“Do we have an identification?”
“We recovered a wallet from the boat. The driver’s license is that of a white male named Theodore Andrew Eddings.”
“The reporter?” I said in disbelief. “That Ted Eddings?”
“Thirty-two years old, brown hair, blue eyes, based on his picture. He has a Richmond address of West Grace Street.”
The Ted Eddings I knew was an award-winning investigative reporter for the Associated Press. Scarcely a week went by when he didn’t call me about something.
For a moment, I almost couldn’t think.
“We also recovered a nine-millimeter pistol from the boat,” he said.
When I spoke again, it was very firmly. “His identification absolutely is not to be released to the press or anyone else until it has been confirmed.”
“I already told everybody that. Not to worry.”
“Good. And no one has any idea why this individual might have been diving in the Inactive Ship Yard?” I asked.
“He might have been looking for Civil War stuff.”
“You speculate that based on what?”
“A lot of people like to look in the rivers around here for cannonballs and things,” he said. “Okay. So we’ll go on and pull him in so he’s not down there any longer than necessary.”
“I do not want him touched, and leaving him in the water a little longer isn’t going to change anything.”
“What is it you’re gonna do?” He sounded defensive again.
“I won’t know until I get there.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s necessary for you to come here . . .”
“Detective Roche,” I interrupted him. “The necessity of my coming to the scene and what I do when I’m there is not for you to decide.”
“Well, there’s all these people I’ve got on hold, and this afternoon it’s suppose to snow.
Nobody wants to be standing around out there on the piers.”
“According to the Code of Virginia, the body is my jurisdiction, not yours or any other police, fire, rescue or funeral person’s. Nobody touches the body until I say so.”
I spoke with just enough edge to let him know I could be sharp.
“Like I said, I’m going to have to tell all the rescue and shipyard people to just hang out, and they aren’t going to be happy. The Navy’s already leaning on me pretty hard to clear the area before the media shows up.”
“This is not a Navy case.”
“You tell them that. It’s their ships.”
“I’ll be happy to tell them that. In the meantime, you just tell everyone that I’m on my way,” I said to him before I hung up.
Realizing it could be many hours before I returned to the cottage, I left a note taped to the front door that cryptically instructed Lucy how to let herself in should I not be here.
I hid a key only she could find, then loaded medical bag and dive equipment into the trunk of my black Mercedes.
At quarter of ten the temperature had risen to thirty-eight degrees, and my attempts to reach Captain Pete Marino in Richmond were frustrating.
“Thank God,” I muttered when my car phone finally rang.
I snatched it up. “Scarpetta.”
“Yo.”
“You’ve got your pager on. I’m shocked,” I said to him.
“If you’re so shocked, then why the hell’d you call it?”
He sounded pleased to hear from me. “What’s up?”
“You know that reporter you dislike so much?” I was careful not to divulge details because we were on the air and could be monitored by scanners.
“As in which one?”
“As in the one who works for AP and is always dropping by my office.”
He thought a moment, then said, “So what’s the deal?
You have a run-in with him?”
“Unfortunately, I may be about to. I’m on my way to the Elizabeth River. Chesapeake just called.”
“Wait a minute. Not that kind of run-in.” His tone was ominous.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Holy shit.”
“We’ve got only a driver’s license. So we can’t be certain, yet. I’m going to go in and take a look before we move him.”
“Now wait a damn minute,” he said. “Why the hell do you need to do something like that? Can’t other people take care of it?”