“I assume what you’re getting at is you’re canceling her,” Scarpetta said. “Not good news, especially this time of year and in this economy. Does she know?”
“Not yet. Please don’t mention anything. Look, I’ll get right to it.” He leaned against the edge of the makeup counter, dug his hands into his pockets. “We want you to take her place.”
“I hope you’re joking. I couldn’t possibly. And it’s not really what you want, anyway. I’m not a good fit for this sort of theater.”
“It’s theater, all right. Theater of the absurd,” Alex said. “That’s what she’s turned it into. Took her less than a year to completely fuck it up. We’re not at all interested in you doing the same sort of show, doing Carley’s bullshit show, hell, no. A crime show in the same time slot, but that’s where the similarities end. What we’ve got in mind is completely different. It’s been in discussion for a while now, actually, and all of us here feel the same way. You should have your own show, something perfectly suited to who and what you are.”
“Something suited to who and what I am would be a beach house and a good book, or my office on a Saturday morning when no one is around. I don’t want a show. I told you I would help out as an analyst only-and only if it didn’t interfere with my real life or do harm.”
“What we do is real life.”
“Remember our early discussions?” Scarpetta said. “We agreed that as long as it didn’t interfere with my responsibilities as a practicing forensic pathologist. After tonight, there can be no doubt it’s interfering.”
“You read the blogs, the e-mails. The response to you is phenomenal.”
“I don’t read them.”
“The Scarpetta Factor,” Bachta said. “A great name for your new show.”
“What you’re suggesting is the very thing I’m trying to get away from.”
“Why get away from it? It’s become a household word, a cliché.”
“Which is what I sure as hell don’t want to become,” she said, trying not to sound as offended as she felt.
“What I mean is, it’s the buzz. Whenever something seems unsolvable, people want the Scarpetta Factor.”
“Because you started the so-called buzz by having your people say it on the air. By introducing me that way. By introducing what I have to say that way. It’s embarrassing and misleading.”
“I’m sending a proposal over to your apartment,” Alex said. “Take a look and we’ll talk.”
8
Lights flickered in New Jersey like a million small flames, and planes looked like supernovas, some of them suspended in black space, perfectly still. An illusion, reminding Benton of what Lucy always said: When an aircraft seems motionless, it’s either heading directly toward you or directly away. Better know which it is or you’re dead.
He leaned forward tensely in his favorite oak chair in front of windows overlooking Broadway and left Scarpetta another message. “Kay, do not walk home alone. Please call me and I’ll meet you.”
It was the third time he’d tried her phone. She wasn’t answering and should have been home an hour ago. His impulse was to grab his shoes, his coat, and run out the door. But that wouldn’t be smart. The Time Warner Center and the entire area of Columbus Circle were vast. It was unlikely Benton would find her, and she’d get worried when she came in and discovered him gone. Better to stay put. He got out of his chair and looked south where CNN was headquartered, its gunmetal-gray glass towers checkered with soft white light.
Carley Crispin had betrayed Scarpetta, and city officials were going to be in an uproar. Maybe Harvey Fahley had contacted CNN, had decided to be an iReporter or whatever those people who became self-appointed television journalists were called. Maybe someone else claimed to have witnessed something, to have information, just as Benton had feared and predicted. But the details about decomposing head hairs found in a taxi wouldn’t have come from Fahley unless he’d made it up, was outright spinning lies. Who would say something like that? Hannah Starr’s hair hadn’t been found anywhere.
He called Alex Bachta’s cell phone again. This time the producer answered.
“I’m looking for Kay.” Benton didn’t bother saying hello.
“She left a few minutes ago, walked out with Carley,” Alex said.
“With Carley?” Benton said, baffled. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. They were leaving at the same time and walked out together.”
“Do you know where they were going?”
“You sound worried. Everything all right? Just so you know, the information about the yellow cab and Hannah-”
“I’m not calling about that,” Benton cut him off.
“Well, everybody else is. Not our idea. Carley’s on her own and she’ll have to stand by it. I don’t care what her source is. She’s accountable.”
Benton paced in front of the windows, not interested in Carley or her career. “Kay’s not answering her phone,” he said.
“I can try to reach Carley for you. Is there a problem?”
“Tell her I’m trying to get hold of Kay and it’s best they get in a cab.”
“Seems like a weird thing to say, considering. I don’t know if I’d recommend a cab right now,” Alex said, and Benton wondered if he was trying to be funny.
“I don’t want her walking. I’m not trying to alarm anybody,” Benton said.
“Then you are worried that this killer might come after-”
“You don’t know what I’m worried about, and I don’t want to waste time discussing it. I’m asking you to get hold of Kay.”
“Hold on. I’m going to try Carley right now,” Alex said, and Benton could hear him entering a number on a different phone, leaving Carley a voicemaiclass="underline" “… So call me ASAP. Benton ’s trying to reach Kay. I don’t know if you’re still with her. But it’s urgent.” He got back to Benton. “Maybe they forgot to turn their phones back on after the show.”
“Here’s the phone number for the concierge desk in our building,” Benton said. “They can put you through to me if you hear anything. And I’ll give you my cell.”
He wished Alex hadn’t used the word urgent. He gave him the numbers and thought about calling Marino next, sitting back down and dropping the phone in his lap, not wanting to talk to him or even hear his voice again tonight, but he needed his help. The lights of high-rises across the Hudson were mirrored in water along the shore, the river dark in the middle, a void, not even a barge in sight, an empty, frigid darkness, what Benton felt in his chest when he thought about Marino. Benton wasn’t sure what to do and for a moment did nothing. It angered him that whenever Scarpetta was at risk, Marino was the first person who came to mind, to anybody’s mind, as if he was appointed by some higher power to take care of her. Why? Why did he need Marino for anything?
Benton was still angry as hell, and it was at times like this that he felt it most. In some ways he felt it more than he had at the time of the incident. It would be two years this spring, a violation that in fact was criminal. Benton knew all about it, every gory detail, had faced it after it had happened. Marino drunk as hell and crazy, blamed it on booze and the sexual-performance drug he was taking, one factor added to another, didn’t matter. Everybody was sorry, couldn’t be sorrier. Benton had handled the situation with grace and facility, certainly with humanity, had gotten Marino into treatment, had gotten him a job, and by now Benton should be past it. But he wasn’t. It hung over him like one of those planes, bright and huge like a planet, not moving and maybe about to slam into him. He was a psychologist and he had no insight into why he couldn’t get out of the way or was in the same damn airspace to begin with.