He’d found himself terrified of returning to something that was no longer there, found himself just as afraid of having choices as he’d been of having none, just as afraid of having Kay Scarpetta as he’d been afraid of never having her again. Life and its complexities and contradictions. Nothing makes sense and everything does. Warner Agee got what he deserved and he did it to himself and it wasn’t his fault and he shouldn’t be blamed. A case of meningitis at the age of four had crashed his destiny as surely as if it had been rear-ended by a car and the chain reaction had continued, one collision after the next, not stopping until his body did on the pavement of a bridge. Agee was in the morgue and Benton was in a taxi, both of them sharing one thing in common at this precise point in time: They had a day of reckoning staring them in the eye, were about to meet their Maker.
The FBI occupied six floors inside the Jacob K. Javits Federal Building and Customs Courthouse in the heart of the government center, a complex of modernist glass-and-concrete architecture surrounded by the more traditional columned buildings of the U.S. Courthouse and state office buildings, and blocks away, City Hall, One Police Plaza, One Hogan Place, and the city jail. As was true of most federal centers, this one was cordoned off with yellow tape and fencing, and concrete blast barriers had been strategically placed to prevent vehicles from getting too close. The entire front plaza, a maze of curling green benches and dead grass mounds patched with snow, was inaccessible to the public. To enter the building, Benton had to get out of the taxi at Thomas Paine Park, trot across Lafayette, already busy with traffic. He turned right on Duane Street, also closed to cars, a pop-up barrier with a tire shredder and a guard booth in case you didn’t notice the Do Not Enter signs.
The forty-one-story glass-and-granite building wasn’t open yet, and he pressed a buzzer and identified himself to a uniformed FBI police officer on the other side of the side entrance’s glass door. Benton said he was here to see Special Agent Marty Lanier, and after a moment of checking, the officer let him in. Benton handed over a driver’s license, emptied his pockets, and walked through the x-ray scanner, having a status no more special than the immigrants who lined up along Worth Street every business day in quest of becoming U.S. citizens. Across a granite lobby was a second checkpoint, this one behind a heavy glass-and-steel door near the elevators, and he went through the same process again, only this time he was required to surrender his driver’s license and in exchange was given a key and an ID.
“Any electronic devices, including phones, go in there,” the officer said from his booth, pointing at a bank of small lockers above a table, as if Benton had never been here before. “Keep your ID displayed at all times, and you’ll get your license back when you return your key.”
“Thanks. I’ll see if I can remember all that.”
Benton pretended to lock up his BlackBerry, tucked it up his sleeve instead. As if there was some great threat he was going to take photographs or a video of a fucking field office. He slipped the locker key in his coat pocket, and inside the elevator he pushed the button for the twenty-eighth floor. The ID with its big V indicating he was a visitor was yet another insult, and he tucked it in his pocket, contemplating whether what he’d done was right when Marino had called about Agee’s suicide.
Marino had mentioned he was on his way to Rodman’s Neck and he’d see Benton later on at the meeting, whenever the FBI got around to deciding on a time. Benton, having just gotten in the cab, was on his way downtown to the very meeting Marino was talking about, and Benton had chosen to say nothing. He’d rationalized that the information wasn’t his to offer. Clearly, Marty Lanier hadn’t requested Marino’s presence. Benton didn’t know whose presence she had requested, but Marino wasn’t on the list or he would be here and not on his way to the Bronx. Benton considered that when Marino had talked to Lanier earlier, maybe he’d said something to piss her off.
The elevator doors opened in front of the Executive Management Section, behind glass doors etched with the Department of Justice seal. Benton didn’t see any sign of anyone, and he didn’t go inside to sit down, preferring to wait in the corridor. He wandered past the typical display cases every Bureau headquarters he’d ever been in boasted-trophies from the hunt, as he thought of them. He took off his coat, looking and listening for any sign of anyone as he idly perused remnants of the Cold War. Hollowed-out rocks and coins and cigarette packs for the clandestine transfer of microfilm. Antitank weapons from the Soviet bloc.
He wandered past FBI movie posters. “G” Men, The FBI Story, The House on 92nd Street, Thunderheart, Donnie Brasco. A wall of them that kept on going, and he was constantly amazed by the public’s insatiable interest in all things Bureau, not just here but abroad, nothing about FBI agents ever boring unless you were one. Then it was a job, except they owned you. Not just you, but they owned everyone connected to you. When the Bureau had owned him, it had owned Scarpetta, and it had allowed Warner Agee to pry them apart, to tear them from each other, to force them on separate trains bound for different death camps. Benton told himself he didn’t miss his old life, didn’t miss the fucking FBI. Fucking Agee had done him a fucking favor. Agee was dead. Benton felt a spike of emotion, was startled by it, as if he’d been shocked.
He turned around at the sound of quick footsteps on tile, and a woman he’d never seen before was walking toward him, brunette, compellingly pretty, nice body, mid-thirties, dressed in a soft tawny leather jacket, dark slacks, and boots. The Bureau had a habit of hiring more than its quota of good-looking, accomplished people. Not a stereotype but a fact. It was a wonder they didn’t fraternize more, men and women shoulder to shoulder, day in and day out, high-caliber, a little power-drunk, and with a hefty dose of narcissism. They restrained themselves for the most part. When Benton had been an agent, affairs on the job were the exception or so deep undercover they were rarely found out.
“ Benton?” She offered her hand and shook his firmly. “Marty Lanier. Security said you were on your way up and I didn’t mean to make you wait. You’ve been here before.”
It wasn’t a question. She wouldn’t ask if she didn’t already know the answer and everything else she could possibly find out about him. He had her instantly typed. Smart as hell, hypomanic, didn’t know failure. What he called an IPM. In perpetual motion. Benton had his BlackBerry in hand. Didn’t care if she saw it. Was blatant about checking his messages. Don’t tell him what to do. He wasn’t a goddamn visitor.
“We’re in the SAC conference room,” she said. “We’ll get coffee first.”
If she was using the special agent in charge’s conference room, the meeting wasn’t going to be just the two of them. Her accent was shades of Brooklyn or uptown white New Orleans, hard to tell apart. Whatever her dialect, she’d worked to flatten it out.
“Detective Marino’s not here,” Benton said, tucking the BlackBerry in his pocket.
“He’s not essential,” she replied, walking.
Benton found the remark annoying.
“I spoke to him earlier, as you know, and in light of the most recent developments, he’s more helpful to all involved if he’s where he is.” She glanced at her watch, a black rubber Luminox popular with Navy SEALs, was probably a member of the Dive Team, another Bureau Wonder Woman. “He should be there soon.” She was referring to Rodman’s Neck. “Sun rises at oh-seven-hundred plus fifteen or so. The package in question should be rendered safe shortly, and we’ll know what it is and how to proceed.”