BLACK NOTICE. PATRICIA CORNWELL

He caught me staring dismally at his chair as -I curled up in a corner of the green corduroy couch I tended to choose. It might have been missing its wale wherever bodies came in touch with it, but it was cozy.

“One day I’ll get a new one of these,” he said, pushing down the lever on the side of the chair and sliding the footrest out.

He wiggled his stocking feet as if his toes were cramped, and flicked on the TV I was surprised when he changed the channel to twenty-one; the Arts & Entertainment network.

“I didn’t know you watched Biography,” I said.

“Oh yeah. And the real-life cops shows they usually got on. This may sound like I been sniffing glue, but does it strike you how everything in the world’s gone to hell ever since Bray came to town?”

“I’m sure it would strike you that way, after what she’s been doing to you.”

“Huh. And she’s not been doing the same thing to you?” he challenged, sipping his drink. “I’m not the only person in this room she’s trying to ruin.”

“I don’t think she has the power to cause everything else going on in fife,” I replied.

“Let me just run through the list for you, Doc, and make sure to remember we’re talking about a three-month period, okay? She arrives in Richmond. I get thrown back in uniform. You suddenly have a thief in your office. You have a snitch who breaks into your e-mail and turns you into Dear Abby.

“Then this dead guy shows up in a container and Interpol’s suddenly in the picture, and now Lucy kills two people, which is convenient for Bray, by the way. Don’t forget, she’s been all hot and bothered about getting Lucy to sign on with Richmond, and if ATF throws Lucy back like a fish, she’s gonna need a job. And oh yeah, now someone’s following you.”

I watched a young, gorgeous Liberace playing the piano and singing while a voice-over of a friend talked about what a kind, generous man the musician had been.

“You’re not listening to me;” Marino raised his voice again.

“I’m listening.”

He heaved himself úp again with an exasperated huff and padded into the kitchen.

“Have we heard anything from Interpol?” I called out as he made a lot of noise tearing open paper and rummaging through the silverware drawer.

“Nothing worth passing on.”

The microwave hummed.

“It would be nice if you’d pass it on anyway,” I said, annoyed.

Stage lights caught Liberace blowing kisses to his audience and his sequins flashed like an intense red and gold fireworks display. Marino walked back into the living room with a bowl of ruffled potato chips and a container of some sort of dip.

“The guy at State Police got a computer message back from them within an hour. They just requested more info, that’s all:”

‘That tells us a lot,” I said, disappointed. “That probably means they didn’t get a hit on anything significant. The old fracture of the jaw, the unusual accessory cusp of the Carabelli, not to mention fingerprints. None of it matched up with anybody wanted or missing.”

“Yeah. It’s a pisser,” he said, his mouth full as he held out the bowl to me.

“No, thanks:’

“It’s really good. What you do is soften the cream cheese in the microwave first and put in jalapeiíos. It’s a lot better for you than onion dip.”

“I’m sure.”

“You know, I always liked him:’ He pointed a greasy finger at the TV “I don’t care if he was queer. You gotta admit he had style. If people are gonna pay all that money for records and concert tickets, by God they ought to get people who don’t look and act like some schmoe on the street.

“Let me tell you,” Marino said with his mouth full, “shootings are a bitch. You get investigated as if you made an attempt on the damn president, and then there’s all the counseling and everybody worrying about your mental health so much it makes you crazy.”

He threw back bourbon and crunched more chips.

“She’s gonna get some time on the bricks,” he went on, using cop jargon for involuntary time off. “And Miami detectives are gonna work it like they always work homicides. Got to. And everything will have the hell reviewed out of it”

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