Cause Of Death ks-7

by Patricia Cornwell

  "What you want, sugar?" Daigo asked me.

  I did not think I could ever eat again, and ordered herbal tea, but she would not hear of that.

  "I tell you what, you bring the Chief here a bowl of my bread pudding with Jack Daniel's sauce, don't worry, the wiskey's cooked off," she said, and she was the doctor now. "And a cup of strong coffee. Captain?" She looked at Marino. "You want your usual, honey? Uh-huh," she said before he could respond. "That will be one steak sandwich medium rare, grilled onions, extra fries. And he likes A. I., ketchup, mustard, mayo. No dessert. We want to keep this man alive."

  "You mind?" Marino got out his cigarettes, as if he needed one more thing that might kill him this day.

  Daigo lit up a cigarette, too, and told us more about what she remembered, which was everything because the Hill Cafe was the sort of bar where people noticed strangers.

  Danny, she said, had stayed less than an hour. He had come and gone alone, and it had not appeared that he was expecting anyone to join him. He had seemed mindful of the time because he frequently checked his watch, and he had ordered a sailor sandwich with fries and a Pepsi. Danny Webster's last meal had cost him five dollars and twenty. cents. His waitress was named Cissy, and he had tipped her a dollar.

  "And you didn't see anybody in the area that made your antenna go up? Not at any point today?" Marino asked.

  Daigo shook her head. "No sir. Now that doesn't mean there wasn't some son of a bitch hanging out somewhere on the street… "Cause they're out there. You don't have to go far to find 'em. But if there was somebody, I didn't see him. Nobody who came in here complained about anybody out there like that, either."

  "Well, we need to check with your customers, as many as we can," Marino said. "Maybe a car was noticed around the time Danny went out."

  "We got charge receipts." She plucked at her hair and by now it was looking wild. "Most people who been in here we know anyhow."

  We were about to leave, but there was one more detail I needed to know. "Daigo," I asked, "did he take anything with him to go?"

  She looked perplexed and got up from the table. "Let me ask."

  Marino crushed out another cigarette, and his face was deep red.

  "Are you all right?" I said.

  He mopped his face with a napkin. "It's hot as shit in here."

  "He took his fries," Daigo announced when she got back. "Cissy says he ate his sandwich and slaw but she wrapped almost all of his fries. Plus when he got to the register, he bought a jumbo pack of gum."

  "What kind'?" I asked.

  "She's pretty sure it was Dentyne. As Marino and I stepped outside, he loosened the neck of his white uniform shirt and yanked off his tie. "Damn, some days I wish I'd never left A Squad," he said, for when he had commanded detectives it had been in street clothes. "I don't care who's watching," he muttered. "I'm about to die."

  "Please tell me if you're serious," I said.

  "Don't worry, I'm not ready for one of your tables yet.

  I just ate too much."

  "Yes, you did," I said. "And you smoked too much, too. And that's what prepares people for my tables, goddamn it. Don't you even think about dying, I'm tired of people dying."

  We had reached my station wagon and he was staring at me, searching for anything I might not want him to see.

  "Are you okay?"

  "What do you think? Danny worked for me." My hand shook as I fumbled with the key. "He seemed nice and decent. It seemed he always tried to do what was right. He was driving my car here from Virginia Beach because I asked him to and now he's missing the back of his head.

  How the hell do you think I feel?"

  "I think you feel like this is somehow your fault."

  "And maybe it is."

  We stood in the dark, looking at each other.

  "No, it's not," he said. "It's the fault of the asshole who pulled the trigger. You had nothing in the world to do with that. But if it was me, I'd feel the same way."

  "My God," I suddenly said.

  "What?" He was alarmed, and he looked around as if I had spotted something.

  "His doggie bag. What happened to it? It wasn't inside my Mercedes. There was nothing in there that I could see.

  Not even a gum wrapper," I said.

  "Damn, you're right. And I didn't see nothing on the where your ride was parked. Nothing with the body street or anywhere at the scene, either."

  the place no one had looked, and it was right There was o where we were, on this street by the restaurant. So Marino and I got out flashlights again and prowled. We looked along Broad Street, but it was on 28th near the curb where we found the small white bag as a large dog began barking from a yard. The bag's location suggested that Danny had parked my car as close to the cafe as possible in an area where buildings and trees cast dense shadows and lights were few.

  "You got a couple pencils or pens inside your purse?"

  Marino squatted by what we suspected might be the remains of Danny's dinner.

  I found one pen and a long-handled comb, which I gave to him. Using these simple instruments, he opened the bag without touching it as he probed. Inside were cold French fries wrapped in foil and a jumbo pack of Dentyne gum.

  The sight of them was jolting and told a terrible story.

  Danny had been confronted as he had walked out of the cafe to my car. Perhaps someone emerged from shadows and pulled a gun as Danny was unlocking the door. We did not know, but it seemed likely he was forced to drive a street away, where he was walked to a remote wooded hillside to die.

  "I wish that damn dog would shut up," Marino said as he stood. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

  He crossed the street to his car and opened the trunk.

  When he returned, he was carrying the usual large brown paper bag police used for evidence. While I held it open, he maneuvered the comb and pencils to drop Danny's leftovers inside.

  "I know I should take this into the property room, but they don't like food in there. Besides. there's no fridge."

  Paper crackled as he folded shut the top of the evidence bag.

  Our feet made scuffing noises on pavement as we walked.

  "Hell, it's colder than any refrigerator out here," he went on. "if we get any prints they'll probably be his. But I'll get the labs to check anyway."

  He locked the bag inside his trunk, where I knew he had stored evidence many times before. Marino's reluctance to follow departmental rules went beyond his dress.

  I looked around the dark street lined with cars. "Whatever happened started right here," I said.

  Marino was silent as he looked around, too. Then he asked, "You think it was your Benz? You think that was the motive?"

  "I don't know," I replied.

  "Well, it could be robbery. The car made him look rich even if he wasn't."

  I was overwhelmed by guilt again.

  "But I still think he might have met someone he wanted to pick up."

  "Maybe it would be easier if he had been up to no good I said. "Maybe it would be easier for all of us because then we could blame him for being killed."

  Marino was silent as he looked at me. "Go home and get some sleep. You want me to follow you?"

  "Thank you. I'll be fine."

  But I wasn't, really. The drive was longer and darker than I remembered, and I felt unusually unskilled at everything I tried to do. Even rolling down the window at the toll booth and finding the right change was hard. Then the token I tossed missed the bin, and when someone behind me honked, I jumped. I was so out of sorts I could think of nothing that might calm me down, not even whiskey. I returned to my neighborhood at nearly one A.m., and the guard who let me through was grim, and I expected he had heard the news, too, and knew where I had been. When I pulled up to my house, I was stunned to see Lucy's Suburb an parked in the drive.

  She was up and seemed recovered, stretched out on the couch in the gathering room. The fire was on, and she had a blanket over her legs, and on TV, Robin Williams wa
s hilarious at the Met.

  "What happened?" I sat in a chair nearby. "How did your car get here'?"

  She had glasses on and was reading some sort of manual that had been published by the FBI. "Your answering service called," she said. "This guy who was driving my car arrived at your office downtown and your assistant never showed up. What's his name, Danny? So the guy in my car calls, and next thing the phone's ringing here. I had him drive to the guard booth, and that's where I met him."

  "But what happened'?" I asked again. "I don't even know the name of this person. He was supposed to be an acquaintance of Danny's. Danny was driving my car. They were supposed to park both vehicles behind my office." I stopped and simply stared. "Lucy, do you have any idea what's going on? Do you know why I'm home so late?"

  She picked up the remote control and turned the television off. "All I know is you got called out on a case. That's what you said to me right before you left."

  So I told her. I told her who Danny was and that he was dead, and I explained about my car. I gave her every detail.

  "Lucy, do you have any idea who this person was who dropped off your car?" I then said.

  "I don't know." She was sitting up now. "Some Hispanic guy named Rick. He had an earring, short hair and looked maybe twenty-two, twenty-three. He was very polite, nice."

  "Where is he now?" I said. "You didn't just take your car from him."

  "Oh no. I drove him to the bus station, which George gave me directions to."

  "George?"

  "The guard on duty at the time. At the guard gate. I guess this would have been close to nine."

  "Then Rick's gone back to Norfolk."

  "I don't know what he's done," she said. "He told me as we were driving that he was certain Danny would show up. He probably has no idea."

  "God. Let's hope he doesn't unless he heard it on the news. Let's hope he wasn't there," I said.

  The thought of Lucy alone with this stranger in her car filled me with terror, and in my mind I saw Danny's head.

  I felt shattered bone beneath gloves slippery with his blood.

  "Rick's considered a suspect?" She was surprised.

  "At the moment, just about anybody is."

  I picked up the phone at the bar. Marino had just gotten home, too, and before I could say anything, he butted in.

  "We found the cartridge case."

  "Great," I said, relieved. "Where?"

  "If you're on the road looking down toward the tunnel, it was in a bunch of undergrowth about ten feet to the right of the path where the blood starts."

  "A right port ejector," I said.

  "Had to be, unless both Danny and his killer were going downhill backwards. And this asshole meant business. He was shooting a forty-five. The ammo's Winchester."

  "Overkill," I said.

  "You got that right. Someone wanted to make sure he was dead."

  "Marino," I said, "Lucy met Danny's friend tonight."

  "You mean the guy driving her car?"

  "Yes," and I explained what I knew.

  "Maybe this thing's making a little more sense," he said. "The two of them got separated on the road, but in Danny's mind it didn't matter because he'd given his pal directions and a phone number."

  "Can someone try to find out who Rick is before he disappears? Maybe intercept him when he gets off the bus?" I asked.

  "I'll call Norfolk P.D. I got to anyway because somebody's got to go over to Danny's house and notify his family before they hear about this from the media."

  "His family lives in Chesapeake," I told him the bad news, and I knew I would need to talk to them, too.

  "Shit," Marino said.

  "Don't talk to Detective Roche about any of this, and I don't want him anywhere near Danny's family."

  "Don't worry. And you'd better get hold of Dr. Mant."

  I tried the number for his mother's flat in London, but there was no answer, and I left an urgent message. There were so many calls to make, and I was drained. I sat next to Lucy on the couch.

  "How are you doing?" I said.

  "Well, I looked at the catechism but I don't think I'm ready to be confirmed."

  "I hope someday you will be."

  "I have a headache that won't go away."

  "You deserve one."

  "You're absolutely right." She rubbed her temples.

  "Why do you do it after all you've been through?

  could not help but ask.

  "I don't always know why. Maybe because I have to be such a tight-ass all the time. Same thing with a lot of the agents. We run and lift and do everything right. Then we blow it off on Friday night."

  "Well, at least you were in a safe place to do that this time."

  "Don't you ever lose control?" She met my eyes. "Because I've never seen it."

  "I've never wanted you to see it," I said. "That's all you ever saw with your mother, and you've needed someone to feel safe with."

  "But you didn't answer my question." She held my gaze.

  "What? Have I ever been drunk?"

  She nodded.

  "It isn't something to be proud of, and I'm going to bed." I got up.

  "More than once?" Her voice followed me as I walked off.

  I stopped in the doorway and faced her. "Lucy, throughout my long, hard life there isn't much I haven't done. And I have never judged you for anything you've done. I've only worried when I thought your behavior placed you in harm's way." I spoke in understatements yet again.

  "Are you worried about me now?"

  I smiled a little. "I will worry about you for the rest of my life."

  I went to my room and shut the door. I placed my Browning by my bed and took a Benadryl because otherwise I would not sleep the few hours that were left. When I awakened at dawn, I was sitting up with the lamp on, the latest Journal of the American Bar Association still in my lap. I got up and walked out into the hall where I was surprised to find Lucy's door open. her bed unmade. She was not in the gathering room on the couch, and I hurried into the dining room at the front of the house. I stared out windows at an empty expanse of frosted brick pavers and grass, and it was obvious the Suburban had been gone for some time.

  "Lucy," I muttered as if she could hear me. "Damn you, Lucy," I said.

  I WAS TEN MINUTES LATE FOR STAFF MEETING, WHICH WAS unusual, but no one commented or seemed to care. The murder of Danny Webster was heavy in the air as if tragedy might suddenly rain down on us all. My staff was slowmoving and stunned, no one thinking very clearly. After all these years, Rose had brought me coffee and had forgotten I drink it black.

  The conference room, which had been recently refurbished, seemed very cozy with its deep blue carpet, long new table and dark paneling. But anatomical models on tables and the human skeleton beneath his plastic shroud were reminders of the hard realities discussed in here. Of course, there were no windows, and art consisted of portraits of previous chiefs, all of them men who stared sternly down at us from the walls.

  Seated on either side of me this morning were my chief and assistant chief administrators, and the chief toxicologist from the Division of Forensic Science upstairs. Fielding, to my left, was eating plain yogurt with a plastic spoon, while next to him sat the assistant chief and the new fellow, who was a woman.

  "I know you've heard the terrible news about Danny Webster," I somberly proceeded from the head of the table.

  where I always sat. "Needless to say, it is impossible to describe how a senseless death like this affects each one of us.

  "Dr. Scarpetta," said the assistant chief, "is there anything new?"

  "At the moment we know the following," I said, and I repeated all that I knew. "It appeared at the scene last night that he had at least one gunshot wound to the back of the head," I concluded.

  "What about cartridge cases?" Fielding asked.

  "Police recovered one in woods not too far from the street."

  "So he was shot there at Sugar Bottom versus in or near the car."
r />   "It does not appear he was shot inside or near the car," I said.

  "Inside whose car?" asked the fellow, who had gone to medical school late in life and was far too serious.

  "Inside my car. The Mercedes."

  The fellow seemed very confused until I explained the scenario again. Then she made a rather salient comment.

  "Is there any possibility you were the intended victim?"

  "Jesus." Fielding irritably set down the yogurt cup.

  "You shouldn't even say something like that."

  "Reality isn't always pleasant," said the fellow, who was very smart and just as tedious. "I'm simply suggesting that if Dr. Scarpetta's car was parked outside a restaurant she has gone to numerous times before, maybe someone was waiting for her and got surprised. Or maybe someone was following and didn't know it wasn't her inside, since it was dark by the time Danny was on the road heading here."

  "Let's move on to this morning's other cases," I said, as I took a sip of Rose's saccharine coffee whitened with nondairy creamer.

  Fielding moved the call sheet in front of him and in his usual impatient northern tone went down the list. In addition to Danny, there were three autopsies. One was a fire death, another a prisoner with a history of heart disease, and a seventy-year-old woman with a defibrillator and pacemaker.

  "She has a history of depression, mostly over her heart problems," Fielding was saying, "and this morning at about three o'clock her husband heard her get out of bed.

  Apparently she went into the den and shot herself in the chest."

  Possible views were of other poor souls who during the night had died from myocardial infarcts and wrecks in cars.

  I turned down an elderly woman who clearly was a victim of cancer, and an indi-ent man who had succumbed to his t, coronary disease. Finally, we pushed back chairs and I went downstairs. My staff was respectful of my space and did not question what I was going through. No one spoke on the elevator as I stared straight ahead at shut doors, and in the locker room we put on gowns and washed our hands in silence. I was pulling on shoe covers and gloves when Fielding got close to me and spoke in my ear, "Why don't you let me take care of him?" His eyes were earnest on mine.