Book of the Dead ks-15

by Patricia Cornwell

  “Did anyone else come inside the building maybe about that time, or maybe a little before he called?”

  Sirens wail as police cars and an ambulance stop on the street, red and blue light pulsing on Ed’s face. “No,” he says. Except for a few of the residents, he says, he saw no one.

  Doors slam, radios chatter, diesel engines rumble. Police and EMTs get out of their vehicles.

  Scarpetta says to Ed, “Your wallet’s out on the desk. Maybe you’d taken your wallet out, then you got the call? Am I right?” Then she says to a plainclothes cop, “Over there.” She points to the hedge. “Came from up there.” She points to the lighted open window on the top floor.

  “You’re that new medical examiner.” The detective looks at her, doesn’t seem entirely sure.

  “Yes.”

  “You pronounced him?”

  “That’s for the coroner to do.”

  The detective starts walking toward the bushes as she confirms that the man — Lupano, it seems — is dead. “I’ll need a statement from you, so don’t go anywhere,” he calls back to her. Bushes crack and rustle as he pushes through them.

  “I don’t understand what all this is about. My wallet,” Ed says.

  Scarpetta moves out of the way so the EMTs can get through with their stretcher and equipment. They head to the far corner of the building so they can maneuver behind the hedge instead of breaking through it.

  “Your wallet’s on your desk. Right there with the door open. Is that your habit?” she asks Ed.

  “Can we talk inside?”

  “Let’s give our statements to the investigator over there,” she says. “Then we’ll talk inside.”

  She notices someone heading toward them on the sidewalk, a woman in a housecoat. The woman is familiar, then becomes Rose. Scarpetta intercepts her in a hurry.

  “Don’t come over here,” Scarpetta says.

  “As if there’s anything I haven’t seen.” Rose looks up at the lighted open window. “That’s where he lived, isn’t it?”

  “Who?”

  “What would you expect after what happened?” she says, coughing, taking a deep breath. “What did he have left?”

  “The question is timing.”

  “Maybe Lydia Webster. It’s all over the news. You and I both know she’s dead,” Rose says.

  Scarpetta just listens, wondering the obvious. Why would Rose assume Lupano might be affected by what has happened to Lydia Webster? Why would Rose know he’s dead?

  “He was quite full of himself when we met,” Rose says, staring toward the dark shrubbery beneath the window.

  “I wasn’t aware you’d ever met him.”

  “Just once. I didn’t know it was him until Ed said something. He was talking to Ed in the office when I saw him quite a long time ago. Rather rough-looking. I thought he was a maintenance person, had no idea he was Drew Martin’s coach.”

  Scarpetta looks down the dark sidewalk, notices Ed is talking to the detective. Paramedics are loading the stretcher inside the ambulance as emergency lights flash and cops poke around with their flashlights.

  “Drew Martin comes along only once in a lifetime. What was left for him?” Rose says. “Possibly nothing. People die when there’s nothing left for them. I don’t blame them.”

  “Come on. You shouldn’t be out here in the damp air. I’ll walk you back inside,” Scarpetta says.

  They round the corner of the building as Henry Hollings comes down the front steps. He doesn’t look in their direction, walking fast and with purpose. Scarpetta watches him dissolve into the darkness along the seawall, toward East Bay Street.

  “He got here before the police did?” Scarpetta says.

  “He lives only five minutes from here,” Rose says. “He has a quite a place on the Battery.”

  Scarpetta stares in the direction Hollings headed. On the harbor’s horizon, two lighted ships look like yellow LEGOs. The weather is clearing. She can see a few stars. She doesn’t mention to Rose that the Charleston County coroner just walked past a dead body and didn’t bother to look. He didn’t pronounce him. He didn’t do anything. Inside the building, she gets on the elevator with Rose, who does a poor job disguising how much she doesn’t want Scarpetta with her.

  “I’m fine,” Rose says, holding open the doors, the elevator not going anywhere. “It’s back to bed for me. I’m sure people want to talk to you out there.”

  “It’s not my case.”

  “People always want to talk to you.”

  “After I make sure you’re safely inside your apartment.”

  “Since you’re here, maybe he assumed you’d take care of it,” Rose says as the doors shut and Scarpetta presses the button for her floor.

  “You mean the coroner.” Even though Scarpetta has yet to mention him or point out that he inexplicably left without doing his job.

  Rose is too breathless to talk as they follow the corridor to her apartment. She stands before the door and pats Scarpetta’s arm.

  “Open the door and I’ll leave,” Scarpetta says.

  Rose gets out her key. She doesn’t want to open the door with Scarpetta standing there.

  “Go on inside,” Scarpetta says.

  Rose doesn’t. The more reluctant she is, the more stubborn Scarpetta gets. Finally, Scarpetta takes the key from her and lets them in. Two chairs have been pulled up to the window that overlooks the harbor, and between them on a table are two wineglasses and a bowl of nuts.

  “The person you’ve been seeing,” Scarpetta says, inviting herself inside. “Henry Hollings.” She shuts the door and looks into Rose’s eyes. “That’s why he hurried out of here. The police called him about Lupano and he told you, then left so he could come back without anyone knowing he was already here.”

  She moves to the window as if she might see him on the street. She looks down. Rose’s apartment isn’t very far from Lupano’s.

  “He’s a public figure and has to be careful,” Rose says, sitting on the couch, exhausted and pale. “We’re not having an affair. His wife is dead.”

  “That’s the reason he’s sneaking?” Scarpetta sits next to her. “I’m sorry. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “To protect me.” A deep breath.

  “From what?”

  “If it got out the coroner was seeing your secretary, somebody might make something of it. Certainly, it would end up in the news.”

  “I see.”

  “No, you don’t,” Rose says.

  “Whatever makes you happy makes me happy.”

  “Until you visited him, he assumed you hated him. That hasn’t helped,” Rose says.

  “Then it’s my fault for not giving him a chance,” Scarpetta says.

  “I couldn’t assure him otherwise, now, could I? You’ve assumed the worst about him, just as he’s assumed the worst about you.” Rose struggles to breathe, and she’s getting worse. The cancer is destroying her right before Scarpetta’s eyes.

  “It will be different now,” she says to Rose.

  “He was so happy you came to see him,” Rose says, reaching for a tissue, coughing. “That’s why he was here tonight. To tell me all about it. He talked of nothing else. He likes you. He wants the two of you to work together. Not against each other.” She coughs some more, the tissue speckled with blood.

  “Does he know?”

  “Of course. From the start.” She gets a pained expression on her face. “In that little wineshop on East Bay. It was instant. When we met. Started talking about burgundy versus Bordeaux. As if I know. Out of the blue, he suggests we try a few. He didn’t know where I work, so it wasn’t that. He didn’t learn I work for you until later.”

  “It doesn’t matter what he knew. I don’t care.”

  “He loves me. I tell him not to. He says if you love someone, that’s the way it is. And who can say how long any of us will be here. That’s how Henry explains life.”

  “Then I’m his friend,” Scarpetta says.

  She leaves Rose,
and finds Hollings talking to the detective, the two of them near the shrubbery where the body was found. The ambulance and fire truck are gone, nothing parked nearby except an unmarked car and a cruiser.

  “I thought you’d ducked out on us,” the detective says as Scarpetta walks toward them.

  She says to Hollings, “I was making sure Rose got safely back into her apartment.”

  “Let me bring you up to speed,” Hollings says. “Body’s en route to MUSC and will be autopsied in the morning. You’re welcome to be present and participate in any way you see fit. Or not.”

  “Nothing so far to indicate it’s anything other than a suicide,” the detective says. “Except it bothers me he’s got no clothes on. If he jumped, why did he take all his clothes off?”

  “You might get your answer from toxicology,” Scarpetta says. “The doorman says Lupano sounded intoxicated when he called him not long before he died. I think all of us have seen enough to know that when people decide to commit suicide, they can do a number of things that seem illogical, even suspicious. By chance did you find clothes inside that might be what he took off?”

  “Got a few guys up there right now. Clothes on his bed. Jeans, shirt. Nothing unusual about that part of it. No sign anybody else was in there with him when he went out the window.”

  “Ed say anything about seeing a stranger come inside the building tonight?” Hollings asks her. “Or perhaps someone who showed up to visit Lupano? And I will tell you, Ed’s a real stickler about letting people in.”

  “I didn’t get that far with him,” Scarpetta says. “I did ask him why he had his wallet out and in plain view on his desk. He says it was on his desk when he got the call from Lupano and rushed upstairs.”

  “He’s ordered a pizza,” the detective says. “That’s what he told me, said he’d just gotten a hundred-dollar bill out of his wallet when Lupano called. Ed did order a pizza. From Mama Mia’s. Was a no-show, and the guy left. I have trouble with the part about him having a hundred-dollar bill. Did he think some pizza deliverer was going to have change?”

  “Maybe you should ask him who called first.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Hollings says. “Lupano’s known for his flashy lifestyle, for having expensive tastes and carrying around a lot of cash. If he came back to the building during Ed’s shift, Ed would know he’s home. He places his pizza order, then realizes all he has is three dollars and a hundred-dollar bill.”

  Scarpetta’s not going to tell them that yesterday Lucy was inside Lupano’s car, looking at his GPS.

  She says, “That might be what happened — Ed called Lupano for change. And by this point, Lupano’s drunk, maybe drugged, irrational. Ed’s concerned and goes upstairs.”

  “Or maybe he went upstairs to get change,” Hollings says.

  “Still implying Ed called him first.”

  The detective walks away and says, “I’m going to ask him.”

  “I have a feeling you and I have a few matters to clear up,” Hollings says to her.

  She looks at the sky and thinks about flying.

  “How about we find a private place to talk,” he says.

  Across the street is White Point Gardens, several acres of Civil War monuments, live oak trees, and plugged cannon aimed at Fort Sumter. Scarpetta and Hollings sit on a bench.

  “I know about Rose,” she says.

  “I figured you might.”

  “As long as you take care of her.”

  “Seems you do a fine job of that. I had some of your stew earlier tonight.”

  “Before you left and came back. So no one would realize you were already inside the building,” Scarpetta says.

  “So you don’t mind,” he says, as if he needs her approval.

  “As long as you’re good to her. Because if you’re not, I’ll do something about it.”

  “I believe that.”

  “I need to ask you about Lupano,” she says. “I’m wondering if you might have contacted him after I left your funeral home earlier today.”

  “Might I ask why you’d wonder that?”

  “Because you and I talked about him. I asked you why he might have attended Holly Webster’s funeral. I think you know what would enter my mind.”

  “That I asked him about it.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s in the news that Lydia Webster’s missing and presumed dead,” Scarpetta says.

  “He knew her. Very well. We talked for a long time. He was very upset.”

  “Is Lydia why he’s kept an apartment here?”

  “Kay — I hope you don’t mind if I call you that — I was well aware that Gianni attended Holly’s funeral last summer. I couldn’t let on that I was. It would have betrayed a confidence.”

  “I’m growing so weary of people and their confidences.”

  “I didn’t try to obstruct you. If you found out on your own…”

  “I’m tired of that, too. Finding out on my own.”

  “If you found out on your own he’d attended Holly’s funeral, that was fair enough. So I made the guest books available to you. I understand your frustration. But you’d do the same thing. You wouldn’t betray a confidence, now, would you?”

  “Depends. That’s what I’ve about decided.”

  Hollings looks at the lighted windows of the apartment building. He says, “Now I have to worry I’m somehow responsible.”

  “What confidence?” Scarpetta asks. “Since we’re talking about them and you seem to have a secret.”

  “That he’d met Lydia several years ago when the Family Circle Cup used to be played in Hilton Head. They had an affair, an ongoing one, which is why he kept an apartment here. Then that day in July, their punishment. He and Lydia were in her bedroom, you can fill in the rest. No one checked on Holly, and she drowned. They broke up. Her husband left her. She fell apart, completely.”

  “And he started sleeping with Drew?”

  “God knows how many people he’s slept with, Kay.”

  “Why did he continue to keep this apartment? If his affair with Lydia was over.”

  “Maybe to have a clandestine place to be with Drew. Under the guise of training. Maybe because he said the bright foliage, the weather, the ironwork, and old stucco homes reminded him of Italy. He continued to be a friend to Lydia — this is according to him. Went to see her now and then.”

  “When was the last time? Did he say?”

  “Several weeks ago. He left Charleston after Drew won the tournament here, then came back.”

  “Maybe I’m just not putting these pieces together very well.” Scarpetta’s cell phone rings. “Why would he come back? Why didn’t he go with Drew to Rome? Or did he? She had the Italian Open and Wimbledon coming up. I’ve never understood why she suddenly decided to run off with friends instead of training for what could have been the greatest victories of her career. So she goes to Rome? Not to train for the Italian Open. But to party? I don’t understand.”

  Scarpetta doesn’t answer her phone. She doesn’t even look to see who it is.

  “He told me he went to New York right after she won the tournament here. Not even a month ago. Almost impossible to believe.”

  Her phone stops ringing.

  And Hollings says, “Gianni didn’t go with Drew, because she’d just fired him.”

  “She fired him?” Scarpetta says. “Is this known?”

  “It’s not.”

  “Why did she fire him?” Her phone rings again.

  “Because Dr. Self told her to,” Hollings says. “That’s why he went to New York. To confront her. To try to get Drew to change her mind.”

  “I’d better see who this is.” Scarpetta answers her phone.

  “You need to drop by on your way to the airport,” Lucy says.

  “It’s not exactly on the way.”

  “Another hour, hour and a half, and I think we can head out. The weather should be fine by then. You need to drop by the labs.” Lucy tells Sc
arpetta where to meet her, and adds, “I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

  Scarpetta says she will. To Henry Hollings, she says, “I’m assuming Drew didn’t change her mind.”

  “She wouldn’t talk to him.”

  “And Dr. Self?”

  “He did talk to her. In her apartment. Mind you, this is what he told me. And she told him he was bad for Drew, an unhealthy influence, and she would continue to advise her to stay away from him. He got increasingly distraught and angry as he told me all this, and now I see I should have known better. I should have come over here immediately, sat down with him. Done something.”

  “What else happened with Dr. Self?” Scarpetta asks. “Drew went to New York, then left for Rome the next day. Barely twenty-four hours later, she disappeared and ended up murdered, quite possibly by the same person who murdered Lydia. And I’ve got to head to the airport. You’re welcome to come. If we have any luck, we’re going to need you anyway.”

  “The airport?” He gets up from the bench. “Now?”

  “I don’t want us to wait another day. Her body’s in worse shape every hour.”

  They start walking.

  “Now? And I’m supposed to go with you in the middle of the night, and I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hollings puzzles.

  “Heat signatures,” she says. “Infrared. Any thermal variation is going to show up better in the dark, and maggots can raise the temperature of a decomposing body as much as twenty degrees centigrade. It’s been more than two days, because when he left her house, I’m quite sure she wasn’t alive. Not based on what we found. What else happened with Dr. Self? Did Lupano tell you anything else?”

  They’re almost to her car.

  “He said he was extraordinarily insulted,” Hollings says. “She said very degrading things to him and wouldn’t tell him how to find Drew. After he left, he called Dr. Self again. This was supposed to be the greatest moment in his career, and she’d just wrecked it, and then the final blow. She told him Drew was staying with her, had been inside the apartment the entire time he was begging Dr. Self to undo what she’d done. I won’t be going with you. You don’t need me, and I, well, I want to check on Rose.”

  Scarpetta unlocks her car as she thinks about the timing. Drew spent the night in Dr. Self’s penthouse, and the next day flew to Rome. The day after that, the seventeenth, she disappeared. The eighteenth, her body was found. The twenty-seventh, Scarpetta and Benton were in Rome investigating Drew’s murder. That same day, Dr. Self was admitted to McLean, and Dr. Maroni fabricated a file that was supposed to be notes he took when he saw the Sandman as a patient — something Benton feels sure is a lie.