Depraved Heart. Patricia Cornwell
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lines make me lonely for music. The faces of old homes we pass are tired, and New England pines and hardwoods grow chaotically, the earth a thick compost of tangled vines, dead weeds and rotting leaves.
Buildings are paint-peeled. They lean and sag. I’ll never understand why scarcely anyone seems to care about how run-down and unhappy everything looks. Few Concord residents bother with landscaping or grass, and nothing is gated or fenced-in except Lucy’s estate. Dogs and cats wander at will and I have to look out for them when I drive here. In general that’s once or twice a month for dinner, brunch, a hike, or if Benton is out of town I might spend the night in the guest suite Lucy designed and furnished for me.
Up ahead a green snake as bright as an emerald is stretched out on a sunny patch of pavement, its head raised, feeling the vibrations of our approach. I slow down as it begins to undulate across the road, vanishing into the greenness of dense summer foliage. I speed up. Then I slow down for a squirrel, a plump gray one that stands on his hind legs, its whiskers twitching as if it’s scolding me before scampering off.
Next I come to a complete stop to let a panel-sided station wagon pass. It stops too and for an instant we’re at a stalemate. But I’m not backing up. I can’t possibly. It inches past with difficulty. I feel the driver’s unhappy stare.
“I think you’ve just ruined everybody’s day around here,” Marino says. “They’re wondering who got murdered.”
“Let’s hope the answer to that is nobody.” I glance at my phone for another text from Lucy’s ICE line, but there isn’t one as I continue along the road, the road that leads to her, the road I know so well and have come to hate.
Grass and weeds are chest-high up to the edge of the pavement, and heavy tree branches hang low, making visibility even worse. There are few streetlights, and more often than not when I show up I find some poor creature in harm’s way. I always stop. I’ll hurry along a turtle, picking it up if need be and setting it safely in the woods. I routinely watch for rabbits, foxes, deer, escaped ornamental chickens.
I’m on notice for baby raccoons that waddle out of the woods and lounge in the middle of the sun-warmed road, as innocent and sweet as cartoons. The other day after a hard rain I encouraged an army of green frogs to abandon their post. They seemed to grumble as I prodded them. There wasn’t the slightest gesture of gratitude for saving their lives. But then my patients don’t thank me, either.
I rumble over asphalt cracked and crumbling at the edges like a stale brownie, avoiding potholes deep enough to blow out tires and damage wheels, and I envision the low-slung supercars Lucy drives. I marvel just as I always do over how she manages Ferraris and Aston Martins in conditions like this. But she’s as nimble as a quarterback, streaking around anything that might hurt her or get in her way. Slaloming, fast cutting, my Artful Dodger stealthy niece.
Except something got her this time. I can see that instantly as a tight curve brings us to the entrance of her fifty-acre estate. The tall black iron gates are frozen open, and blocking her driveway is an unmarked white Ford SUV.
“Shit,” Marino says. “Here we go.”
I ease to a stop as an FBI agent in khaki pants and a dark polo shirt steps out of the SUV and approaches us. I don’t know him. He doesn’t look familiar. I reach inside my shoulder bag, my fingers brushing against the hard shape of my Rohrbaugh 9 mm in its pocket holster. I find the thin black leather wallet that holds my brass shield and credentials. I roll down my window and hear the loud thudding of the helicopter, a big one, probably the same twin engine I’ve been hearing only now it’s lower and slower. It’s much closer.
The agent is late twenties, early thirties, muscle-bound and poker-faced with veins roping his forearms and hands. He’s possibly Hispanic and definitely not from around here. New England natives in general have a certain way about them that’s typically low-key but observant. When they figure out you’re not the enemy they try to be helpful. This man isn’t going to be nice or accommodating, and he knows damn well who I am even if I don’t know him.
I have no doubt he’s aware that I’m married to Benton Wesley. My husband works out of the Boston Division. Probably this agent does too. The two of them probably are acquainted and may be friendly with each other. I’m supposed to think that none of it matters to the tough guy guarding my niece’s property. But the message he sends is exactly the opposite of what he intends. Disrespect is a symptom of weakness, of smallness, of an existential problem. By acting rude to me he’s showing me what he really thinks of himself.
I don’t give him the chance to make the first move. I open my wallet and display what’s inside. Kay Scarpetta, M.D., J.D. I’m duly appointed to the positions of chief medical examiner of Massachusetts and director of the Cambridge Forensic Center. I’m charged with the duty of investigating the cause of death pursuant to Chapter 38 of the General Laws of Massachusetts and in accordance with the Department of Defense Instruction 5154.30.
He doesn’t bother to read all that. He barely glances at my creds before returning my wallet as he stares past me at Marino. Then he stares at me, not directly in my eyes but between them. The trick isn’t original. I do the same thing in court when I’m faced with a hostile defense attorney. I’m quite skilled at looking at people without looking at them. This agent’s not so good at it.
“Ma’am, you need to turn around,” he says in a voice as flat as the expression on his face.
“I’m here to see my niece Lucy Farinelli,” I reply calmly, pleasantly.
“This property is under the control of the FBI.”
“The entire property?”
“You need to leave, ma’am.”
“The entire property?” I repeat. “That’s rather remarkable.”
“Ma’am, you need to leave right now.”
The more he says “ma’am” the more stubborn I get, and when he said “right now” he pushed me too far. There’s no going back. But I won’t show it and I avoid Marino’s eyes. I feel his aggression and refuse to look at him. If I do he’ll catapult out of the truck and get in the agent’s face.
“Do you have a warrant to access this entire property and search it?” I ask. “If the answer’s no and you don’t have a warrant for the entire property, then you need to move your vehicle and let me through. If you refuse, I’m going to call the Attorney General and I don’t mean of Massachusetts.”
“We have a search warrant,” he says with nothing in his tone, but his jaw muscles are flexing.
“A search warrant for fifty acres including the driveway, the woods, the shoreline, the dock and the water around it?” I know the FBI doesn’t have any such thing.
He says nothing, and I call Lucy’s ICE line again. I almost expect Carrie to answer but she doesn’t, thank God, and I can’t abide another possibility that is worse. What if Lucy sent the video to me? What on earth would that mean?
“You’re here,” Lucy surprises me by answering, and I’m reminded my techno wizard niece has surveillance cameras all over the place.
“Yes we’re at your gate,” I reply. “I’ve been trying you for the past hour. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Lucy says and it’s definitely her voice.
She’s quiet and subdued. I don’t detect a note of fear. What I sense is combat calm. She’s in a mode to defend herself, her family against the enemy, which in this case is the federal government.
“Yes we got here as quickly as we could. That’s what you wanted.” It’s as much of an allusion as I plan to make about the video link that landed on my phone. “I’m glad you let me know.”
“Excuse me?” It’s as much as she’ll say but the implication is loud and clear.
She doesn’t know about the text. She didn’t send it. She wasn’t expecting us to show up like