Patricia Cornwell – Scarpetta11 – The Last Precinct

“You killed Benton, didn’t you, Jay.” I state it as a fact.

He lays a hand on my back, the pistol pointed and touching me as he pauses behind me and says for me to open the door. We enter room 15, the same room Kiffin showed me when I wanted to see what kind of mattresses and linens she used in this dump. “You and Bray,” I say to Jay. “That’s why she sent letters from New York, trying to make it seem they were from Carrie, to make Benton assume they were written from up there where she was locked up in Kirby.”

Jay shuts the door and waves the gun almost wearily, as if I am tiresome and he is not enjoying this. “Sit down.”

My eyes wander up to the ceiling, looking for eyebolts. I wonder where the heat gun is and if it is part of my fate. I keep standing where I am, near the dresser with its Gideon Bible, this one not opened to any special chapter about vanity or any­thing else. “I just want to know if I slept with the person who killed Benton.” I am looking right at Jay. “You’re going to kill me? Go ahead. But you already did that when you killed him. So I guess you can kill me twice, Jay.” It is odd, I feel no fear,

only resignation. My pain, my anguish is over my niece, and I

wait for the sound of a shotgun to rock these walls. “Can’t you just leave her out of it?” I ask anyway, and Jay knows I mean Lucy.

“I didn’t kill Benton,” he says, and he has the livid face of people who walk up and shoot a president. Pale, no expres­sion, a zombie. “Carrie and her asshole friend did that. I made the call.”

“The call?”

“Called him to meet. That wasn’t too hard. I’m an agent,” he enjoys reminding me. “Carrie handled it from there. Carrie and that whacko scarface she got hooked up with.”

“So you set him up,” I say, simply. “Probably helped Car­rie escape, too.”

“She didn’t need much help. Just some,” he replies with no inflection. “She was like a lot of people in this business. They get into the goods and fuck up an already fucked-up brain. She started doing her own thing. Years ago. If you guys hadn’t solved the problem, we would have. She was at the end of her usefulness.”

“Involved in the family business, Jay?” My eyes pin his. The gun is by his side and he leans against the door. He has no fear of me. I am like a bowstring wound too tightly, about to snap, waiting, listening for any sound next door. “All these women murderedhow many of them did you sleep with first? Like Susan Pless.” I shake my head. “I just want to know if you helped out Chandonne or did he follow you and help himself to what you left behind?”

Jay’s eyes focus more sharply on me. I have probed the truth.

“You know, you’re much too young to be Jay Talley, who­ever he was,” I say next. “Jay Talley with no middle name. And you didn’t go to Harvard, and I doubt you ever lived in Los Angeles, not as a child. He’s your brother, isn’t he, Jay? That horrible deformity who calls himself a werewolf? He’s your brother, and your DNA is so close that on a routine screening you could be identical twins. Did you know your DNA is the same as his on a routine screening? At a four-probe level, the two of you are exactly the same.”

Anger flashes. Vain, beautiful Jay would never want to

think that his DNA was even similar to someone’s as ugly and hideous as Jean-Baptiste Chandonne.

“And the body in the cargo container. The one you helped us believe is the brotherThomas. His DNA had many points in common, too, but not as many as yours doesyours from the seminal fluid you left in Susan Pless’s body before she was brutalized. Thomas a relative? Not a brother? What? A cousin? You kill him, too? You drown him in Antwerp or did Jean-Baptiste do that? And then you lure me over to Interpol, not because you need my help with the case, but because you want to see what I know. You want to make sure I don’t know what Benton was probably starting to figure out: That you are a Chandonne,” I say, and Jay does not react. “You probably mastermind the business for your father and that’s why you got into law enforcement, to be an undercover asshole, a spy. God knows how much business you’ve divertedknowing everything the good guys are doing and then turning it against them behind their backs.” I shake my head. “Let Lucy go,” I tell him. “I’ll do what you want. Just let her go.”