Chaos. Patricia Cornwell
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sparkles as if the SUV was just detailed. Marino is meticulous about his vehicles. His house, office and attire are another story.
“Did I tell you how much I hate the damn phone?” he starts complaining as he shuts his door with a thud. “Some things we don’t need to be talking about on a wireless device that has access to every damn thing about your life.”
“Why are you dressed up?”
“I had a wake. Nobody you know.”
“I see.” I don’t really.
Marino isn’t the type to put on a suit and tie for a wake. He’ll barely do that for a funeral or a wedding, and he’s certainly not dressing up in weather like this unless he has a special reason he’s not saying.
“Well you look nice, and you smell good. Let me see. Cinnamon, sandalwood, a hint of citrus and musk. British Sterling always reminds me of high school.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“I didn’t know we had a subject.”
“I’m talking about spying. Remember when the biggest worry was someone riding around with a scanner,” he says. “Trying to hack into your house phone that way? Remember when there weren’t cameras in your face everywhere? I stopped by the Square a while ago to see who might be hanging around, and some snotty asshole college kid started filming me with his phone.”
“How do you know it was a college kid?”
“Because he looked like a spoiled little brat in his flip-flops, baggy shorts and Rolex watch.”
“What were you doing?”
“Just asking a few questions about what they might have seen earlier. You know, there’s always the usual suspects hanging out in front of The Coop, the CVS. Not as many in this heat but they’d rather be free and footloose in the great unwashed outdoors than in a nice shelter out of the elements. Then the kid was pointing his phone at me like I’m going to shoot someone for no reason and maybe he’ll get lucky and catch it on film. Meanwhile some damn drone was buzzing around. I hate technology,” he adds grumpily.
“Please tell me why I’m sitting here because clearly I don’t need a ride since I’ve already arrived at my destination.”
“Yeah you don’t need a ride, all right. I’d say the damage is already done.” He looks me up and down, his sunglasses lingering too long on the run in my hose.
“And I’m sure you didn’t pick me up just to tell me that.”
“Nope. I want to know what’s really going on with Bryce.” Marino’s Ray-Bans seem to pin me in my seat.
“I didn’t know anything was—beyond his being more frazzled and annoying than usual.”
“Exactly. And why might that be? Think about it.”
“Okay, I’m thinking about it. Possibly because of the heat and how busy work has been. As you well know we’ve had an overload of weather-related cases, and he and Ethan are having trouble with that same abusive neighbor, and let’s see … I believe Bryce’s grandmother had her gallbladder removed the other week. In other words there’s been a lot of stress. But who the hell knows what’s going on with him or anyone, Marino?”
“If there’s a reason we shouldn’t trust Bryce, now’s the time to spill it, Doc.”
“It seems to me we’ve discussed this enough,” I say over the blasting air-conditioning, which is going to chill me to my marrow because my clothes are so damp. “I don’t have time to ride around with you right now, and I need to make some effort to clean up before dinner.”
I start to get out, and he reaches for my arm again.
“Stay.” He says it as if he’s addressing his German shepherd Quincy, who’s currently not in the cage in back. As it turns out, in addition to being a failed cadaver dog, he’s also a fair-weather man’s best friend.
Named after the legendary medical examiner on TV, this Quincy doesn’t venture out to any crime scene when the conditions are inclement. I suspect Marino’s furry sidekick is safely at home right now on his Tempur-Pedic bed in the den with the air-conditioning and DOGTV on.
“I’m going to drop you off the last damn fifty feet. Sit and enjoy the cool,” Marino says.
I move my arm because I don’t like being grabbed even gently.
“You need to hear me out.” He shoves the gearshifter in drive. “Like I said, I didn’t want to go into it over the phone. We sure as hell can’t know who’s spying anymore, right? And if Bryce is compromising the CFC’s security or yours I want us to find out before it’s too late.”
I remind Marino that we use personal proprietary smartphones and have the benefit of encryption, firewalls and all sorts of special and highly secure apps. It’s unlikely that our conversations or e-mails can be hacked. My computer-genius-niece Lucy, the CFC cyber-crimes expert, makes very sure of that.
“Are you talking with her at all about any of this?” I ask. “If you’re so worried we’re being spied on don’t you think you could take it up with her? Since that’s her job?”
Just as I’m saying this my phone rings and it’s Lucy requesting her own version of FaceTime, meaning she’d like us to see each other as we talk.
“What timing,” I say right off as her keenly pretty face fills the display on my phone. “We were just talking about you.”
“I’ve only got a minute.” Her eyes are green lasers. “Three things. First, my mom just called and her plane is going to be delayed a little bit. Well, I shouldn’t say a little bit even if that’s how she described it. We don’t know for how long at this point. And I’m not a hundred percent sure what’s going on with air traffic control. But there’s a hold on all outbound traffic at the moment.”
“What’s she being told?” I ask as my heart sinks.
“They’re changing gates or something. Mom and I didn’t talk long but she said it may be closer to ten thirty or eleven by the time she gets here.”
It’s nice of my sister to let me know, it flashes in my mind. As busy as Benton and I are, and she wouldn’t think twice about making us wait at the airport half the night.
“Second, the latest just landed from Tailend Charlie.” Lucy’s eyes are moving as she talks, and I try to figure out where she is. “I haven’t listened to it yet. As soon as I’m freed up from the nine-one-one bullshit call I will.”
“I assume what was sent was another audio clip in Italian,” I point out because Lucy isn’t fluent and wouldn’t be able to translate all or possibly any of it.
She says yes, that at a glance the latest communication from Tailend Charlie is like the other eight I’ve received since the first day of September. The anonymous threat was sent at the same time of day, is the same type of file and the recording is the same length. But she hasn’t listened, and I tell her we’ll deal with it later.
Then she asks, “Where are you? In whose car?” She’s vivid against a backdrop of complete darkness, as if she’s in a cave.
Yet her rose-gold hair is shiny in ambient light that wavers like a movie is playing in the background. Shadows flicker on her face, and it occurs to me she might be inside the Personal Immersion Theater, what at the CFC we call the PIT.
I tell her I’m with Marino, and that brings her to the third and most important point; she says, “Have you seen what’s on Twitter?”
“If you’re asking then I’m sure it’s not good,” I reply.
“I’m