to her has been inside this house after the fact.” I continue thinking about the missing house keys and pocketbook. I think about a car key left in an expensive antique Lalique bowl where someone fastidious about her belongings would never keep keys or any items that might break or scratch delicate glass or polished old wood.
“The case in Virginia about nine years ago, by which time Marino was working for you.” Burke is relentless, not the least bit subtle about it anymore. “You returned to Richmond, were called in as a consultant on the unsolved death of a little girl named Gilly Paulsson.”
So now the search engines have found that, I think.
“While you and Marino were there he had a problem,” she says.
That wouldn’t be on the Internet, and it’s unlikely Marino told her. Maybe Benton did. It’s also possible Gilly Paulsson’s mother has been questioned already, I suppose. Lucy knows what Marino was accused of, but she would never talk to Douglas Burke or give her the time of day.
“A charge that was proven to be completely unfounded.” I try not to be too adamant or show my anticipation of what I’m certain is next.
“No report was ever filed with the police.” Burke types another e-mail.
“There was no report because it was a groundless accusation made by a disturbed individual who Marino was unwise enough to get involved with,” I tell her.
“It seems he’s done his share of unwise things.”
“If you look at most people’s relationships, they include a lot of unwise things.”
“I don’t think his list is exactly typical.”
“No, it probably isn’t.” I open the refrigerator door.
twenty-five
THERE IS NOTHING INSIDE BUT CONDIMENTS AND SUGARLESS fruit preserves. No juice or milk or food with an expiration date that might be helpful, and either Peggy Stanton cleaned out her refrigerator because she was leaving town or someone else did for another reason, a malignant one. I feel Burke watching my every move, my every facial expression.
She’s dissecting me, picking at every part of me, and I’m allowing it. Like any determined investigator, she’ll go as far as I let her, and she has other motives, and maybe pseudoephedrine is having its way with her, is making her overly aggressive.
“You’ve known him about half your life, haven’t you, Kay.”
I step on the metal trash bin’s foot pedal and find nothing inside but an empty bag. I open a cabinet under the sink and pull out an open box of kitchen trash bags and set it on the counter.
“Maybe someone emptied the trash,” I explain. “Maybe someone other than her. Maybe someone who came in here to do a number of things.”
“He has quite the temper, has been through rehab, and in recent months started drinking again.” Burke isn’t looking at anything except me as she stands near the door, her arms folded across her chest.
“This should be checked for prints, for DNA. If you don’t want to collect it, I will.” I retrieve a paper bag from my case and collect the evidence myself.
“He started drinking again about the time he started tweeting Peggy Stanton.”
“She was dead by Labor Day.” Next I collect the empty bag lining the trash can. “She was dead long before then.”
“When did you become aware that Marino had started drinking again?”
“I don’t know for a fact if and when Marino started drinking again.”
“She was dead long before Labor Day? You’re absolutely sure of that?”
I tell her I am.
“And how you arrived at what you seem to believe is gospel I simply find confusing.” She’s typing on her phone again. “In fact, it’s about as subjective as three blind people describing an elephant.”