“Depends on if her manners have improved, ” Marino pushed his tray away.
“Funny, that’s what she usually says about you.”
He knocked a cigarette out of his pack. “You Mind?”
“It doesn’t matter because you’re going to smoke anyway.”
“You never give a fella any credit, Doc.” The cigarette wagged as he talked.
“It’s not like I haven’t cut back.” He fired up his lighter.
“Tell the truth. You think about smoking every minute.”
“You’re right. Not a minute goes by that I don’t wonder how I stood doing anything so unpleasant and antisocial.”
“Bullshit. You miss it like hell. Right now you wish you was me.” He exhaled a stream of smoke and gazed out the window.
“One day this entire joint’s going to end up a sinkhole because of these friggin’ groundhogs.”
“Why would Gault have gone to western North Carolina?” I asked.
“Why the hell would he go anywhere?” Marino’s eyes got hard.
“You ask any question about that son of a bitch and the answer’s the same.
Because he felt like it. And he ain’t gonna stop with the Steiner girl.
Some other little kid–some woman, man, hell, it don’t matter–is going to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when Gault gets another itch.”
“And you really think he’s still there?”
He tapped an ash.
“Yeah, I really think he is.”
“Why?”
“Because the fun’s just begun,” he said as Benton Wesley walked in.
“The greatest goddam show on earth and he’s sitting back watching, laughing his ass off as the Black Mountain cops run around in circles trying to figure out what the hell to do. They average one homicide a year there, by the way.”
I watched Wesley head for the salad bar. He ladled soup into a bowl, placed crackers on his tray, and dropped several dollars in a paper plate set out for customers when the cashier wasn’t around. He did not indicate that he had seen us, but I knew he had a gift for taking in the smallest details of his surroundings while seeming in a fog.
“Some of Emily Steiner’s physical findings make me wonder if her body was refrigerated,” I said to Marino as Wesley headed toward us.
“Right. I’m sure it was. At the hospital morgue.” Marino gave me an odd look.
“Sounds like I’m missing something important,” Wesley said as he pulled out a chair and sat down.
“I’m contemplating that Emily Steiner’s body was refrigerated before it was left at the lake,” I said.
“Based on what?”
A gold Department of Justice cuff link peeked out of his coat sleeve as he reached for the pepper shaker.
“Her skin was doughy and dry,” I answered.
“She was well preserved and virtually unmolested by insects or animals.”
“That pretty much shoots down the idea of Gault staying in some tourist trap motel,” Marino said.
“He sure as hell didn’t stash the body in his minibar.” Wesley, always meticulous, spooned clam chowder away from him and raised it to his lips without spilling a drop.
“What’s been turned in for trace?” I asked.
“Her jewelry and socks,” Wesley replied.
“And the duct tape, which unfortunately was removed before being checked for prints. It was pretty cut up at the morgue.”
“Christ,” Marino muttered.
“But it’s distinctive enough to hold promise. In fact, I can’t say I’ve ever seen blaze orange duct tape before.” He was looking at me.
“I certainly haven’t,” I said.
“Do your labs know anything about it yet?”
“Nothing yet except there’s a pattern of grease streaks, meaning the edges of the roll the tape came from are streaked with grease. For whatever that’s worth.”
“What else do the labs have?” I asked. Wesley said, “Swabs, soil from under the body, the sheet and pouch used to transport her from the lake.” My frustration grew as he continued to talk. I wondered what had been missed. I wondered what microscopic witnesses had been silenced forever.
“I’d like copies of her photographs and reports, and lab results as they come in,” I said.
“Whatever’s ours is yours,” Wesley replied.
“The labs will contact you directly.”
“We got to get time of death straight,” Marino said.