The drunk Americans are getting louder. Benton seems distracted by what they’re saying.
“An expert like yourself right there. Very lucky is how I would consider it if I were the coroner. And he doesn’t avail himself of your talents?” Captain Poma says, brushing against her as he reaches for a photograph he doesn’t need to look at again.
“He sends his cases to the Medical University of South Carolina, has never had to contend with a private pathology practice before. Not in Charleston or anywhere. My contracts are with some of the coroners from outlying jurisdictions where there’s no access to medical examiner facilities and labs,” she explains, distracted by Benton.
He indicates for her to pay attention to what the drunk Americans are saying.
“…I just think when it’s undisclosed this and undisclosed that, it’s fishy,” one of them pontificates.
“Why would she want anybody to know? I don’t blame her. It’s like Oprah or Anna Nicole Smith. People find out where they are, they show up in droves.”
“How sickening. Imagine being in the hospital…”
“Or in Anna Nicole Smith’s case, in the morgue. Or in the damn ground…”
“…And mobs of people out there on the sidewalk, yelling out your name.”
“Can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen, is what I say. Price you pay for being rich and famous.”
“What’s going on?” Scarpetta asks Benton.
“It would seem our old friend Dr. Self had some sort of emergency earlier today and is going to be off the air for a while,” he replies.
Captain Poma turns around and looks at the table of noisy Americans. “Do you know her?” he asks.
Benton says, “We’ve had our run-ins with her. Mainly, Kay has.”
“I believe I read something about that when I was researching you. A sensational, very brutal homicide case in Florida that involved all of you.”
“I’m glad to know you researched us,” Benton says. “That was very thorough.”
“Only to make myself familiar before you came here.” Captain Poma meets Scarpetta’s eyes. “A very beautiful woman I know watches Dr. Self regularly,” he says, “and she tells me she saw her on the show last fall. It had something to do with her winning that very big tournament in New York. I admit I don’t pay much attention to tennis.”
“The U.S. Open,” Scarpetta says.
“I’m not aware Drew was on her show,” Benton says, frowning as if he doesn’t believe him.
“She was. I’ve checked. This is very interesting. Suddenly, Dr. Self has a family emergency. I’ve been trying to get in touch with her, and she has yet to respond to my inquiries. Perhaps you could intercede?” he says to Scarpetta.
“I seriously doubt that would be helpful,” she says. “Dr. Self hates me.”
They walk back, following Via Due Macelli in the dark.
She imagines Drew Martin walking these streets. She wonders who she encountered. What does he look like? How old is he? What did he do to inspire her trust? Had they met before? It was daylight, plenty of people out, but so far no witnesses have come forward with convincing information that they saw anybody who fit her description at any time after she left the mime. How can that be possible? She was one of the most famous athletes in the world, and not one person recognized her on the streets of Rome?
“Was what happened random? Like a lightning strike? That’s the question we seem no closer to answering,” Scarpetta says as she and Benton walk through the balmy night, their shadows moving over old stone. “She’s by herself and intoxicated, perhaps lost on some deserted side street, and he sees her? And what? Offers to show her the way and leads her where he can gain complete control of her? Perhaps where he lives? Or to his car? If so, he must speak at least a little English. How could no one have seen her? Not one person.”
Benton says nothing, their shoes scuffing on the sidewalk, the street noisy with people emerging from restaurants and bars, very loud, with motor scooters and cars that come close to running them over.
“Drew didn’t speak Italian, scarcely a word of it, so we’re told,” Scarpetta adds.
The stars are out, the moon soft on Casina Rossa, the stucco house where Keats died of tuberculosis at age twenty-five.
“Or he stalked her,” she goes on. “Or perhaps he was acquainted with her. We don’t know and probably never will unless he does it again and is caught. Are you going to talk to me, Benton? Or shall I continue my rather fragmented, redundant monologue?”
“I don’t know what the hell’s going on between the two of you, unless this is your way of punishing me,” he says.
“With who?”
“That goddamn captain. Who the hell else?”
“The answer to the first part is nothing’s going on, and you’re being ridiculous to think otherwise, but we’ll get back to that. I’m more interested in the punishment part of your statement. Since I have no history of punishing you or anyone.”
They begin climbing the Spanish Steps, an exertion made harder by hurt feelings and too much wine. Lovers are entwined, and rowdy youths are laughing and boisterous and pay them no mind. Far away, what seems a mile high, the Hotel Hassler is lit up and huge, rising over the city like a palace.
“One thing not in my character,” she resumes. “Punishing people. Protect myself and others, but not punish. Never people I care about. Most of all”—out of breath—“I would never punish you.”
“If you intend to see other people, if you’re interested in other men, I can’t say I blame you. But tell me. That’s all I ask. Don’t put on displays like you did all day. And tonight. Don’t play fucking high school games with me.”
“Displays? Games?”
“He was all over you,” Benton says.
“And I was all over everywhere else trying to move away from him.”
“He’s been all over you for all day long. Can’t get close enough to you. Stares at you, touches you right in front of me.”
“Benton…”
“And I know he’s this good-looking, well, maybe you’re attracted to him. But I won’t tolerate it. Right in front of me. Goddamn it.”
“Benton…”
“Same with God knows who. Down there in the Deep South. What do I know?”
“Benton!”
Silence.
“You’re talking crazy. Since when, in the history of the universe, have you ever worried about my cheating on you? Knowingly.”
No sound but their footsteps on stone, their labored breathing.
“Knowingly,” she repeats, “because the one time I was with someone else was when I thought you were…”
“Dead,” he says. “Right. So you’re told I’m dead. Then a minute later you’re fucking some guy young enough to be your son.”
“Don’t.” Anger begins to gather. “Don’t you dare.”
He is quiet. Even after the bottle of wine he drank all by himself, he knows better than to push the subject of his feigned death when he was forced into a protected witness program. What Benton put her though. He knows better than to attack her as if she’s the one who was emotionally cruel.
“Sorry,” he says.
“What’s really the matter?” she says. “God, these steps.”
“I guess we can’t seem to change it. As you say about livor and rigor. Set. Fixed. Let’s face it.”
“I won’t face whatever
Both of them are breathless. Her heart is pounding.
