Depraved Heart. Patricia Cornwell
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an affair and still be in communication, and what a bizarre notion that is to contemplate.
One of the most dangerous fugitives on the planet might be on amicable terms with an FBI agent married to a federal judge who was appointed by the president of the United States. My mind speeds through possible connections, adding two plus two and maybe getting four. Maybe getting five or some other wrong answer. Or maybe there’s no answer period.
But it bothers me considerably that even as Erin Loria was making her way to Lucy’s property barely two hours ago, I was sent a text message that included a link to a covert video recording Carrie made in Lucy’s dorm room while the former Miss Tennessee-turned-FBI-agent was living right down the hall. Worse, Carrie and Lucy argued about her in the recording.
“Hold up a second,” Marino says to Lucy. “Before we drink the Kool-Aid and start imagining all sorts of crazy crap let’s go back to when your house phone rang. Your software collected data on who it was. You discovered Special Agent Loria was leading the charge and then what?”
“Literally?”
“Blow by blow.”
“I knew she was in a vehicle moving fourteen miles per hour along the same road you were just on.” Lucy pulls up her legs, planting her feet on the boulder, wrapping her arms around her bent knees.
None of us can get comfortable in her outdoor church. Except the sun feels good even if the humidity is oppressive, and the stirring air is sluggish but pleasant when it touches my damp skin. It’s the kind of hot heavy weather that promises a violent storm, and one is predicted for this afternoon. I look up at thick dark clouds advancing from the south, and I fix on the helicopter loudly hovering near the water, hanging in the air like a huge black Orca float in a Macy’s parade.
“I knew when she placed the call she was about fifty yards from my gate,” Lucy describes, “and when I asked her what I could help her with she informed me the FBI had a warrant to search my house and any outbuildings associated with it. She ordered me to open the gate and leave it open, and within minutes five Bureau cars including a K-nine were in front of the house.”
“What time did you notice the helicopter?” I continue to watch it hover rock solid, now over dense woods to the left of Lucy’s house, which we can’t see from where we’re sitting.
“About the same time you rolled up.”
“Let me get this straight.” Marino frowns. “For some reason an FBI chopper just happened to be in Cambridge where we were working a case? And next it just happened to follow us here? Okay. Now I’m getting really hinky, you know, one of those really bad feelings that makes my hair stand up …”
“You don’t have any hair,” Lucy says.
“What bullshit are they pulling?” Marino glares up at the sky as if the FBI is God.
“Well they sure as hell aren’t going to tell me,” she says. “I don’t know where they’ve been flying or for what reason, and there hasn’t been time for me to check. After their cars showed up I no longer had privacy. It wasn’t a smart idea for me to check with ATC or tune into their freq to hear who was buzzing around and maybe why. Plus I had a lot of other things to attend to. The K-nine in particular is upsetting—intentionally. What I call being a real asshole.”
“Who?”
“Erin, I can only conclude. If she’s gathered any information about me she realizes that I have an English bulldog named Jet Ranger who’s so old he can hardly walk or see, and to have a Belgian Malinois searching the house would scare the hell out of him. Not to mention scaring Desi. Not to mention hassling Janet to the point she was about to deck someone. This is personal.”
Her green eyes are intense. She holds my stare.
“I wouldn’t be so quick to assume that.” I’m cautious about what I say. “I wouldn’t take any of this personally,” I advise my niece even as I wonder about her. “All of us need to be coldly objective and think clearly right now.”
“It feels like someone is settling a score.”
“I admit I’m wondering the same thing,” Marino says.
“This is planned.” Lucy seems convinced. “It’s been planned for a while.”
“What score and who?” I inquire. “Not Carrie.”
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