Four Scarpetta Novels

by Patricia Cornwell

“I hope not,” I tell him.

  “And your case? The French Werewolf, as some people are calling him?” Mitchell finally gets around to that. “What’s all that going to do to you, hmmm?” He sits down again and gives me one of his earnest looks.

  I sip my whisky, wondering how to tell him. There really is no graceful way to launch it. “What’s that going to do to me?” I smile ruefully.

  “Has to be awful. I’m just glad you nailed the son of a bitch.” Tears brighten his eyes and he quickly looks away. Mitchell is the prosecutor again. We are comfortable. We are old colleagues, old friends. I am touched, very touched, and at the same time, depressed. The past is past. Mitchell is the governor. He will probably land in Washington next. I am the chief medical examiner of Virginia and he is my boss. I am about to tell him I have to give up my position as chief.

  “I don’t think it’s in my best interest or the best interest of the commonwealth for me to continue to serve in my position.” I am out with it.

  He just stares at me.

  “I’ll submit this more formally, of course, in writing. But I’ve made my decision. I am resigning as of January first. Of course I’ll stay on as long as you need me, while you search for my replacement.” I wonder if he was expecting this. Maybe he is relieved. Maybe he is angry.

  “You’re not a quitter, Kay,” he says. “That’s one thing you’ve never been. Don’t let assholes run you off, goddammit.”

  “I’m not quitting my profession. Just changing the boundaries. No one’s running me off.”

  “Oh yes, boundaries,” the governor observes, leaning back against the cushions and studying me. “Sounds like you’re becoming a hired gun.”

  “Please.” We both share the same contempt for experts whose choice of which side to represent is based on money, not justice.

  “You know what I mean.” He relights his cigar and stares off, already forming a new plan. I can see his mind working.

  “I’ll go to work as a private contractor,” I say. “But I will never be a hired gun. Actually, what I’ve got to do first won’t earn me a dime, Mike. The case. New York. I’ve got to help and it’s going to take a lot of my time.”

  “All right. Then it’s simple. You go to work as a private contractor, Kay, and the commonwealth will be your first client. We’ll hire you as acting chief until there’s a better solution for Virginia. I hope your rates are reasonable,” he drolly adds.

  This isn’t at all what I expected to hear.

  “You look surprised,” he observes.

  “I am.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe Buford Righter could explain,” I start to say, and indignation rises again. “We have two women horrendously murdered in this city, and no matter what, I don’t feel it’s right that their killer is now in New York. I can’t help it, Mike. I feel it’s my fault. I feel I’ve compromised the cases here because Chandonne came after me. I feel as if I’ve turned into a liability.”

  “Ah, Buford,” Mitchell blandly comments. “Well, he’s a good enough guy but a lousy commonwealth’s attorney, Kay. And I don’t think letting New York have the first crack at Chandonne is all that bad an idea in light of the circumstances.” His words have the weight of many considerations, not the least of which, I suspect, is the way Europeans would react if Virginia executed a French native, and Virginia is known for the number of people it puts to death every year. I autopsy every one of them. I know the statistics all too well. “Even I would be a little at odds as to how to handle this case,” Mitchell adds with a drawn-out pause.

  I have the sensation that the sky is about to fall. Secrets crackle like static electricity, but there is no point in my prying. Governor Mitchell will not be coaxed into relaying any information he isn’t ready to give. “Try not to take all this too personally, Kay,” he gives me advice. “I support you. I’ll continue to do so. I’ve worked with you a long time and know you.”

  “Everybody tells me not to take any of this personally.” I smile a little. The ominous feeling strengthens. He will continue to support me, as if to imply there are reasons he shouldn’t.

  “Edith, my kids, staff, all tell me the same thing,” he is saying. “And I still take things personally. I just don’t let on that I do.”

  “Then you had nothing to do with Berger—with this rather remarkable change of venue, so to speak?” I have to ask.

  He sharpens his ash to a point, slowly rolling the cigar, puffing, buying time. He did have something to do with it. He had everything to do with it, I am convinced. “She’s really good, Kay.” His non-answer is an answer.

  I accept this. I resist prying. I simply ask him exactly how he is acquainted with her.

  “Well, you know we both went to UVA law school,” he says. “Then when I was AG, I had a case. You should remember since it had to do with your office. The socialite from New York who took out a huge life insurance policy on her husband one month before she murdered him in a Fairfax hotel. She tried to pass it off as a suicidal shooting.”

  I remember all too well. She later named my office and me in a lawsuit, accusing us of racketeering, among other things, for allegedly colluding with the insurance company to falsify records so no claim was paid to her.

  “Berger got involved because it turns out the woman’s first husband had died under suspicious circumstances in New York some years earlier,” Mitchell says. “Seems he was an older man, frail, and drowned in the bathtub just one month after the wife had taken out a huge life insurance policy. The medical examiner found bruises that might have indicated a struggle, and pended the case for a very long time, hoping the investigation would turn up something conclusive. It didn’t. The D.A.’s office just couldn’t make the case. Then the woman sues the medical examiner there, too. For slander, emotional duress, baloney like that. I had numerous conversations with the people up there, mostly Bob Morgenthau, the D.A., but also with Jaime, comparing notes.”

  “Guess I’m wondering if the feds might try to make Chandonne flip and snitch on his cartel family. Let’s make a deal,” I say. “And then what?”

  “I think you can bank on that,” Mitchell replies solemnly.

  “So that’s it.” Now I know. “He is guaranteed not to get the death penalty? That’s the deal.”

  “Morgenthau’s not known for putting people to death,” he says. “But I am. I’m a tough old bird.”

  The governor has just clued me in on the negotiations that have gone on. The feds get to work on Chandonne. In exchange, Chandonne is tried in New York, where he is assured he will not get the death penalty. No matter what happens, Governor Mitchell doesn’t look bad. It is no longer his problem. It is no longer Virginia’s problem. We won’t incite an international incident by sticking a needle in Chandonne’s arm.

  “That’s a shame,” I sum it up. “Not that I believe in capital punishment, Mike, but it’s a shame that politics have gotten into the mix. I just listened to several hours of Chandonne’s lies. He’s not going to help anyone take down his family. Never. And I’ll tell you something else, if he ends up in Kirby or Bellevue, he’ll somehow get out. He’ll kill again. So on the one hand, I’m glad there’s an excellent prosecutor on the case and not Righter. Righter’s a coward. But on the other hand, I’m sorry we’ve lost control of Chandonne.”

  Mitchell leans forward and places his hands on his knees, a ready position signaling our conversation has ended. He isn’t going to discuss the matter further with me, and that also speaks volumes. “Good of you to come, Kay,” he says. He holds my stare. This is his way of saying, “Don’t ask.”

  CHAPTER 19

  AARON LEADS ME back down the stairs and gives me a slight smile as he opens the front door. The trooper waves at me as I drive through the gates. There is a sense of closure, of finality as I wind through Capitol Square, the mansion disappearing in my rearview mirror. I have left something. I have just walked away from my life as I have known it, and I have discovered a wrinkle of distrust for a man
I have always admired so much. No, I don’t think Mitchell has done anything wrong. But I know he hasn’t been forthright with me, not totally. He is directly responsible for Chandonne’s leaving our jurisdiction, and the reason is politics, not justice. I sense it. I am sure of it. Mike Mitchell is not the prosecutor anymore. He is the governor. Why should I be surprised? What the hell did I expect?

  Downtown seems unfriendly and foreign as I follow 8th Street to get on the expressway. I watch the faces of people driving past and marvel that virtually none of them is present in the moment they occupy. They drive and look in the mirror and reach for something on the seat or fool with the radio or talk on the phone or to their passengers. They don’t notice the stranger watching them. I see faces so clearly that I can determine if they are handsome or pretty or have scars from acne or good teeth. I realize that at least one big difference between killers and their victims is killers are present. They live entirely in the moment, taking in their surroundings, intensely aware of every detail and how it might benefit or compromise them. They watch strangers. They fix on a face and decide to follow the person home. I wonder if this is how the two young men, my latest patients, were selected. I wonder what sort of predator I am dealing with here. I wonder what the governor’s real agenda is for wanting to see me tonight and why he and the first lady questioned me about the James City County case. Something is going on. Something bad.

  I call my home phone and have seven messages. Three of them are from Lucy. She doesn’t tell me what she wants, only that she is trying to reach me. I try her on her mobile phone and when she answers, I feel tension. I sense she is not alone. “Is everything all right?” I ask her.

  She hesitates. “Aunt Kay, I’d like to bring Teun by.”

  “McGovern’s in Richmond?” I say in surprise.

  “We can be at Anna’s house in about fifteen minutes,” Lucy tells me.

  Signals are coming fast and strong. I can’t identify what it is that taps my subconscious, trying to make me recognize a very important truth. What is it, damn it? I am so unsettled I am jumpy and confused. A motorist behind me blares his horn and my heart jerks. I gasp. I realize the light has turned green. The moon is incomplete and shrouded by clouds, the James River a plain of darkness below the Huguenot Bridge as I pass into the south side of the city. I park in front of Anna’s house behind Lucy’s Suburban, and instantly Anna’s front door opens. It appears that Lucy and McGovern have arrived only a moment before me. Both of them and Anna are in the foyer beneath the sparkling crystal chandelier. McGovern’s eyes meet mine and she smiles reassuringly, as if to let me know I will be all right. She has cut her hair short and is still a very attractive woman, slender and boyish in black leggings and a long leather jacket. We hug and I am reminded she is firm and in charge, but gentle. I am glad to see her, immensely glad.

  “Come in, come in,” Anna says. “Merry Christmas Eve, almost. Isn’t this fun!” But her expression is anything but fun. Her face is drawn, her eyes bruised by worry and fatigue. She catches me staring and tries to smile. All of us head toward the kitchen at the same time. Anna is asking about drinks and snacks. Has everyone eaten? Do Lucy and McGovern want to stay here for the night? No one should be in a hotel on Christmas Eve—that is criminal. On and on she talks, and her hands are unsteady as she pulls out bottles from a cabinet, lining up whiskies and liquors. The signals are firing so rapidly now I barely hear what anyone is saying. Then, the moment of recognition thunders in my psyche. I get it. The truth runs through me in a jolting current as Anna pours me a Scotch.

  I told Berger I have no deep, dark secrets. What I meant was I have always been private. I don’t tell people anything that could be used against me. I am by nature cautious. But lately I have talked to Anna. We have spent hours exploring the deepest crevices of my life. I have told her things I am not sure I even knew, and I have never paid her for these sessions. They are not protected by doctor-patient confidentiality. Rocky Caggiano could subpoena Anna, and as I look at her now, I assume this is what has occurred. I take the tumbler of Scotch from her, our eyes locked.

  “Something’s happened,” I say.

  She glances away. I play out the scenario. Berger will get the subpoena quashed. It is ridiculous. Caggiano is harassing me, trying to intimidate me, plain and simple, and it won’t work. Fuck him. I have everything figured out and resolved, just that fast, because I am a pro at ducking any truth that directly impacts my inner self, my well being, my feelings. “Tell me, Anna,” I say.

  Silence fills the kitchen. Lucy and McGovern have stopped talking. Lucy comes over and hugs me. “We’re here for you,” she says.

  “You bet.” McGovern gives me a thumbs up.

  Their efforts to reassure me leave a wake of foreboding as they disappear into the living room. Anna looks at me and it is the first time I have ever seen even a hint of tears in my stoical, Austrian friend. “I have done a terrible thing, Kay.” She clears her throat and woodenly fills another tumbler with ice from the refrigerator icemaker. She drops an ice cube on the floor and it slides out of reach behind the trash can. “This sheriff’s deputy. I could not believe it when the buzzer sounded at my gate this morning. And here is a deputy with a subpoena. To do this to me at home is bad enough. Always I get subpoenas at my office. That is not so unusual, I do get called in as an expert witness from time to time, as you know. I cannot believe he did this to me. I trusted him.”

  Doubt. Denial quakes. The first breath of fear touches my central nervous system. “Who did this to you?” I say. “Rocky?”

  “Who?” She looks bewildered.

  “Oh God,” I mutter. “Oh God.” I lean against the countertop. This isn’t about Chandonne. It can’t be. If Caggiano didn’t subpoena Anna, then that leaves only one other possibility, and it isn’t Berger. Of course, the prosecution would have no reason to talk to Anna. I think of the odd phone call from my bank, the message from AT&T and of Righter’s behavior and the look on his face when he saw me in Marino’s truck last Saturday night. I play through the governor’s sudden need to see me, his evasiveness, even Marino’s sour moods and the way he has been avoiding me, and I take another look at Jack’s sudden loss of hair and fears about being the chief. Everything slips into place and forms an unbelievable composite. I am in trouble. Dear God, I am in serious trouble. My hands begin to shake.

  Anna is rambling, stuttering, tripping over her words as if she has involuntarily resorted to what she learned first in life, which is not English. She struggles. She confirms what I now am forced to suspect. Anna has been subpoenaed by a special grand jury. A Richmond special grand jury is investigating me to see if there is sufficient evidence to indict me in the murder of Diane Bray. Anna has been used, she says. She has been set up.

  “Who set you up? Righter? Buford’s behind this?” I ask.

  Anna nods affirmatively. “I never will forgive him. I told him,” she swears.

  We go into the living room, where I reach for a cordless phone on an elegant yew wood stand. “You realize, you don’t have to be telling me all this, Anna.” I try Marino’s home number. I will myself to be remarkably calm. “I’m sure Buford wouldn’t appreciate it. So maybe you shouldn’t talk to me.”

  “I do not care what I should or should not do. The moment I got the subpoena, Buford called and explained what he needed from me. I called Lucy right away.” Anna continues speaking in fractured English as she stares blankly at McGovern. It seems to occur to Anna that she has no idea who McGovern is or why she is in her house.

  “What time did the deputy show up at your house with the subpoena?” I ask Anna. Marino’s phone cuts straight into his voice mail. “Dammit,” I mutter. He is on the line. I leave him the message to call me. It is urgent.

  “About ten o’clock this morning,” Anna answers my question.

  “Interesting,” I reply. “About the same time Chandonne was transported out of here to New York. And then Bray’s memorial service and when I first met Berger.”r />
  “In your mind, how does all of this connect?” McGovern is listening carefully with her astute, experienced eyes fastened on me. She was one of ATF’s most gifted certified fire investigators before she got promoted to supervision by the very people who would eventually cause her to quit.

  “I’m not sure,” I reply. “Except Berger was interested in seeing who showed up at Bray’s service. I’m now wondering if she wanted to see if I would, and if that might indicate she knows I’m being investigated and is checking me out on her own.” Anna’s phone rings. “Zenner residence,” I answer.

  “What’s going on?” Marino says loudly over his television.

  “I’m just beginning to figure that out,” I reply.

  He knows instantly by my tone not to ask questions but to get in his truck and drive over here right now. It is time for truth. No games and no secrets, I tell him. We wait for him in front of the fire in Anna’s living room, where a tree is wrapped in white lights and garlands and decorated with glass animals and wooden fruit, with presents underneath. I am silently going through every word I have said to Anna, trying to remember what she surely will when Righter asks her under oath about me in front of jurors who have been seated and sworn to decide if I should go on trial for murder. My heart is seized by frigid fingers of raw fear, yet I sound reasonable when I speak. I am outwardly steady as Anna goes into detail about how she has been set up. It began when Righter contacted her on Tuesday, December 14. She spends a good fifteen minutes explaining that Righter called as a friend, a concerned friend. People were talking about me. He was hearing things that he felt he must check out and he knew Anna and I are close.

  “This isn’t making any sense,” Lucy says. “Diane Bray hadn’t even been murdered yet. Why was Righter talking to Anna that early on?”

  “I don’t get it,” McGovern agrees. “Something really stinks about this.”

  She and Lucy sit on the floor in front of the fire. I am in my usual rocking chair and Anna is on the ottoman, sitting rigidly.