“What’s your D.O.B.?” McElwayne was asking me.
“Not too many people have alarm systems in their garage,” Butler said. “In my opinion, the contacts are weaker than they’re going to be in a regular door. Lightweight metal, a really big surface area. You get a strong gusting wind . . .”
“I’ve never had a strong wind set off the alarm in my garage,” I said.
“But if you’re a burglar and figure a house has a burglar alarm,” Butler continued to reason, “you might not assume the garage door’s on it. And maybe there’s something in there worth stealing.”
“In broad daylight?” I asked.
The detective was dusting the doorjamb while more cold air blew in.
“Okay, let’s see, Doc.” McElwayne continued filling out the report. “Got your home address. Need the one downtown, and your home and business telephone numbers.”
“I really don’t want my unlisted phone number in a press basket,” I said, trying to restrain my building resentment of this intrusion, well intended or not.
“Dr. Scarpetta, you got any prints on file?” the detective asked, brush poised, black magnetic powder dirtying the door.
“Yes. For exclusionary purposes.”
“Thought you might. I think all MRs ought to in case they touch something they’re not supposed to,” he said, not intending to insult me but doing it anyway.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” I tried to get McElwayne to look up at me and listen. “I don’t want this
in the paper. I don’t want every news reporter and God knows who else calling me at home and knowing my exact address and my Social Security number and D.O.B., race, sex, where I was born, height, weight, eye color, next of kin. .”
“Anything happened lately we should know about?” McElwayne continued questioning me as Butler handed the detective lifting tape.
“A car followed me Wednesday night,” I reluctantly replied.
I felt all eyes on me.
“It seems my secretary was followed, too. Last night.”
McElwayne was writing all of this down, too. The doorbell sounded again, and I saw Marino in the video display of the Aiphone on the wall by the refrigerator.
“And I’d better not read about that in the paper;” I warned as I walked out of the kitchen.
“No, ma’am, it will be in the supplementary report. That doesn’t go in the press basket,” Butler’s voice followed me.
“Goddamn it, do something,” I said to Marino as I opened the door. “Someone tries to break into my goddamn house and now my privacy’s going to be broken into next.”
Marino was vigorously chewing gum and looked like I was the one who had committed a crime.
“It’d be nice if you’d let me know when someone tries to break into your house. I shouldn’t have to hear about it on the fucking scanner,” he said, his angry strides carrying him toward the sound of voices.
I’d had enough and retreated to my study to call Marie. A young child answered the phone, then Marie got on.
“I just found out about the alarm going off while you were here on Tuesday,” I said to her.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Scarpetta,” she said in a pleading voice. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t do anything to set it off. I was vacuuming and then it happened. I couldn’t remember the code because I was so scared:”
“I understand, Marie,” I said. “It scares me, too. It just went off again tonight, so I know exactly what you mean. But I need you to tell me these things when they happen.”
“The police didn’t believe me. I was sure of it. I told them I didn’t go into the garage, and I could tell. . :’
“It’s all right,” I said again.
“I was afraid you would be angry with me because the police . . . that maybe you wouldn’t want me working for you anymore . . . I should have told you. I will always. I promise:’
“You don’t need to be afraid. The police aren’t going to hurt you in this country, Marie. It’s not the same thing as where you’re from. And I want you to be very careful when you’re at my house. Keep the alarm on and make sure it’s on when you leave. Did you notice anyone or maybe a car that caught your attention for some reason?”