“Did she touch the puppy after she took them off?”
“She never touched the puppy. She took the gloves off as she was leaving. I suppose I should make that clear. It was toward the end.”
“That’s right. She had the gloves on because she was afraid of germs. She wasn’t wearing a coat because she didn’t want the sick puppy’s germs on it or germs from your apartment on it, and it’s easier to wash a shirt than a coat. I bet she left the basket and towel in your apartment, too.”
“She certainly did.”
“She knew damn well the puppy was sick as hell and dying when she gave it to you.”
“I told you I was angry.”
“Damn right you are. She knew the puppy was going to die, so she dumps it on you. That was a pretty lousy thing to do. Especially to someone who loves animals. She took advantage of you because you have a tender heart, especially when it comes to dogs. But the big question is, where did she get Ivy? You see what I mean?”
“Exactly,” Shrew said, feeling very angry now.
Those few days with Ivy were hell on earth. All Shrew did was cry as she held Ivy and tried to get her to drink water and eat something. By the time she got her to the vet, it was too late.
“No one who knew Terri would give her a puppy and think it was a nice thing to do,” Investigator Marino said. “Certainly not a sick one. I can’t imagine her boyfriend would do that, unless he’s a mean son of a bitch and did it to hurt her, to make her suffer, to jerk her around.”
“Well, she certainly was unhappy. Beside herself, really.”
“It reminds me of dirty tricks little boys play on little girls in school. Remember? Scaring them with a spider, a snake in a shoe box. Whatever would make the little girl scream. Terri was afraid. She was afraid of germs and dirt, of sickness and death. So it was sick to give her a sick puppy.”
“If what you’re saying is true, it was diabolical.”
“How long have you and Terri Bridges lived across the street from each other?” he asked, and leather creaked as he stretched his legs.
“She moved in about two years ago. I never knew her last name. We weren’t friends, I need to make that clear. Other than running into her, really. Usually on the sidewalk when both of us were heading in and out, although I also want to make it clear I’m not aware that she was out a lot. I don’t think she has a car. Walks like I do. Over the years I have run into her a few other places. Once in Lands’ End, both of us like their shoes, turns out. She was getting a pair of Mary Jane Trekkers, I remember that. Once I ran into her near the Guggenheim. In fact, I believe it was the last time I went to the Guggenheim, for a Jackson Pollock exhibit. We ran into each other on the sidewalk and stopped to chat.”
“She was going to a museum?”
“I don’t believe so. I think she was just walking. But I do recall her face looked rather red and puffy, and she had on a hat and sunglasses, even though it was overcast. I wondered if she had gotten into something she was allergic to, or maybe had been crying. I didn’t ask. I’m not a nosy person.”
“Her last name’s Bridges.” He said it again. “It was in today’s Post. So nobody’s mentioned it.”
“I don’t read the Post. I get all the news I want on the Internet.” Instantly, she regretted saying it.
The last thing she needed was for him to get nosy about what she did on the Internet.
“Well, TV, mostly,” she added. “If you don’t mind my asking, how bad was it? The break-in? It appears a police car’s been there all day, and you’ve been over there, and I haven’t seen her. I’m sure she went to stay with family, perhaps her boyfriend. I wouldn’t sleep a wink after something like that. I’ve noticed you’ve used the past tense several times, as if she’s not over there anymore. And you’ve talked to her family. So I assume it was bad. I don’t know what her family in Arizona has to do with . . . Well, why you would talk to them. It’s really bad, isn’t it?”
He said, “I’m afraid it doesn’t get any worse.”
Something fluttered in her stomach like fingers about to grab.
Leather creaked loudly as he leaned forward in a chair not meant for him, and his face got bigger as he said to her, “Where’d you get the idea it was a burglary?”
“I just thought . . .” She could barely speak.
“I’m sorry to tell you it wasn’t. Your neighbor was murdered last night. Kind of hard to believe you weren’t aware of all the commotion out there, right across the street. Police cars, a van from the Medical Examiner’s office.”
Shrew thought about Dr. Scarpetta.
“A lot of flashing lights and car doors slamming shut, and people talking. And you didn’t hear or see a thing,” he said it again.
“Did Dr. Scarpetta show up at the scene?” she blurted out, wiping her eyes, her heart racing.
The look on his face—it was as if she’d just given him the finger.
“What the hell are you getting at?” he said, not nicely.
She realized it much too late. She hadn’t made the connection, at least not consciously, before this instant. How could it be possible? P. R. Marino? As in Pete Marino, the same name in the column she herself had edited, formatted, and posted. It couldn’t be the same person, could it? That Marino lived in South Carolina, didn’t he? He didn’t work for Jaime Berger, surely not. A woman like Ms. Berger wouldn’t hire a man like that, would she?
Shrew was about to panic, her heart beating so hard, her chest hurt. If this Marino was the same one the Boss had just written about, then he had no business sitting in Shrew’s living room, in her husband’s recliner. For all she knew, he was the maniac who murdered that defenseless little lady across the street.
This was exactly how the Boston Strangler got his victims. Pretended to be someone nice and responsible. Had a cup of tea and a pleasant conversation in the living room right before he . . .
“What about Dr. Scarpetta?” Investigator Marino looked at Shrew as if she had insulted him unforgivably.
“I worry about her,” Shrew said as calmly as she could, her hands shaking so hard she had to lace them tightly in her lap. “I worry about all the publicity she gets and the nature of what she . . . well, the subject matter. It appeals to the ones who do the things she talks about.”
She took a deep breath. She’d said just the right thing. What she mustn’t do is make any allusion to having read anything about Dr. Scarpetta on the Internet, specifically in the very columns Shrew had posted today.
“I have a feeling you’re thinking about something in particular,” he said. “So get it out on the table.”
“I think she might be in danger,” Shrew said. “It’s just a feeling.”
“Based on what?” He looked stonily at her.
“Terrorists,” she said.
“Terrorists?” He looked less stony. “What terrorists?” He didn’t look as offended.
“It’s what all of us are afraid of these days.” Shrew tried that tactic.
“I tell you what.” Pete Marino got up and was a giant towering over her. “I’m leaving my card for you, and I want you to do a lot of thinking. Anything that comes to mind, even if it seems trivial, you call me right away. I don’t care what time it is.”
“I can’t imagine who would do something like that.” She got up and followed him to the door.
“It’s always the ones you don’t imagine,” he said. “Either because they knew the victim or they didn’t.”
Cyberspace, the perfect place to hide from ridicule.
Gotham was an online college, where students saw Dr. Oscar Bane’s talents and intelligence and not the dwarfed vessel that contained them.
“It couldn’t be a student or group of students,” he said to Scarpetta. “They don’t know me. My address and phone number aren’t listed. There’s no physical college where people go. The faculty meets several times a year in Arizona. And that’s as much as most of us see each other.”
