One simple phone call.
Lucy called Interpol’s Central Bureau in Washington, D.C. She identified herself—her real identity, of course—and had a brief conversation with a U.S. Marshal liaison named McCord. The next step was a search of the Interpol database to see if Caggiano is known, and he wasn’t, not even as a Green Notice, which simply means a person is of interest to Interpol and should be watched and subjected to extra scans and pat-downs when he or she crosses borders and passes through international airports.
Rocco Caggiano is in his mid-thirties. He has never been arrested and has made a fortune, ostensibly as a scumbag, ambulance-chasing lawyer, but his formidable wealth and power come from his real clients, the Chandonnes, although it isn’t accurate to call them clients. They own him. They shield him. He is kept in high style and alive at their pleasure.
“Check out a murder in 1997,” Lucy told McCord. “New Year’s Day in Sicily. A journalist named Carlos Guarino. Shot in the head, his body dumped in a drainage ditch. He was working on an investigative story about the Chandonnes—a very risky thing to do, by the way. He had just interviewed a lawyer who represents Jean-Baptiste Chandonne . . .”
“Right, right. I know about that case. The Wolfman, or whatever they call him.”
“The cover of People magazine, Time magazine, whatever. Who doesn’t know about the Wolfman serial killer, I guess,” Lucy replied. “Guarino was murdered hours after talking to Caggiano.
“Next, a journalist named Emmanuelle La Fleur. Barbizon, France, February eleventh, 1997. Worked for Le Monde. He also was unwisely doing a story on the Chandonne family.”
“Why all this interest in the Chandonnes, beyond their being Jean-Baptiste’s unlucky parents?”
“Organized crime. A huge cartel. Never been proven that the father heads it, but he does. There are rumors. Investigative reporters are sometimes blinded by scoops and prizes. La Fleur had drinks with Caggiano hours before the journalist’s body was found in a garden near the former château of the painter Jean François Millet—don’t bother looking for him. He’s been dead more than a hundred years.”
She wasn’t being sarcastic. She would never assume that Millet was a household name and didn’t want to find the artist was suddenly a person of interest.
“La Fleur was shot in the head, and the ten-millimeter bullet was fired from the same gun used to murder Guarino,” she explained.
There was more. The information came from a letter written by Jean-Baptiste Chandonne.
“I’ll e-mail you his letter immediately,” Lucy said, a transmission that would have been unthinkable before Interpol began using the Internet.
But the International Police Agency’s computerized communication network has more than enough firewalls, hieroglyphical encryptions and hacker-tracking systems to render any transmission secure. Lucy knows. When Interpol began to use the Internet, the secretary general personally invited her to hack her way in. She couldn’t. She never made it past the first firewall and secretly was furious at being foiled, even though the last thing she should have wanted was success.
The secretary general called her, quite amused. He read to her a list of her usernames, passwords and the location of her computer.
“Don’t worry, Lucy. I won’t send the police,” he said.
“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Hartman,” she replied to the secretary general, who is American.
From New York to London to Berlin and now crossing the border into Poland, police have been alert, she sensed that. But they didn’t take her seriously, could have cared less about this young American woman driving her rented Mercedes at a late hour on a cool spring night. To them she clearly doesn’t look like a terrorist, and she isn’t. But she could be—easily—and it is foolish not to take her seriously, for no reason beyond her nationality, youthfulness, appearance and a smile that can be warm and captivating when she chooses.
She is far too smart to carry a firearm. Her tactical baton will do if she runs into a problem, not from the police, but from some asshole along the way who might have singled her out for robbery or some other type of assault. The baton was easy for her to smuggle into Germany. She used her shopworn routine because it has never failed: overnighted it in a cosmetic bag filled with a jumble of accessories (curling iron, curling brush, blow-dryer, et cetera). The package arrived at a cheap hotel near the airport, addressed to one of Lucy’s aliases; she also had a room reserved and paid for in that name. Lucy drove her rental car to the hotel, parked on a side street, picked up the package at check-in, messed up her room a bit and hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the door. She was back in her car in half an hour.
If a more serious weapon is imperative on a mission, a handgun and extra magazines of ammunition are tucked inside alleged lost baggage sloppily bound in airline tape and dumped at the hotel desk by one of Lucy’s associates, dressed for the part. She has many associates. Most of them have never met her and don’t know who she is. Only her core team knows her. She has them and they have her. It is enough.
She plucks her international cell phone from between her legs and presses redial.
“I’m on the go,” she says when Rudy Musil answers. “An hour-fifteen out if I don’t speed too much.”
“Don’t.” A television plays loudly in the background.
Lucy eyes the speedometer as it eases past 120 kilometers per hour. She might be brazen, but never intentionally foolish. She has no intention of getting entangled with police as she heads toward the most prominent but beleaguered port city in Poland. Americans aren’t often seen in Szczecin. Why would Americans go there? Certainly not for tourism, unless it is to look at nearby concentration camps. For years now, the Germans have been intercepting foreign vessels en route to the Szczecin port. Daily, the Germans steal business from a city where unemployment and economic depression continue to corrode what once was a jewel of architecture, culture and art.
Very little glory has been restored to Szczecin since World War II, when Hitler set out to bomb Poland off the map and exterminate its people. It is impossible to earn a decent living. Few people know what it is like to live in a nice house, drive a nice car, wear nice clothes, buy books or go on vacation. It is said that no one but members of the Russian Mafia and criminal cartels have money in Poland, and with rare exception, this is true.
Lucy constantly scans the highway and her smile fades, her eyes narrow.
“Taillights ahead. I don’t like it,” she says into the cell phone. “Someone slowing.” She eases up on the accelerator. “Stopping in the middle of the fucking highway. No place to pull over.”
“Don’t stop. Go around it,” Rudy tells her.
“Disabled limousine. Weird to see an American limo in these parts.”
Lucy swerves around a white stretch Lincoln. The driver and a passenger are climbing out, and she resists the urge to stop and help.
“Shit,” she mutters in frustration.
“Don’t even think about it,” Rudy warns, well aware of Lucy’s high-risk personality and compulsion to save the world.
She pushes down the accelerator, and the limousine and its stranded passengers become part of the thick darkness behind her.
“The front desk is empty at this hour. You know where you’re going,” Rudy makes sure.
There can be no mistakes and no sightings.
Lucy repeatedly glances in the rearview mirror, worrying that the limousine might be gaining on her and turn out to be real trouble. Her stomach tightens. What if those people back there genuinely need help? She left them alone in the dark on E28, where there is no way to pull off the road. They’ll probably get run over by a truck.
For several seconds she considers speeding to the next exit and turning around. She does it for lost dogs, for turtles crossing highways and streets. She always brakes for chipmunks and squirrels, and runs outside to check on birds that fly into her windows. But people are another matter. She can’t afford to take the chance.
“You
can’t miss the Radisson,” Rudy is saying. “Don’t park in the courtyard for buses. They don’t appreciate it.”
He is joking. It goes without saying that Lucy will not park at the Radisson.
DELRAY BEACH, FLORIDA, is hot at six o’clock p.m., and Kay Scarpetta turns away from her kitchen window, deciding she will work another hour before venturing outside.
She has become an expert in judging shadows and light, monitoring them in her scientific manner before heading out to check on her fruit trees or walk on the beach. Making rather useless decisions based on analysis and calculations of how the sun moves across the sky helps her feel as though she has not lost complete control of her life.
Her two-story yellow stucco house is modest by her standards, just an old place with wobbly white railings, failing plumbing and wiring, and air-conditioning that seems to have a mean-spirited will of its own. Tiles sometimes fall out of the backsplash behind the electric stove, and yesterday the bathtub’s cold-water handle pulled loose from the wall. For the sake of survival, she has read home-repair books and manages to keep her surroundings from falling on her head as she tries not to remember what days were like before she relocated hundreds of miles south of her former career, and barely an hour’s drive north of Miami, where she was born. The past is dead, and death is just one more phase of existence. This is her creed. Most of the time she believes it.
Time on Earth is an opportunity to become more highly evolved, and then people move on or cross over—a concept that by no means is original to her, but she is not one to accept what isn’t obvious without dissecting it first. After much contemplation, her findings about eternity are simple: No one good or evil ceases to exist; life is energy and energy cannot be created or destroyed; it is recycled. Therefore, it is possible that the pure of heart and the purely evil have been here before and will be here again. Scarpetta doesn’t believe in heaven or hell, and she no longer goes to Mass, not even on religious holidays.
“What happened to your Catholic guilt?” Lucy asked her several Christmases ago when they were mixing a strong batch of eggnog and church was not on the agenda.
“I can’t participate in something I no longer believe in,” Scarpetta replied, reaching for freshly ground nutmeg. “Especially if I am at odds with it, which is worse than having a complete loss of faith in it.”
“The question is, what is it? Are you talking about Catholicism or God?”
“Politics and power. They have an unmistakable stench, rather much like the inside of the morgue fridge. I can close my eyes and know what’s there. Nothing alive.”
“Thanks for sharing,” Lucy said. “Maybe I’ll just drink a little straight rum on the rocks. Raw eggs suddenly don’t seem very appealing.”
“You’re not the least bit squeamish.” Scarpetta poured Lucy a glass of eggnog, adding a sprinkle of nutmeg. “Drink up before Marino gets here and there’s none left.”
Lucy smiled. The only thing that makes her gag is walking into a ladies’ room and finding someone in the middle of changing a baby’s diaper. To Lucy, that stench is worse than a decomposing body buzzing with blow flies, and she has experienced her share of offensive horrors because of her and her aunt’s unusual occupations.
“This mean you no longer believe in eternity?” Lucy challenged her.
“I believe in it more than ever.”
Scarpetta has made the dead speak most of her life, but always through the silent language of injuries, trace evidence, diseases and investigative details that can be interpreted with medicine, science, experience and deduction that borders on the intuitive, a gift that cannot be learned or taught. But people change. She is no longer entirely clinical. She has come to accept that the dead continue to exist and intervene in the lives of their earthbound loved ones and enemies. It is a conviction that she conceals from her detractors and certainly never mentions in professional presentations or in journal articles or in court.
“I’ve seen psychics on TV talking about people dying and crossing over—I believe that’s the term,” Lucy observed, sipping her eggnog. “I don’t know. It’s pretty interesting. The older I get, the less certain I am of most things.”
“I’ve noticed your advanced aging process,” Scarpetta replied. “When you turn thirty, you will begin to have visions and see auras. Let’s hope you don’t get arthritis.”
This conversation took place in Scarpetta’s former home in Richmond, a fortress of stone she designed with love and an abandonment of financial reason, sparing no expense in her insistence on old woods, exposed beams, solid doors and plaster walls, and a kitchen and office that were perfect for her precise way of going about her business, whether it was over a microscope or a Viking gas stove.
Life was good. Then it wasn’t and never would be again. So much went wrong. So much was spoiled and lost and could never be restored. Three years ago, she was well along her journey to disaster. She had resigned as president of the National Association of Medical Examiners. The governor of Virginia was about to fire her. One day, she cleared her office walls of scores of commendations, certifications and degrees that are now packed up somewhere in cardboard boxes. The pre-crash Scarpetta was impeccably, if not rigidly, intellectual, completely confident of her knowledge, her truthfulness and her ability to excavate for answers. She was a legend in law enforcement and criminal justice, and to some people unapproachable and cold. Now she has no staff except her secretary, Rose, who followed her to Florida with the excuse that it would be nice to “retire” near West Palm Beach.
Scarpetta can’t get over Benton Wesley. She has tried. Several times she has dated perfectly acceptable men, only to recoil at their touch. A simple touch, and it isn’t Benton’s, and then she is reminded. Then she reviews her last images of him, burned, mutilated. She still regrets reading his autopsy report, and yet she doesn’t. She regrets touching his ashes and scattering them, and yet she doesn’t. It was crucial, it really was, she constantly tells herself when she remembers the feel of the silky, lumpy cremains, when she remembers returning him to the pure air and sea he loved.
She wanders out of the kitchen, clutching the same mug of coffee she has warmed up in the microwave at least four times since noon.
“Dr. Scarpetta, can I get you anything?” Rose calls out from a spare bedroom that serves as her office.
“Nothing would help,” Scarpetta replies, halfway joking, as she heads in the direction of Rose’s voice.
“Nonsense.” It is her secretary’s favorite rebuttal. “I told you if you went to work for yourself, you’d only be busier, if that was possible. And worn-out and overextended.”
“And what did I tell you about retirement?”
Rose looks up from the autopsy report she is proofreading on her computer. She tabs to the space for brain and types 1, 200 grams. Within normal limits and corrects a typo.
Nails click across the wooden floor like Morse code as Scarpetta’s bulldog hears voices and walks rather lazily, then pauses, then walks some more toward them, then sits.
“Come here, Billy-Billy,” Scarpetta affectionately calls out.
He looks at her with drooping eyes.
“His name is Billy,” Rose reminds her, although there is no point in doing so. “If you keep calling him Billy-Billy, he’ll think he lives with an echo or has a split personality.”
“Come here, Billy-Billy.”
He gets up, takes his time. Click-click.
Rose is wearing a peach pantsuit. It is wool, as are all of Rose’s suits. The house is on the beach. It is bloody hot and humid, and Rose doesn’t hesitate to walk outside in a skirt and long-sleeved blouse and water the hibiscus, climb a ladder to pick bananas or key limes, or save baby frogs from drowning in the trap of the pool. It’s a wonder that moths haven’t carried off every bit of clothing Rose owns, but she is a proud woman, her dignity masking a fragile, gentle nature, and it is out of her respect for herself and her boss that she takes time each morning to make sure her choice of o
utfit for the day is pressed and clean.
If anything, she seems secretly pleased that her sense of style is dated, some of her suits so old that she was wearing them more than a decade ago when she first started working for Scarpetta. Rose hasn’t changed her hair, either, still pinning it up in a fussbudget French twist and refusing to get rid of the gray. Good structure makes the building, and her bones are exquisite. At the age of sixty-seven, men find her attractive, but she hasn’t dated since her husband died. The only man Scarpetta has ever seen her flirt with is Pete Marino, and she doesn’t mean it and he knows it, but they have tormented each other since Scarpetta was appointed chief medical examiner of Virginia, what now seems as though it were another incarnation.
Billy is panting as he appears at the desk. He is not quite a year old, white with a large brown spot on the middle of his back, and his underbite reminds Scarpetta of a backhoe. He sits at her feet, looking up.
“I don’t have any . . .”
“Don’t say that word!” Rose exclaims.
“I wasn’t going to. I was going to spell it.”
“He can spell now.”
Billy suffers no language barrier with the words bye-bye and treat. He also recognizes no and sit but pretends he doesn’t, stubbornness the right of his breed.
“You better not have been chewing on anything back there,” Scarpetta warns him.
In the last month, Billy has taken a fancy to gnawing and ripping molding off doorframes and around the base of the walls, especially in Scarpetta’s bedroom.
“This isn’t your house, and I will have to pay for all repairs when I move out.” She wags her finger at him.
“It would be worse if it was your house,” Rose remarks as the dog continues to stare up at Scarpetta and wag his tail, which looks like a croissant.
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