Wesley’s face was tired. Several times now he had rubbed Ids temples as if he had a headache. “My purpose in talking to both of you is that there may be some angles to this thing that require us to act very carefully. I’m asking for direct and open channels among the three of us. Absolute discretion is imperative. No loose talk to reporters, no divulging of information to anyone, not to close friends, relatives, other medical examiners, or cops. And no radio transmissions.”
He looked at both of us. “I want to be land lined immediately if and when Deborah Harvey’s and Fred Cheney’s bodies are found. And if Mrs. Harvey tries to get in touch with either of you, direct her to me.”
“She’s already been in contact,” I said.
“I’m aware of that, Kay,” Wesley replied without looking at me.
I did not ask him how he knew, but I was unnerved and it showed.
“Under the circumstances, I can understand your going to see her,” he added. “But it’s best if it doesn’t happen again, better you don’t discuss these cases with her further. It only causes more problems. It goes beyond her interfering with the investigation. The more she gets involved, the more she may be endangering herself.”
“What? Because she turns up dead?”
Marino asked skeptically.
“More likely because she ends up out of control, irrational.”
Wesley’s concern over Pat Harvey’s psychological wellbeing may have been valid, but it seemed flimsy to me. And I could not help but worry as Marino and I were driving back to Richmond after dinner that the reason Wesley had wanted to see us had nothing to do with the welfare of the missing couple.
“I think I’m feeling handled,” I finally confessed as the Richmond skyline came into view.
“Join the club,” Marino said irritably.
“Do you have any idea what’s really going on here?”
“Oh, yeah,” he replied, punching in the cigarette lighter. “I got a suspicion, all right. I think the Friggin’ Bureau of Investigation’s caught a whiff of something that’s going to make someone who counts look bad. I got this funny feeling someone’s covering his ass, and Benton’s caught in the middle.”
“If he is, then so are we.”
“You got it, Doc.”
It had been three years since Abby Turnbull had appeared in my office doorway, arms laden with fresh cut irises and a bottle of exceptional wine. That had been the day when she had come to say good-bye, having given the Richmond Times notice. She was on her way to work in Washington as a police reporter for the Post. We had promised to keep in touch as people always do. I was ashamed I could not remember the last time I had called or written her a note.
“Do you want me to put her through?”
Rose, my secretary, was asking. “Or should I take a message?”
“I’ll talk to her,” I said. “Scarpetta,” I announced out of habit before I could catch myself.
“You still sound so damn chiefly,” the familiar voice said.
“Abby! I’m sorry.”
I laughed. “Rose told me it was you. As usual, I’m in the middle of about fifty other things, and I think I’ve completely lost the art of being friendly on the phone. How are you?”
“Fine. If you don’t count the fact that the homicide rate in Washington has tripled since I moved up here.”
“A coincidence, I hope.”
“Drugs.”
She sounded nervous. “Cocaine, crack, and semiautomatics. I always thought a beat in Miami would be the worst or maybe New York. But our lovely nation’s capital is the worst.”
I glanced up at the clock and jotted the time on a call sheet. Habit again. I was so accustomed to filling out call sheets that I reached for the clipboard even when hairdresser called.
“I was hoping you might be free for dinner tonight,” she said.
“In Washington?”
I asked, perplexed.
“Actually, I’m in Richmond.”
I suggested dinner at my house, packed up my briefcase, and headed out to the grocery store. After much deliberation as I pushed the cart up and down aisles, I selected two tenderloins and the makings for salad. The afternoon was beautiful. The thought of seeing Abby was improving my mood. I decided that an evening spent with an old friend was a good excuse to brave cooking out again.