“They got good cherry cobbler here,” Marino said, looking for the waitress. She was standing just outside the kitchen door watching him, waiting for his slightest signal.
“How many times have you eaten here?” I asked him.
“I got to eat somewhere, isn’t that right. Dot?” He raised his voice as our ever-vigilant waitress appeared. Wesley and I ordered coffee.
“Why, honey, wasn’t your salad all right?” She was sincerely distressed.
“It was fine,” I assured her.
“I’m just not as hungry as I thought.”
“You want me to wrap that up for you?”
“No, thank you.” When she moved on, Wesley got around to telling Marino what we knew about the forensic evidence. We talked for a while about the pith wood and the duct tape, and by the time Marino’s cobbler had been served and eaten and he had started smoking again, we had pretty much exhausted the conversation. Marino had no more idea what the blaze orange flame-retardant duct tape or pith wood meant than we did.
“Damn,” he said again.
“That’s just strange as shit. I haven’t come across a thing that would fit with any of that.”
“Well,” said Wesley, whose attention was beginning to drift, “the tape is so unusual that someone around here has to have seen it before. If it’s from around here. And if it isn’t, I’m confident we’ll track it down.” He pushed back his chair.
“I’ll take care of this.” I picked up the bill.
“They don’t take American Express here,” Marino said.
“It’s one-fifty now.” Wesley got up.
“Let’s meet back at the hotel at six and work out a plan.”
“I hate to remind you,” I said to him.
“But it’s a motel, not a hotel, and at the moment you and I don’t have a car.”
“I’ll drop you at the Travel-Eze. Your car should already be there waiting. And Benton, we can find you one, too, if you think you’re gonna need it,” Marino said as if he were Black Mountain’s new chief of police, or perhaps the mayor.
“I don’t know what I’m going to need right now,” he said.
13
Detective Mote had been moved to a private room and was in stable but guarded condition when I went to see him later that day. Not knowing my way around town very well, I’d resorted to the hospital gift shop, where they had but a very small selection of flower arrangements to choose from behind refrigerated glass.
“Detective Mote?” I hesitated in his doorway. He was propped up in bed dozing, the TV on loud.
“Hi,” I said a little louder. He opened his eyes and for an instant had no idea who I was. Then he remembered and smiled as if he’d been dreaming of me for days.
“Well, Lord have mercy. Dr. Scarpetta. Now I never would’ve thought you’d still be hanging’round here.”
“I’m sorry about the flowers. They didn’t have much to choose from downstairs.” I carried in a pitiful bunch of mums and daisies in a thick green vase.
“How about if I just put them right here?”
I set the arrangement on the dresser, and felt sad that his only other flowers were more pathetic than mine.
“There’s a chair right there if you can sit for a minute.”
“How are you feeling?” I asked. He was pale and thinner, and his eyes looked weak as he stared out the window at a lovely fall day.
“Well, I’m just trying to go with the flow, like they say,” he said.
“It’s hard to know what’s around the corner, but I’m thinking about fishing and the woodworking I like to do. You know, I’ve been wanting for years to build a little cabin someplace. And I like to whittle walking sticks from basswood.”
“Detective Mote,” I said hesitantly, for I did not want to upset him, “has anyone from your department come to visit?”
“Why sure,” he answered as he continued staring out at a stunning blue sky.
“A couple fellas have dropped by or else called.”
“How do you feel about what’s going on in the Steiner investigation?”
“Not too good.”
“Why?”
“Well, I’m not there, for one thing. For another, it seems like everybody’s riding off in his own direction. I’m worried about it some.”