I smiled a little. “I will worry about you for the rest of my life.”
I went to my room and shut the door. I placed my Browning by my bed and took a Benadryl because otherwise I would not sleep the few hours that were left. When I awakened at dawn, I was sitting up with the lamp on, the latest Journal of the American Bar Association still in my lap. I got up and walked out into the hall where I was surprised to find Lucy’s door open. her bed unmade. She was not in the gathering room on the couch, and I hurried into the dining room at the front of the house. I stared out windows at an empty expanse of frosted brick pavers and grass , and it was obvious the Suburban had been gone for some time.
“Lucy,” I muttered as if she could hear me. “Damn you, Lucy,” I said.
Chapter Eleven
I was ten minutes late for staff meeting, which was unusual, but no one commented or seemed to care. The murder of Danny Webster was heavy in the air as if tragedy might suddenly rain down on us all. My staff was slow moving and stunned, no one thinking very clearly. After all these years, Rose had brought me coffee and had forgotten I drink it black.
The conference room, which had been recently refurbished, seemed very cozy with its deep blue carpet, long new table and dark paneling. But anatomical models on tables and the human skeleton beneath his plastic shroud were reminders of the hard realities discussed in here. Of course, there were no windows, and art consisted of portraits of previous chiefs, all of them men who stared sternly down at us from the walls.
Seated on either side of me this morning were my chief and assistant chief administrators, and the chief toxicologist from the Division of Forensic Science upstairs. Fielding, to my left, was eating plain yogurt with a plastic spoon, while next to him sat the assistant chief and the new fellow, who was a woman.
“I know you’ve heard the terrible news about Danny Webster,” I somberly proceeded from the head of the table.
where I always sat. “Needless to say, it is impossible to describe how a senseless death like this affects each one of us.
“Dr. Scarpetta,” said the assistant chief, “is there anything new?”
“At the moment we know the following,” I said, and I repeated all that I knew. “It appeared at the scene last night that he had at least one gunshot wound to the back of the head,” I concluded.
“What about cartridge cases?” Fielding asked.
“Police recovered one in woods not too far from the street.”
“So he was shot there at Sugar Bottom versus in or near the car.”
“It does not appear he was shot inside or near the car,” I said.
“Inside whose car?” asked the fellow, who had gone to medical school late in life and was far too serious.
“Inside my car. The Mercedes.”
The fellow seemed very confused until I explained the scenario again. Then she made a rather salient comment.
“Is there any possibility you were the intended victim?”
“Jesus.” Fielding irritably set down the yogurt cup.
“You shouldn’t even say something like that.”
“Reality isn’t always pleasant,” said the fellow, who was very smart and just as tedious. “I’m simply suggesting that if Dr. Scarpetta’s car was parked outside a restaurant she has gone to numerous times before, maybe someone was waiting for her and got surprised. Or maybe someone was following and didn’t know it wasn’t her inside, since it was dark by the time Danny was on the road heading here.”
“Let’s move on to this morning’s other cases,” I said, as I took a sip of Rose’s saccharine coffee whitened with nondairy creamer.
Fielding moved the call sheet in front of him and in his usual impatient northern tone went down the list. In addition to Danny, there were three autopsies. One was a fire death, another a prisoner with a history of heart disease, and a seventy-year-old woman with a defibrillator and pacemaker.
“She has a history of depression, mostly over her heart problems,” Fielding was saying, “and this morning at about three o’clock her husband heard her get out of bed.