Autopsy, p.12
Autopsy, page 12
Followed by the quenelle de brochet with prawns that Lyon is famous for, and we had quite the scientific discussion about the complexities of white Burgundies.
“But I admit being partial to a full-bodied red Bordeaux, a blend like a Pauillac or a Margaux,” she let me know. “And I think you, Benton and Lucy will find that nineteen ninety-six was une très bonne année.”
She made no pretense about the provenance, that the bottle she’d given me may be a very good year but it was a regift. The head of the most powerful police organization in the world, and she wanted me to consider it a token of her friendship and appreciation. Solicitous about my niece and her recent losses, Gabriella hoped that all of us would drink the fine French wine to our good health.
Such an irony, and I wouldn’t want to be in the secretary general’s shoes right now. She must feel even worse than I do about almost sending death to my door. The wine could have killed my entire family, and the biggest question is when the bottle was tampered with.
Chapter 15
“How did it happen, and who was the intended victim?” Benton says. “Likely it was Gabi,” as he calls her, and he wasn’t in Lyon with me.
In the midst of foiling the latest terrorist plot to overthrow our democracy, he couldn’t represent the United States at our first international symposium of the Doomsday Commission. As disappointing as that was, it’s nothing new, and I traveled alone.
“The first woman secretary general, and she comes on like gangbusters against human rights violations and hacking,” Benton says. “In particular going after Putin, and poisonings are the Russian’s special sauce.”
“Interpol’s relationship with China hasn’t been so great, either.” I remind him that the former president of the international police organization was Chinese. “He vanished from France and since has been arrested, as I recall from what was all over the news.”
“I agree,” Benton says as I lean against him, my head on his shoulder. “It’s improbable that the wine was meant for you or anyone around you, including me.”
Whoever tampered with it had no reason to think that the secretary general might turn around and give it to someone else, he adds. It’s also hard to imagine the Brussels police chief would have anything to do with such a scheme. It would be far too easy to trace, in fact, ridiculously so.
“For sure he’s going to be questioned, and might even be blamed.” Benton sets another bottle of water on my bedside table. “Not to mention the possible damage to his reputation if this becomes public. No matter what, there will be those who think he’s guilty or at least wonder about it.”
“We don’t know that he wasn’t the intended victim,” it occurs to me next. “Or possibly it was the owner of the Brussels wine shop.”
“That’s right, we don’t know much at this point. Without evidence, we can’t even say a crime’s been committed.”
“Clearly the person responsible doesn’t give a damn about possible collateral damage no matter how random,” I reply angrily. “Doesn’t care who might be ruined or killed. Someone’s husband, wife, child, could be absolutely anyone,” and the thought is sickening.
“That much is indisputable.”
Benton walks past the brick fireplace and antique furniture, headed to the windows overlooking the water. He begins opening the shades, letting in the morning gloom.
“Bottom line,” he says, “we won’t know who the intended victim was until we figure out when and where the bottle was accessed. And how it was done.”
“Yes, and with what,” I agree. “I’ll start checking with the labs as soon as I can think straight and don’t feel queasy.”
From my vantage point on the bed, I can see old trees stirring in the wind, the gray sky churning over the Potomac River. The last weather report I remember predicted showers on and off today with another front on the way. This one could include freezing rain that in Old Town usually means power outages.
During bad storms, people around here stay inside, their focus on old roofs leaking and trees coming down. Some roads and alleyways flood, and the police are tied up with accidents and other weather-related calls. Beat officers aren’t as eager to patrol in a downpour, and conveniently for Gwen’s killer, Fruge was tied up on drug overdoses last Friday night.
In bad weather, surveillance cameras are less effective on the ground. They’re not helpful from above when there’s a heavy overcast. All of these factors created the very conditions Gwen Hainey’s killer may have found ideal. My thoughts slide back into that dark hole while Benton remains fixated on the wine that almost killed me and possibly everyone I love.
“We have to ask who had access,” he says, standing in front of his dresser, and in the dim light of the blustery morning, I see what he has on.
A black turtleneck sweater, black cargo pants, tactical boots as if just coming in from a police detail, and he retrieves his 9mm pistol, a Sig Sauer like mine.
“Let’s look at every link in the chain. Gabriella gave you the wine while you were with her at Interpol.” He slides the gun into a pocket holster that he tucks inside his waistband. “From there you carried it directly back to your hotel room in Lyon, where it stayed for several days?”
As he says this, I envision the tile floors, carved wooden beam ceilings and colorful silk-covered walls. I remember the sensuous perfumes of the candles and soaps, and the bouquet floral et fruité of the house Beaujolais, crimson like blood.
“That’s correct. As you know, I was in and out of meetings that included lunches and dinners,” I reply, and several days went by with our barely talking on the phone, both of us too busy. “I wasn’t in my room much, and the bottle remained wrapped in paper inside its bag on top of the closet safe.”
“In other words, it was accessible.”
“Unfortunately.” I feel stupid again. “Then it was in my luggage for the flight from Paris to London, where I stopped off for a day of meetings.”
It’s unthinkable what might have happened had I regifted the regift, passing along the tainted bottle to someone else the same way the secretary general did with me. Dinner was with New Scotland Yard’s commissioner, and I spent a hospitable evening at her home. What if I’d shown up with that 1996 Bordeaux?
“As you know,” I remind Benton, “I was in London only one night, leaving the wine in my luggage. The next morning, it was on to Dulles.”
“Adding even more opportunities, unfortunately,” he says.
“Since then, it’s been here in the basement until last night.”
“The least likely site of the tampering is our house. But I’m not saying it didn’t happen here. For sure, there were workmen in and out while we’ve been getting the place in shape.”
But since returning from France with the wine there have been few people in and out. Mostly it’s been the security system troubleshooters, the police who’ve continued showing up when there are false alarms and other malfunctions.
“Good God, Benton.” Frustrated, I push back the covers. “I don’t know how we’re supposed to trust anything anymore. Whether we’re talking about someone negative for a deadly virus or if something is safe to eat or drink. And who’s okay to allow on your property. Not to mention, what’s true or false.”
“It wouldn’t be your average bear who tampered with the wine,” he says, and of course he’s right. “This was meticulously premeditated by someone who knows what he’s doing.”
My head might split open, another wave of nausea, and I couldn’t be more annoyed with myself.
You of all people know better!
I should have been warier, more on guard. But it’s hard to live like that constantly, and I’d be the first to admit I was preoccupied with far more than the demands of my first Doomsday Commission international symposium. I was distracted by my grief-stricken niece who isn’t at her best when dealing with her emotions.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to mend her broken heart, to fill the emptiness and stop the hurt. When the secretary general presented me with the Bordeaux, my first thought was Lucy’s birthday coming up. I imagined surprising her with her favorite meal accompanied by an exceptional wine that I carried home from France.
Best of all was the thought of spending quality time in front of the fire. I’d make sure it was just the two of us. We’d talk about the good times from the past, and better days to come. Drinking a toast to them, I’d remind her of the infinite possibilities ahead.
Never eat or drink anything from a stranger!
Except Gabriella Honoré isn’t one, and the voice in my head is Marino’s, not mine. I’ve been hearing it nonstop, making me feel carped at the same way my mother did, reminding me of every mistake I’ve ever made including my profession. A doctor to the dead because I can’t bother with the living, she’d tell anyone who’d listen.
“This would be a good day to stay in, maybe work in bed, review all those old dusty files you keep dragging around,” Benton says. “I’ll bring you breakfast, I know just the thing.”
“Not yet. My stomach has to settle. As soon as possible, I need to get to the office to see what’s going on with confirming Gwen Hainey’s identification so the police can notify the family. Not that they don’t already know from the news,” I’m reminded unpleasantly.
“Her murder has gone viral on the Internet, all sorts of theories cropping up,” Benton says.
Lowering my feet to the floor, I stand up unsteadily, and he’s close by and at the ready.
“You’re dressed as if you’re going somewhere.” I put my arm around his slender waist. “Either that or starring in an action movie. What’s on your agenda today besides dropping me off to get my car?”
“I never really went to bed,” he says as I try walking on my own. “I changed into something practical, that’s all, and you’re not driving anywhere for a while even if you think you’re back to normal. How are you doing?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He pulls me closer.
“I’ve been better but I’ll be okay,” I repeat. “What have you been up to all night?”
He answers vaguely that there’s been much to keep everybody scurrying about. Lucy has been reviewing security videos, making sure no one has been on the property that we don’t know about, he says.
“We’re talking about hours and hours of footage to review, and I was with her in the cottage for a while,” Benton explains.
I head toward the windows, barefoot, and in scrubs I don’t remember putting on.
“We’re checking the security recordings going back to before we moved in,” he says. “For one thing, to make sure no one might have been casing the place prior to our getting here.”
I walk past a mirror that murkily reflects the oil paintings on the opposite wall. It’s too dim to make out the Miró farm scenes or other fine art that I can’t afford on my government salary. Most of what’s rare and expensive doesn’t come from my side of the equation, the property we’re living on a perfect example.
Also, the Stickley trestle coffee table, the brown leather sofa, the barristers bookcases filled with old leather-bound volumes. My husband’s New England pedigree traces back to the Pilgrims, his father a wealthy art collector. I’m the product of first-generation Italians who settled in Miami after the Second World War.
My father owned a small grocery store in a neighborhood made up of Cubans and Italians. I have no ancestral heirlooms, no inherited antiques or art, and it’s safe to say that Benton Wesley didn’t marry me for money.
“When we started living on the property a month ago, I put the wine in the basement refrigerator.” I’m trying to work out what could have happened. “Meaning the bottle from Interpol was here while the alarm people and possibly others including the police have been on our property.”
“To leave no stone unturned, Marino and I went through the basement.” Benton waits by the bed, his eyes on me. “We especially focused on the area where you store the wine. We made sure there wasn’t anything that might make us think someone was in there who shouldn’t have been.”
“Except I’m not sure what you’d be looking for that we wouldn’t have noticed long before now. Assuming it was something that would be noticed at all.”
“What I can say is nothing jumped out at us but that doesn’t mean much,” he agrees. “Certainly, there’s no evidence that anyone has tried to break into the basement.”
“Like I said, I think we would know that by now,” I reply, looking out a window at the Woodrow Wilson Memorial Bridge spanning a wide swath of the Potomac, connecting Virginia to Maryland.
Chapter 16
The color of the water this morning is the gray-green of old glass. Protruding from it is a stubble of dark wooden pilings left from the dock that was there centuries earlier. I imagine the sea captain who built our house watching his moored ship from this very spot.
“Are you okay to be on your own while I go downstairs?” Benton asks as I walk away from a view I’ve come to love. “Or do you want me to stay up here while you clean up? I don’t want you alone if you’re dizzy or even slightly unsteady on your feet.”
“I’m feeling much better, will be down in a few.” I hug and kiss him, grateful he takes such good care of me. “You could have married somebody easier, you know. I warned you often enough.”
“How boring that would be,” he says, walking off.
The old pumpkin pine flooring is smooth and cool beneath my feet as I head to the bathroom with its white subway-tile walls, the claw-foot tub and glass-enclosed shower. Flipping on the light, I squint at my pale reflection in the mirror over the marble washbasin.
“Goodness,” I mutter under my breath.
I look like death on a cracker, to quote my sister, my hair sticking up, and I hear Benton’s phone ring on the stairs. Then mine does, the area code in the display 202 for Washington, D.C., the exchange 538, and that can’t be good.
“Dr. Scarpetta,” I answer over speakerphone.
“It’s Tron,” the familiar voice says.
The U.S. Secret Service cyber investigator’s actual name is Sierra Patron, and she’s a member of the Doomsday Commission task force. She’s not calling to check in or chat because that’s not what she does, and I squeeze hot water from a washcloth, apologizing for the noise.
“Hold on a second.” I turn off the water in the sink.
Closing the toilet lid, I sit down. Tilting my head back, I place the hot compress over my eyes, and I can’t let on how bad I’m feeling and why.
“How are you, Tron? What’s going on?” I can hear the vague murmur of Benton downstairs, possibly getting the same notification I am.
“You’re needed at the White House complex ASAP,” she says, and of all times to feel as hungover as I’ve ever been in my life.
“I’m assuming Benton is being told the same thing. I hear him downstairs, our phones rang simultaneously.” I remove the washcloth, running more hot water over it.
“That’s correct.”
“Both of us are needed?” I want to make sure, and what he mentioned a few minutes ago is exactly right.
I shouldn’t be driving anywhere for a while, and how embarrassing. Closing my eyes again, I drape the steaming cloth over them.
“That’s correct.” Tron confirms that Benton will be accompanying me, thank goodness. “We’ve got a situation and need you here as fast as you can manage.” She hopes that won’t be a problem.
The way she says it makes me suspect she somehow knows I’m under the weather, and if I felt ashamed before, now I’m mortified. I hate to think what she would say about my carelessness, both of us in Lyon at the same Doomsday symposium.
I seriously doubt she carried gifts of food or drink home from France to share with family and friends. Wouldn’t matter who gave it to her, and I’ll never make that mistake again.
“I’m getting ready now,” I let her know with enthusiasm I don’t feel, back on my feet, opening the medicine cabinet. “Are there special considerations or instructions? Other details I should be aware of?”
She doesn’t answer my question. The Secret Service cyber investigator isn’t going to tell me anything else, my paranoia spiking.
She knows the stupid thing I’ve done.
I continue reminding myself that I’m probably not entirely logical at the moment. Why would Tron know about what happened last night? I’m not sure anyone does beyond my immediate circle, and of course Rex Bonetta, the toxicologist Marino woke up at oh-dark-hundred. No one called 911.
There’s no police report, nothing to be leaked to the media, and what a field day the likes of Dana Diletti would have with the latest. Just the idea makes me inwardly cringe as I remember dodging her, watching footage of it on national TV.
Shaking four Advil into my palm, I swallow them without water, glancing in the mirror. I’m not sure it’s possible to make myself presentable, and Tron goes on to inform me that Benton and I will be on a list at each checkpoint and guard shack.
“Stay safe, and I’ll be waiting for you at the entrance of the West Executive Gate.” Tron ends the call without further explanation, and I hear Benton on his phone, his voice drifting up the staircase.
I can’t make out what he’s saying but the fact that he’s still talking tells me plenty. Information is being shared and discussed with him and him alone. Then the sound fades until I can’t hear him anymore as he likely heads to the kitchen. Peeling off my scrubs, I drop them inside the hamper.
I inhale clouds of steam, tears flooding my eyes, everything catching up with me as I shower. Overwhelmed by misgivings about returning to Virginia, I’m gripped by the fear that I’ve been unrealistic and selfish. In the process I’ve dragged everyone here with me, and not because I asked them to move or even consider it. Because I didn’t. I wouldn’t.
