“At least you don’t live alone,” Kate comments.
“My roommate, another actress, just moved out and went back west. Because of the stalker.”
“What about that good-looking boyfriend of yours? Actually, I wondered early on if he might be an actor, someone famous. I’ve been trying to figure out who he is.” She smiles wickedly. “Hollywood is written all over that one. What’s he been in?”
“Trouble mostly.”
“Well, if he does you wrong, darling, you just come see Kate, here.” She pats the pillow in her lap. “I know what to do about some things.”
Lucy looks out at It’s Settled shining long, sleek, and white in the sun. She wonders if Kate’s ex-husband is boat-less and hiding from the IRS in the Cayman Islands. She says, “Last week the wacko came on my property, or at least I assume it was him. I’m just wondering…”
Kate’s unlined tight face registers a blank. “Oh,” she then says. “The one stalking y’all? Why no, I didn’t see him, not that I’m aware of, but then there are a lot of people roaming about, all these yard men, pool people, construction workers, and so on. But I did notice all the police cars and the ambulance. It scared me to death. That’s just the sort of thing that ruins an area.”
“You were home then. My roommate, former roommate, was in bed with a hangover. She may have gone out to sit in the sun.”
“Yes. I saw her do that.”
“You did?”
“Oh yes,” Kate replies. “I was upstairs in the gym and just happened to look down and I saw her come out the kitchen door. I do remember she had on pajamas and a robe. And now that you tell me she had a hangover, that explains it.”
“Do you remember what time?” Lucy asks as her cell phone on the coffee table continues to record their conversation.
“Let me see. Nine? Or close enough.” Kate points behind her, toward Lucy’s house. “She sat by the pool.”
“And then what?”
“I was on the elliptical machine,” she says, and in Kate’s way of thinking everything is about Kate. “Let me see, I believe I was distracted by something on one of the morning shows. No, I was on the phone. I do remember looking out and she was gone, apparently had gone back into the house. She wasn’t out there long, my point is.”
“How long were you on the elliptical machine, and do you mind showing me your gym so I can see exactly where you were when you saw her?”
“Sure, come right on, darling.” Kate gets up from her big white chair. “How about something to drink? I believe I could use a little mimosa right about now, with all this talk about stalkers and big noisy movie trucks rolling in and helicopters and all. I usually do the elliptical machine for thirty minutes.”
Lucy picks up her cell phone from the coffee table. “I’ll have whatever you’re having,” she says.
15.
THE HOUR is half past eleven when Scarpetta meets Marino by the rental car in the parking lot of her former building. Dark clouds remind her of angry fists flailing across the sky, and the sun ducks in and out of them and sudden gusts of wind snatch at her clothing and hair.
“Is Fielding coming with us?” Marino asks, unlocking the SUV. “I’m assuming you want me to drive. Some son of a bitch held her down and smothered her. Goddamn son of a bitch. Killing a kid like that. Had to be somebody pretty big, don’t you think, to hold her down and she can’t move?”
“Fielding’s not coming. You can drive. When you can’t breathe, you panic and struggle like hell. So her assailant didn’t have to be huge, but he did have to be big and strong enough to keep her down, to pin her down. More than likely, she’s a mechanical asphyxiation, not a smothering.”
“And that’s what ought to be done to his ass when he gets caught. Let a couple uh huge prison guards pin him down and sit on his chest so he can’t breathe, see how he likes it.” They climb in and Marino starts the engine. “I’ll volunteer. Let me do it. Jesus, doing that to a kid.”
“Let’s save the ‘Kill ’em all, let God sort ’em out’ part for later,” she says. “We have a lot to handle. What do you know about Mama?”
“Since Fielding’s not coming, I assume you called her.”
“I told her I want to talk to her and that was about the extent of it. She was a little strange on the phone. She thinks Gilly died of the flu.”
“You going to tell her?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to tell her.”
“Well, one thing’s for sure. The Feds will be thrilled when they hear you’re making house calls again, Doc. Nothing thrills them more when they get their hooks in a case that ain’t any of their business and then you show up making your damn house calls.” He smiles as he drives slowly through the crowded lot.
Scarpetta doesn’t care what the Feds think, and she looks out at her former building called Biotech II, at its clean gray shape trimmed with deep red brick, at the covered morgue bay that reminds her of a white igloo sticking out to one side. Now that she’s back, she may as well have been here all along. It doesn’t feel strange that she is headed to a death scene, most likely a crime scene, in Richmond, Virginia, and she doesn’t care what the FBI or Dr. Marcus or anyone else thinks about her house calls.
“Got a feeling your pal Dr. Marcus will be thrilled too,” Marino adds sarcastically, as if he is following her thoughts. “Did you tell him Gilly’s a homicide?”
“No,” she replies.
She didn’t bother looking for Dr. Marcus or telling him anything after she finished with Gilly Paulsson and cleaned up and changed back into her suit and looked at some microscopic slides. Fielding could give Dr. Marcus the facts and pass on that she would be happy to brief him later and can be reached on her cell phone, if necessary, but Dr. Marcus won’t call. He wants as little to do with the Gilly Paulsson case as possible, and Scarpetta now believes he decided long before he contacted her in Florida that he wasn’t going to benefit from this fourteen-year-old girl’s death, that nothing but trouble was headed his way if he didn’t do something to deflect it, and what better deflection than calling in his controversial predecessor, Scarpetta the lightning rod? He’s probably suspected all along that Gilly Paulsson was murdered and for some reason decided not to dirty his hands with the case.
“Who’s the detective?” Scarpetta asks Marino as they wait for traffic rolling off I-95 to pass on 4th Street. “Anyone we know?”
“Nope. He wasn’t here when we was.” He finds an opening and guns the engine, rocketing them into the right lane. Now that Marino’s back in Richmond, he’s driving the way he used to drive in Richmond, which is the way he used to drive when he started out as a cop in New York.
“Know anything about him?”
“Enough.”
“I suppose you’re going to wear that cap all day,” she says.
“Why not? You got a better cap for me to wear? Besides, Lucy will feel good knowing I’m wearing her cap. Did you know police headquarters moved? It ain’t on Ninth Street anymore, is down there near the Jefferson Hotel in the old Farm Bureau Building. Aside from that, the police department hasn’t changed except for the paint job on the marked units and they let them wear baseball caps too, like they’re NYPD.”
“I guess baseball caps are here to stay.”
“Huh. So don’t be griping about mine anymore.”
“Who told you the FBI’s gotten involved?”
“The detective. His name’s Browning, seems all right but he’s not been doing homicides long and the cases he has worked are of the urban renewal variety. One piece of shit shooting another piece of shit.” Marino flips open a notepad and glances at it as he drives through town toward Broad Street. “Thursday, December fourth, he gets a call for a DOA and responds to the address where we’re now heading in the Fan, over there near where Stuart Circle Hospital used to be before they turned it into high-dollar condos. Or did you know that? It happened after you left. Would you want to live in a former hospital room? No thank you.”
; “Do you know why the FBI is involved, or do I have to wait for that part?” she asks.
“Richmond invited them. That’s just one of many pieces that doesn’t make sense. I got no idea why Richmond P.D. invited the Feds to stick their noses in or why the Feds want to.”
“What does Browning think?”
“He’s not particularly revved up about the case, thinks the girl probably had a seizure or something.”
“He thinks wrong. What about the mother?”
“She’s a little different. I’ll get to that.”
“And the father?”
“Divorced, lives in Charleston, South Carolina, a doctor. An irony, ain’t it? A doctor would know damn well what a morgue is like, and here’s his little girl inside a body bag in the morgue for two damn weeks because they can’t decide on who’s making the arrangements or where she’s going to be buried and God knows what else they’re fighting about.”
“What I’d do pretty soon is take a right on Grace,” Scarpetta says. “And we’ll just follow it straight there.”
“Thank you, Magellan. All those years I drove in the city. How’d I do it without you navigating?”
“I don’t know how you function at all when I’m not around. Tell me more about Browning. What did he find when he got to the Paulsson house?”
“The girl was in bed, on her back, pajamas on. Mother was hysterical, as you might imagine.”
“Was she under the covers?”
“The covers were thrown back, in fact they were mostly on the floor, and the mother told Browning they were like that when she got home from the drugstore. But she’s having memory problems, as you probably know. I think she’s lying.”
“About what?”
“Not sure. I’m basing everything on what Browning told me over the phone, meaning as soon as I talk to her, I start all over again.”
“What about evidence someone might have broken into the house?” Scarpetta asks. “Anything to make us think that?”
“Nothing to make Browning think that, apparently. Like I said, he’s not revved up about it. Never a good thing. If the detective’s not revved up about it, then the crime scene techs probably aren’t revved up either. If you don’t think anyone broke in, where the hell do you start dusting for prints, for example?”
“Don’t tell me they didn’t even do that.”
“Like I said, when I get there, I start all over again.”
They are now in an area called the Fan District, which was annexed by the city soon after the Civil War and was eventually dubbed the Fan because it is shaped like one. Narrow streets wind and wend and dead-end without cause and have fruity names like Strawberry, Cherry, and Plum. Most homes and row houses have been restored to an earlier charmed state of generous verandas and classical columns and fancy ironwork. The Paulsson home is less eccentric and ornate than most, a modest-sized dwelling with simple lines, a flat brick facade, a full front porch, and a false mansard slate roof that reminds Scarpetta of a pill-box hat.
Marino pulls in front near a dark blue minivan and they get out. They follow a brick walkway that is old and worn smooth and slick in spots. The late morning is overcast and cold, and Scarpetta would not be surprised to see a little snow, but she hopes there will be no freezing rain. The city has never adapted to adverse winter weather, and at the mere mention of snow, Richmonders raid every grocery store and market in town. Power lines are above ground and don’t last long when grand old trees get uprooted or snapped off by blasting winds and heavy sleeves of ice, so Scarpetta sincerely hopes there will be no freezing rain while she’s in town.
The brass knocker on the black front door is shaped like a pineapple, and Marino raps three times. The loud, sharp clank of it is startling and seems insensitive because of the reason for this visit. Footsteps sound, moving quickly, and the door swings open wide. The woman on the other side is small and thin, and her face is puffy, as if she doesn’t eat enough but drinks plenty and has been crying a lot. On a better day, she might be pretty in a rough, dyed-blond way.
“Come in,” she says, her nose stopped up. “I have a cold but I’m not contagious.” Her bleary eyes touch Scarpetta. “Then who am I to tell a doctor that? I assume you’re the doctor, the one I just talked to.” It is a safe assumption since Marino is a man and is wearing black fatigues and an LAPD baseball cap.
“I’m Dr. Scarpetta.” She offers her hand. “I’m so very sorry about Gilly.”
Mrs. Paulsson’s eyes brighten with tears. “Come in, won’t you? I’ve not been much of a housekeeper of late. I just made some coffee.”
“Sounds good,” Marino says, and he introduces himself. “Detective Browning’s talked to me. But I thought we’d start from square one, if that’s all right.”
“How do you take your coffee?”
Marino has the good sense not to offer his usual line: like my women, sweet and white.
“Black is fine,” Scarpetta says, and they follow Mrs. Paulsson along a hallway of old pine planking, and off to their right is a comfortable small living room with dark green leather furniture and brass fireplace tools. To the left is a stiff formal parlor that doesn’t look used, and the chill of it reaches out to Scarpetta as she walks past.
“May I take your coats?” Mrs. Paulsson asks. “There I go asking about coffee when you’re at the front door and asking about your coats when we get to the kitchen. Don’t mind me. I’m not right these days.”
They slip out of their coats and she hangs them on wooden pegs in the kitchen. Scarpetta notices a bright red handknit scarf on one of the pegs and for some reason wonders if it might have been Gilly’s. The kitchen has not been remodeled in recent decades and has an old-fashioned black-and-white-checkered floor and old white appliances. Its windows overlook a narrow yard with a wooden fence, and behind the back fence is a low roof of slate that is missing tiles and piled with dead leaves in the eaves and patched with moss.
Mrs. Paulsson pours coffee and they sit at a wooden table by a window that offers a view of the back fence and the mossy slate roof beyond. Scarpetta notices how clean and orderly the kitchen is, with its rack of pots and pans hanging from iron hooks over a butcher’s block and the drain board and sink empty and spotless. She notices a bottle of cough syrup on the counter near the paper-towel dispenser, a bottle of nonprescription cough syrup with an expectorant. Scarpetta sips her black coffee.
“I don’t know where to start,” Mrs. Paulsson says. “I don’t really know who you are for that matter, except when Detective Browning called me this morning, he said you were experts from out of town and would I be home. Then you called.” She looks at Dr. Scarpetta.
“So Browning called you,” Marino says.
“He’s been nice enough.” She looks at Marino and seems to find something interesting about him. “I don’t know why all these people are…Well, I guess I don’t know much.” Her eyes fill up again. “I should be grateful. I can’t imagine having this happen and no one cares.”
“People certainly care,” Scarpetta says. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Where do you live?” Her eyes are fixed on Marino, and she lifts her coffee, taking a sip, looking carefully at him.
“Based down in South Florida, a little north of Miami,” Marino replies.
“Oh. I thought maybe you were from Los Angeles,” she says, her eyes moving up to his cap.
“We got L.A. connections,” Marino says.
“It’s just amazing,” she says, but she doesn’t look amazed, and Scarpetta begins to see something else peek out from Mrs. Paulsson, some other creature that coils within. “My phone hardly stops ringing, a lot of reporters, a whole lot of those people. They were here the other days.” She turns around in her chair, indicating the front of the house. “In a big TV truck with this tall antenna or whatever it is. It’s indecent, really. Of course, this FBI agent was here the other day and she said it’s because no one knows what happened to Gilly. She said it’s not as bad as it might be, wha
tever that means. She said she’s seen a whole lot worse, and I don’t know what could be worse.”
“Maybe she meant the publicity,” Scarpetta says kindly.
“What could be worse than what happened to my Gilly?” Mrs. Paulsson asks, wiping her eyes.
“What do you think happened to her?” Marino asks, his thumb stroking the rim of his coffee cup.
“I know what happened to her. She died of the flu,” Mrs. Paulsson replies. “God took her home to be with Him. I don’t know why. I wish someone would tell me.”
“Other people don’t seem to be so sure she died of the flu,” Marino says.
“That’s the world we live in. Everybody wants drama. My little girl was in bed with the flu. A lot of people have died of the flu this year.” She looks at Scarpetta.
“Mrs. Paulsson,” Scarpetta says, “your daughter didn’t die of the flu. I’m sure you’ve been told this already. You talked to Dr. Fielding, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes. We talked on the phone right after it happened. But I don’t know how you can tell if someone died of the flu. How could you possibly tell that after the fact when they’re not coughing and don’t have a fever and can’t complain about how they’re feeling?” She begins to cry. “Gilly had a temperature of one hundred degrees and was about to choke from coughing when I went out to get more cough syrup. That’s all I did, drove to the CVS on Cary Street to pick up some more cough syrup.”
Scarpetta glances at the bottle on the counter again. She thinks of the slides she looked at in Fielding’s office just before she left for Mrs. Paulsson’s house. Microscopically, there were remnants of fibrin and lymphocytes and macrophages in sections of lung tissue, and the alveoli were open. Gilly’s patchy bronchopneumonia, a common complication of the flu, especially in the elderly and the young, was resolving and wasn’t severe enough to impair lung function.
“Mrs. Paulsson, we could tell if your daughter died of the flu,” Scarpetta says. “We could tell from her lungs.” She doesn’t want to go into graphic detail about how uniformly hard or consolidated and lumpy and inflamed Gilly’s lungs would have been had she died of acute bronchopneumonia. “Was your daughter on antibiotics?”