“I’m concerned about unstable individuals who are aggressively interested in well-known people,” Benton added.
“Like who besides the Doc? Even though what Dodie did is really about you. Who else? You got other well-known people in mind?”
“For example, movie stars. Hypothetically, a movie star like Hap Judd.”
Silence, then Marino said, “Kind of interesting you’d bring him up.”
“Why?”
What did Marino know?
“Maybe you should tell me why you brought him up,” Marino said.
“As I suggested, see what you find at RTCC.” Benton had said too much. “As you know, I’m not in a position to investigate.”
He couldn’t even ask to see a driver’s license when he sat down in a room with a patient. Couldn’t pat the person down for a weapon. Couldn’t run a background. Couldn’t do anything.
“I’ll take a look at Dodie Hodge,” Marino said. “I’ll take a look at Hap Judd. You interested in anything else, let me know. I can run whatever the hell I want. I’m glad I’m not a profiler with all these bullshit limitations. Would drive me batshit.”
“If I was still a profiler I wouldn’t have limitations and I wouldn’t need you to run anything,” Benton said testily.
“If I talk to the Doc before you do? Okay if I tell her about Dodie?”
The idea of Marino talking to Scarpetta before Benton did was more than a little irritating.
Benton said, “If for some reason you talk to her before I do, it would be much appreciated if you’d tell her I’ve been trying to reach her.”
“I hear you, and I’m heading out,” Marino said. “I’m kind of surprised she’s still not home. I could get a couple of marked units to be on the lookout.”
“I wouldn’t at this point unless you want it all over the news. Remember who she’s with. She left with Carley Crispin. Cops roll up on the two of them, what do you suppose the lead will be on Carley’s show tomorrow night?”
“My guess is The Taxi Terror in Manhattan.”
“You making up headlines now?” Benton said.
“Not me. They’re already saying it. Talking about the yellow-cab connection. That’s probably all we’ll be hearing on the news this holiday. Maybe the Doc and Carley stopped for coffee or something.”
“I can’t imagine why Kay would want to have coffee with her after what she just did.”
“Let me know if you need anything else.” Marino hung up.
Benton tried Scarpetta again and the call went straight to voicemail. Maybe Alex was right and she’d forgotten to turn her phone back on and no one had reminded her, or maybe the battery was dead. It wasn’t like her, no matter the explanation. She must be preoccupied. It wasn’t her habit to be out of communication when she was en route and knew he was expecting her within a certain time frame. Alex wasn’t answering, either. Benton began studying the recording he’d made of Scarpetta’s appearance on The Crispin Report an hour earlier while he opened a video file on the computer notebook in his lap, this one a recording he’d made at McLean Hospital in mid-November.
“… The other morning I was reading an article by Dr. Benton Wesley, who is Kay’s highly respected forensic psychologist husband…” Dodie’s breathy voice, disembodied, sounding from the flat-screen TV.
Benton fast-forwarded the video file on his notebook as he watched Scarpetta on the TV over the nonworking fireplace inside their prewar apartment on Central Park West. She looked stunning, her fine-featured face youthful for her age, her blond hair casual, brushing the collar of a fitted skirt suit, navy with a hint of plum. It was incongruous and disconcerting to look at her, then at the recording of Dodie Hodge playing on the computer in his lap.
“… You can relate a teeny-weeny bit, can’t you? You’re almost in my same boat, aren’t you, Benton?” A hefty homely woman frumpily dressed, her graying hair in a bun, the Book of Magick in its black cover with yellow stars in front of her. “Of course it’s not like having a movie star in the family, but you do have Kay. I hope you’ll tell her I never miss her when she’s on CNN. Why don’t they have you on with her instead of that stuffed shirt Warner Agee, those hearing aids of his like flesh-colored leeches behind his ears?”
“You seem to resent him.” Because Dodie had made similar comments before.
Benton watched the recorded image of himself, sitting stiffly, inscrutably, in a proper dark suit and tie. He was tense and Dodie sensed it. She was enjoying his discomfort and seemed to intuit that the subject of Agee might make Benton squirm.
“He had his chance.” Dodie smiled but her eyes were flat.
“What chance was that?”
“We have people in common, and he should have been honored… ”
Benton hadn’t given the comment much thought at the time, was too consumed by his desire to get the hell out of the interview room. Now a singing card had been sent and Dodie had called CNN, and he wondered what she’d been implying by her comment about Agee. Who could Benton and Dodie possibly have in common unless it was Warner Agee, and why would she know him? Unless she didn’t. Maybe her Detroit lawyer did. The absurd request for Agee to be the expert who evaluated her at McLean was presented by her counsel, someone named Lafourche, slow talking, sounded Cajun, and seemed to have an agenda. Benton had never met him and knew nothing about him, but they’d talked a number of times on the phone when Lafourche would page Benton, track him down to check on how “our girl” was doing, making jokes and cracks about a client “who can tell tales as tall as ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’ ”
“… It’s a pity you’re so banal and rude…” Dodie’s voice on the television over the fireplace.
The camera on Scarpetta, absently touching her earpiece as she listened, then returning her hands to the table, folding them placidly. A gesture you’d have to know her as well as Benton did to recognize. She was working hard to control herself. He should have warned her. The hell with HIPAA regulations and confidentiality. He resisted the impulse to rush out into the freezing December night to find his wife. He watched and listened and felt how much he loved her.
9
The lights of Columbus Circle pushed back the darkness of Central Park, and near the gateway leading into it, the Maine Monument ’s fountain and its gilded sculpture of Columbia Triumphant were deserted.
The red booths of the holiday market were closed, their crowds this season dramatically diminished, and there wasn’t a soul milling around the news kiosk, not even the usual cops, just an old man who looked homeless, wrapped in layers, sleeping on a wooden bench. Taxis speeding by were minus advertising in their lighted tops, and gone were long lines of limousines outside apartment buildings and hotels. Everywhere Scarpetta looked she found symbols and signs of dismal times, of the worst times she could recall. She had grown up poor in a marginal part of Miami, but that had felt different because it wasn’t everybody. It was just them, the Scarpettas, of struggling Italian immigrant stock.
“Aren’t you the lucky one to live right here?” Carley peeked over the turned-up collar of her coat as she and Scarpetta followed the sidewalk in the uneven glow of lamplight. “Someone pays you well. Or maybe it’s Lucy’s apartment. She’d be perfect to have on my show to talk about forensic computer investigations. She still good friends with Jaime Berger? I saw them one night at the Monkey Bar. Don’t know if they mentioned it. Jaime refuses to be on, and I’m not going to ask again. It really isn’t fair. It wasn’t anything I did.”
Carley didn’t seem to have a glimmer that there would be no future shows, at least not with her as the host. Or maybe she was fishing because she suspected what was going on behind the scenes at CNN. It nagged at Scarpetta that when she and Alex had walked out of the makeup room, they’d discovered Carley waiting in the hallway not two feet from the door. Ostensibly, she was just that second leaving and she and Scarpetta should walk together, which hadn’t made any sense. Carley didn’t live nearby, but in Stamford, Connecticut. She didn’t walk or take the train or a cab, always used a car service supplied by the network.