“Is Marino aware of what you found?”
“I called him.”
“Thank you, Linda,” I said, getting up, and I was formulating my own theory, which was quite different from hers and, unfortunately, more probable. Just the thought of it made me furious. In my office I snatched up the phone and dialed Marino’s pager number. He returned my call almost immediately.
“The little fuckhead,” he said right off.
“Who? Linda?”
I asked, startled.
“Morrell, that’s who. The lying son of a bitch. Just got off the phone with him. Said he didn’t know what I was talking about until I accused him of stealing evidence for reloads – asked him if he was stealing guns and live ammo, too. Said I’d have his ass investigated by Internal Affairs. Then he started singing.”
“He etched his initials in the cartridge case and left it out there deliberately, didn’t he, Marino?”
“Oh, yeah. They found the goddam cartridge case last week. The real one. Then the asshole leaves this goddam plant, starts whining that he was just doing what the FBI told him to do.”
“Where is the real cartridge case?”
I demanded, blood pounding in my temples.
“The FBI lab’s got it. You and yours truly spent an entire afternoon in the woods, and guess what, Doc? The whole goddam time we was being watched. The place is under physical surveillance. Just a damn good thing neither one of us wandered behind a bush to take a piss, right?”
“Have you talked to Benton?”
“Hell, no. As far as I’m concerned, he can screw himself.”
Marino slammed down the receiver.
9
There was something reassuring about the Globe and Laurel that made me feel safe. Brick, with simple lines and not a hint of ostentation, the restaurant occupied a sliver of northern Virginia real estate in Triangle, near the U.S. Marine Corps base. The narrow strip of lawn in front was always tidy, boxwoods neatly pruned, the parking lot orderly, every car within the painted bound allotted space.
Semper Fidelis was over the door, and stepping inside I was welcomed by the cream of the “always faithful” crop: police chiefs, four-star generals, secretaries of defense, directors of the FBI and CIA, the photographs so apes of its familiar to me that the men sternly smiling in them seemed a host of long-lost friends. Maj. Jim Yancey whose bronzed combat boots from Vietnam were on top of the piano across from the bar, strode across recd: Highland tartan carpet and intercepted me.
“Dr. Scarpetta,” he said, grinning as he shook my hand. “I was afraid you didn’t like the food when last you were here, and that’s why you waited so long come back.”
The major’s casual attire of turtleneck sweater a corduroy trousers could not camouflage his former profession. He was as military as a campaign hat, posture proudly straight, not an ounce of fat, white hair in a buzz cut. Past retirement age, he still looked fit enough for combat, and it wasn’t hard for me to imagine him bumping over rugged terrain in a Jeep or eating rations from a can in the jungle while monsoon rains hammer down.
“I’ve never had a bad meal here, and you know it,” I said warmly.
“You’re looking for Benton, and he’s looking for you. The old boy’s around there” – he pointed – “in his usual foxhole.”
“Thank you, Jim. I know the way. And it’s so good see you again.”
He winked at me and returned to the bar.
It was Mark who had introduced me to Major Yancey’s restaurant when I drove to Quantico two weekend every month to see him. As I walked beneath a ceiling covered with police patches and passed displays of old Corps memorabilia, recollections tugged at my heart. I could pick out the tables where Mark and I had sat, and it seemed odd to see strangers there now, engaged in their own private conversations. I had not been to the Globe in almost a year.
Leaving the main dining room, I headed for a more secluded section where Wesley was waiting for me in his “foxhole,” a corner table before a window with red draperies. He was sipping a drink and did not smile as we greeted each other formally. A waiter in a black tuxedo appeared to take my drink order.