Dust

23

It’s almost eleven a.m. when we reach the back parking lot of my seven-story, titanium-skinned building that is shaped like a bullet with a geodesic glass roof.

The anti-climb fence is tall and PVC-coated black, and above it satellite dishes and antennas bloom silvery white from the rooftops of MIT labs that back up to the CFC on three sides. Transmissions travel invisibly nearly at the speed of light, many of them classified, a lot of them military and related to secret government projects.

My phone rings and I look up at Bryce’s window bright with sunlight as if I might spot him, which isn’t possible. But old habits don’t die easily. The glass in my building is one-way. We can see out but no one can see in. My chief of staff may have us in his sights but I can’t tell.

“The Tooth Whisperer left about twenty minutes ago,” he says of Dr. Adams. “It’s Gail Shipton, all right. One of these people with a great mouth because there’s so much wrong with it? I guarantee she was picked on in school just like me.”

I enter my code at the electric gate. It beeps and for a moment nothing happens. I’ve been out five days and Marino no longer works here and I’m reminded that it took the two of us to run this place. I try my code again.

“Possibly an exposure to tetracycline as a child, causing tooth discoloration. You know those ugly spotted and pitted teeth that make you hate school because kids are so mean?” Bryce says as the gate shivers to life.

It begins to slide open on its track slowly, shakily, still not working properly since the last time it was repaired several weeks ago. There’s no one to supervise the security engineer now that Marino isn’t here. He used to hover over whoever answered the service call but those days are gone. I’m having a hard time believing it.

“I had a tooth like that because of a fever. Of course it was a front tooth and my nickname was chalk tooth. ‘Bryce can write on the blackboard with his tooth.’ I didn’t smile the entire time I was growing up.”

On the other side of the limping-open gate our white vans and crime scene trucks are parked haphazardly and I notice they’re dirty. The mobile mass casualty trailer is grimy, too. Marino would throw a fit if he hadn’t quit and I suppose we’ll have to find an affordable washing and detailing company that can be trusted and is willing to service our equipment on-site. It’s just one more housekeeping concern to take up with Bryce, who’d rather talk than breathe.

“Plenty of restorations, all of it costing a pretty penny. But then again she was rich enough to sue someone for a hundred mil, according to what’s all over the news,” he’s saying. “I don’t mean it disrespectfully.”

“Benton and I are here,” I remind Bryce, who manages to find something in common with almost every dead body passing through. “Why don’t we have this conversation inside, preferably a little later? I have evidence rounds to make, then I need to get started on her and check on everybody else.”

I unbutton my coat and remember I’m carrying a gun. Only law enforcement can be armed inside my building. All CFC personnel, including me, are supposed to leave firearms at the security desk, where they’re locked inside a ten-gauge steel pistol cabinet. Not that everybody complies. Marino never did. I have no doubt Lucy doesn’t. I release the fanny pack’s clip in back.

“Of course you’re here. I can see you on closed-circuit camera and out the window, take your pick. The gate is alllll-mossst oppp-en” — he exaggerates how slow it is — “and there you and Benton are, the happy couple walking through, and you’re pushing the button to close it behind you, which will take an hour. Get a load of those big, bad blaze-orange boots. Let me guess. He’s got nothing to change into because his luggage is in Marino’s car, am I right? Benton flew in with Lucy and landed at the scene and you asked Marino to hang on to his belongings, which are now held hostage. Meaning he’ll be in those awful boots all day. Tell him to come upstairs and see me.”

I switch my phone to speaker so Benton can hear.

“I’ve got extra sneakers he can borrow. Black leather that won’t look too terrible,” Bryce’s voice sounds in the parking lot and I wonder who else knew about Benton’s flight home.

I’m not surprised Bryce was informed. The question is when did he find out and from whom?

“I think we wear the same size or close enough,” he says.

“You knew he was coming home today?” I look at Benton busy e-mailing with his phone.

He’s preoccupied with conveying information that his colleagues may disagree with or ignore and he’s being extremely careful, more so than he’s ever had to be. Agents, most of them young, who started out regarding him as a legend and now want to take his place, want to show they’re more fit for the job he does, and that’s to be expected. But the other isn’t. Benton suspects conspiracy and sabotage and it very well may not be his imagination.

“Well, of course I had an inkling. I did have errands to run,” Bryce says mysteriously. “Tomorrow’s his birthday and I wasn’t sure if you’d remember, as sick as you’ve been. Not to mention decorating for Christmas, so he walks into a happy, festive house?”

“You found out when, and who did you tell?”

“Lucy and I had conversations. I mean, you don’t have a tree or a single light, not one candle in a window,” he lectures me. “That was painfully loud and clear every time I dropped things off, such a dark, unfriendly house, with no fire on the hearth not even a week before Christmas? Could it be more depressing? I imagined poor Benton coming home. He can’t hear me, can he? And, yes, the gate needs to be adjusted again. I’m watching it not shut, stammering like it’s having a seizure or trying to say something. I’ll try to do it from in here.”

“The problem is it wasn’t properly adjusted the last time it was supposedly serviced.” I tuck the fanny pack under my arm, feeling the weight and shape of what’s inside it.

“You’re telling me? This morning cars were backed up onto the street, it’s so damn slow, and I almost got smacked by a Honda Element and guess who would have paid the piper even though it wasn’t my fault? A tin lizzie like that hitting my big bad X-Six, can you imagine? Well, I should say Ethan’s. I can’t exactly afford a BMW on my salary. Speaking of — what the hell is Lucy driving and what is that you just took off? Are you wearing a gun? Since when?”

“I don’t want any information about the ID or anything else released yet,” I tell him as we walk past Marino’s empty spot where he won’t be parking his design-flawed pickup truck anymore. “Who else knows that Benton was coming home?”

“If I’m not mistaken, you’re packing a pistol. Sexy, but how come? And why such an ugly accessory, that big black bulky thing? Don’t they make them in leather or cheerful colors? I could tell Cambridge PD to release the information. Then it’s their discretion and not our problem.”

“That’s probably best as long as we’re absolutely positive —”

“It took Dr. Adams all of half an hour,” Bryce interrupts again. “Apparently in addition to everything else she had a recent extraction of number twenty —”

“Bryce, who did you tell that Benton was coming home and when? It’s important I know —”

“A healing socket with a titanium post for an implant yet to be installed. I know that’s not the right word for it.”

“Bryce…?”

“I realize crowns aren’t installed like crown molding, excuse the pun.” He drops his voice for emphasis. “Well, it’s not exactly a pun except the crown part of it.”

I lift the box cover of the jackshaft operator next to the bay and scan my thumb into the biometric lock.

“Not that I’m sure what a number twenty is,” Bryce continues talking nonstop. “But I think it’s a molar.”

“Did Lucy tell you Benton was flying in today?” I press a button and the torque motor starts. The massive metal shutter door lurches up loudly.

“Of course. I encouraged her to fly her big bird to D.C. and airlift him out. Did someone ruin your surprise? I promise it wasn’t me.”

If Bryce knew, there’s no telling who else did, not that I’m sure it explains anything. In fact, I don’t see how it does. Even if he were indiscreet, how would the killer have found out such a detail, assuming Benton’s suspicions are valid? Why would it matter when he was flying home? Maybe the killer can’t resist watching the spectacle he creates but that doesn’t mean the victim selection or the timing has anything to do with Benton. It’s more likely that Granby is capitalizing on Benton’s deepest fears, wearing him down and upsetting him, knowing full well what it would do to him if he thought anything he’s published might influence a violent predator. Benton very well may be paranoid by now, and based on what he’s just told me I wouldn’t blame him.

“Is Ernie in today?” I ask. “I’ve got trace evidence to drop off to him and we’ve got a fence post and bolt cutter coming in for tool marks. Plus DNA. So if you’ll alert Gloria, and while you’re at it also check on the tox lab, the additional screens I want in the suicide from last week, Sakura Yamagata, I want a rush on everything as quickly as humanly possible.”

“Tell me something new.”

“This is new. I’m very concerned about what we might be dealing with around here.”

“You’re not going to give me a clue?”

“I’m not,” I reply. “I also need you to find out when Dr. Venter, the chief in Baltimore, could have a word with me.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Bryce says. “And Ernie’s in the evidence bay, working on the totaled car from that drunk driver Anne’s this minute scanning. Plus we got a possible OD on the way, probably a suicide, a woman whose husband got killed in a motorcycle crash exactly one year ago to the day. One Happy Holidays deserves another, as they say. An average of ten suicides per week since Thanksgiving. Has it gotten worse?”

“More than twenty-five percent worse.”

“Well, now my day is totally ruined.”

Through the widening space beneath the door I see Lucy’s huge SUV inside where it really shouldn’t be. But she parks where she wants whether she’s driving one of her supercars or roaring up on a motorcycle, rules meaning nothing to her. I note the two gurneys haphazardly abandoned against a wall, a body pouch wadded up on top of one of them. A hose is sloppily coiled near a floor drain, the spray nozzle leaking.

“Why are we working up a car from a motor-vehicle fatality?” I ask Bryce.

“Because lawyers are calling.”

“Lawyers are always calling. That’s not a reason.”

“Not just any. Carin Hegel.”

“What exactly does she want?” I ask.

“She wouldn’t say.”

Benton and I duck under the door rolling up as he communicates with someone, typing with his thumbs. I press the Stop button just inside, then I press Close. I turn on lights. All of the storage cabinets are locked at least and the floor is clean. I don’t smell any bad odors.

“I think it’s something to do with the blood alcohol so maybe you should talk to Luke. Lawsuits and more lawsuits,” Bryce says as the heavy door rolls back down, clanking and humming. “Would it be okay with you if I have pizzas sent in from Armando’s? By early afternoon we’re going to have a full house and I don’t mean dead people. You need to eat, for once, and I have a change of clothing for you all laid out. The usual navy blue suit fresh from the dry cleaner and sensible low-heeled pumps plus brand-new stockings with no picks or runs.”

“Where am I going? I’m not even supposed to be in today.” I stop by the hose and turn off the water all the way.

“I’m interviewing Marino’s replacement, remember?” Bryce says. “Jennifer Garate, rhymes with karate. She’s worked in New York City as a death investigator for the past five years and was a physician’s assistant before that? We went over her application some weeks ago, but of course we went through a lot of them. She was very pleasant on the phone and Luke seems to like her photograph a little too much. I admit I thought it a bit odd that she had it taken on a beach wearing what I call bootyfits, hot yoga shorts or whatever to show off what she’s got, which is quite something I guess. You’re here, thank God, and can weigh in. Maybe Benton would since he’s in the neighborhood?”

“No,” I answer. “Benton wouldn’t.” I turn off speakerphone because Benton isn’t listening.

I imagine he’s dealing with his field office or the BAU and politics are kicking into a higher gear. I wonder if the FBI will begin looking for Martin Lagos around here, looking for someone Benton is convinced is dead. Already I’m calculating what to do about any DNA results we may get from the panties on Gail Shipton’s body or from the mentholated ointment recovered from the grass. For the first time in my career I don’t trust what might happen to any profiles my DNA lab uploads into CODIS.

“Well, it’s only the most important position in terms of how it affects absolutely everything.” Bryce is back in my earpiece. “You end up with a shitty lead investigator and you know what they say? Garbage in, garbage out.”

We walk through the bay as big as a hangar. Parked off to one side is my niece’s two-ton black SUV built of ballistic hardened steel, according to her, with an explosives protection system, surveillance cameras, searchlights, a survival kit, a siren, and strobes. It has a black box like an aircraft and a PA system with loudspeakers, among other things. I’ve not had a chance to ask her what such an ominous-looking vehicle costs or why she suddenly feels the need for one.

“Who wants to spend the rest of our lives with a bully who crashes on an inflatable bed when he’s drunk, picks up women on Twitter, and lives in a house that’s become a stop on the tacky tour?” Bryce exclaims. “I won’t forgive Marino for using e-mail to walk off the job. Not even the decency to tell me to my face. Anyway, what’s your answer about Armando’s and can I rob petty cash?”

At the top of a ramp the door that leads into the lower level opens. Lucy is dressed in a black flight suit that accentuates her slender, strong build, her bright green eyes, and her rose-gold hair that she’s cut boyishly short.

“…Dr. Scarpetta? I think I’m losing you inside the bay. Hello, hello…?” Bryce says, and I end the call as I realize how intolerant I’ve become of chatter after days of being alone and quiet.

Lucy holds the door open, leans against it to avoid a hug, and I can feel her mood like a blast of hot air. I wrap my arms around her whether she likes it or not.

“Don’t tell me something I shouldn’t hear,” I say quietly.

“I don’t care what you hear. I’m sure Benton gave you the important points anyway.”

My open affection for my niece usually is reserved for outside the office and a shadow of annoyance crosses her pretty face as she pulls away. Then she looks tense, a glint of aggression showing.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her and her reaction is stoical and steely as if she has no feelings at all about what happened to Gail Shipton.

What I sense is a resolve that always goes the same way, in a direction that’s predictable and troubling. My niece is gifted at vengeful anger and bad with sad.

“I’m taking Bryce up on his offer and borrowing a pair of shoes.” Benton steadies himself with the doorframe, struggling with the boots one at a time, tugging them off.

He parks them at the top of the ramp, where they flop over like wilted traffic cones, and he walks past us in his stocking feet. Inside the building he turns left toward the elevator, busy on his phone again, his expression unreadable, the way it is when he’s met with resistance and ignorance and maybe something far worse than that.

“We need to talk.” I take Lucy by the arm. I steer her away from the door she holds.