nothing else, not even her breasts, except his vague recollection that he had been surprised by them but not unpleasantly. Rather, after decades of elaborate fantasies, they didn’t look quite the way he had envisioned them. But then, no woman’s did.
It was a realization that came with maturity and had nothing to do with intuition or common sense. As a horny little boy whose only point of reference was the dirty magazines his father hid in the tool shed, Marino couldn’t possibly know what he eventually discovered. Breasts, like fingerprints, have their own individual characteristics that aren’t necessarily discernible through clothes. Every breast he’d ever been intimate with had its own unique size, shape, symmetry, slope, with the most obvious variable being the nipple, which really was what the timeless attraction was about. Marino, who considered himself a connoisseur, would be the first to say that big was better, but once he got beyond the ogling and fondling, it was all about what he put in his mouth.
In the green field of the night-vision monocular, Scarpetta and Benton walked out of the park, onto the sidewalk. She had her hands in her pockets, wasn’t carrying anything, meaning she and Benton would be making at least one stop, most likely his office. He noticed they weren’t talking much, and then, as if they read Marino’s thoughts, they held hands and Benton leaned down and kissed her.
When they reached the street, so close that he didn’t need light intensification to make out their faces, they were looking at each other as if they’d meant the kiss and that there would be more to come, Marino thought. They reached First Avenue and faded out of sight.
Marino was about to abandon his safe haven of triple-stacked hydraulic lifts when he noticed another figure appear in the park, walking briskly. Then he saw yet another figure enter the park from the direction of the DNA building. In the bright green field of the night-vision monocular, Investigator Mike Morales and Dr. Lenora Lester sat next to each other on a bench.
They said things Marino couldn’t hear, and she gave him a large envelope. Probably information about Terri Bridges’s autopsy. But it was a peculiar handoff, as if they were spies. He entertained the notion that the two of them were having an affair, and his stomach flopped as he imagined her grim, pinched face, imagined her birdlike body naked on a wad of sheets.
That couldn’t be it.
It was far more likely that Dr. Lester had called Morales as fast as she could so she could take credit for whatever Scarpetta had discovered in the morgue. And he would want the information before anybody else got it, including Marino and, most of all, Berger. That must mean Scarpetta had found out something important. Marino watched until Dr. Lester and Morales got up from the bench. He disappeared around a corner of the DNA building, and she headed in Marino’s direction, toward East 27th, walking her fast walk, her eyes on the BlackBerry in her bare hands.
She hurried through the cold wind toward First Avenue, where she would probably catch a cab, then take the ferry back home to New Jersey. It appeared she was text-messaging someone.
Museum Mile used to be Shrew’s favorite walk. She’d set out from her apartment with a bottle of water and a granola bar, and choose the Madison Avenue route so she could window-shop as anticipation built and accelerated her feet.
The highlight was the Guggenheim, where she was thrilled by Clyfford Still, John Chamberlain, Robert Rauschenberg, and of course Picasso. The last exhibition she’d seen there was Jackson Pollock Paintings on Paper, and that had been two years ago this spring.
What had happened?
It wasn’t as if she had a time clock to punch, or a life, really. But after she’d gone to work for the Boss, little by little she’d stopped going to museums, to the theater, to the galleries, to newsstands or Barnes & Noble.
She tried to remember the last time she’d tucked herself into the pages of a good book or outsmarted a crossword puzzle or patronized musicians in the park or been mindless in a movie theater or drunk on a poem.
She’d become a bug in amber, trapped in lives she didn’t know or care about. Gossip. The tawdry, banal goings-on of people who had the heart and soul of paper dolls. Why did she care what Michael Jackson wore to court? What difference did it make to her or anyone else that Madonna had fallen off her horse?
Instead of looking at art, Shrew had started looking into the toilet of life, taking delight in other people’s shit. She began to realize a number of truths as she thought about her dark ride home along the River Styx of Lexington Avenue in the black Cadillac sedan. The man in the cowboy hat had been nice to her, even patted her knee as she’d gotten out of his car, but he’d never given her his name, and common sense had warned her not to ask.
She’d walked right into evil tonight. First Marilyn Monroe, then the worm, then the basement. Maybe God had just administered spiritual electroshock therapy of sorts, by showing her the truth about the heartless way she lived, and she looked around her rent-controlled one-bedroom apartment, and possibly for the first time since her husband was no longer in it, she saw what it really looked like, and that it hadn’t changed.
The corduroy sofa and matching chair were unpretentious and comforting, and the worn nappy texture brought her husband back to the living room. She saw him sitting in the recliner, reading the Times, chewing on the butt of a cigar until it was slimy, and she smelled the smoke that used to saturate every molecule of their lives. She smelled it now as if she’d never brought in professional cleaners.
For several seasons, she couldn’t muster up the courage to clear out his clothes and tuck away items she couldn’t bear to look at or part with.
How often had she lectured him not to cross the street just because the white man on the traffic signal assured him it was fine?
How was that any less stupid than standing on the sidewalk because the red hand forbade him to walk, even though the cross-street was barricaded, not a car in sight?
In the end, he’d been beckoned to by the white man instead of listening to Shrew, and one day she had a husband she was constantly nagging about cigars and not picking up after himself, and the next day and the ones after that she had nothing but his odors and his clutter, and the memory of the last words they’d exchanged on his way out the door.
How we doing for coffee cream?As he put on his silly wool deerstalker’s cap.
She’d bought it for him in London several decades back, and he’d never figured out she didn’t really mean for him to wear it.
I don’t know how we’re doing for coffee cream, since you’re the only one who drinks coffee with cream in it.That was what she’d said.
The last words of hers in his ears.
The words of a shrew who had come to live with them that same cruel month of April, when they’d outsourced her job to someone in India and the two of them were knee-to-knee inside their small place, day after day, and worried sick about money. Because he was an accountant, and he had done the math.
She’d scripted their last moment together on this earth, revised it every way imaginable, wondering if there was something she could have done or mentioned that might have altered fate. If she’d said she loved him and would he like his favorite lamb chops and a baked sweet potato for dinner, and had she bought a potted hyacinth for the coffee table, might his mind have been on one or the other or all of it instead of whatever it was on when he didn’t look both ways?
Was he irritable and distracted because of her shrewish remark about the coffee cream?
What if she’d sweetly reminded him to be careful, would that have saved him and her and them?
She fixed her attention on the flat-screen TV and imagined him smoking his cigar, watching the news with that skeptical look on his face, a face she saw every time she closed her eyes or saw something in the corner of them—a shadow or laundry piled on a chair or she didn’t have her glasses on. And she would see him before he was gone. And she would remember he was gone.
He would look at her fancy TV and say, Dearest, why the TV? Who needs a TV like that? It probably wasn’t even made in America. We can’t afford a TV like that.
He would not approve. Oh, Lord, not of anything she’d done and gotten since he’d been gone.
The recliner was empty, and the worn spot made by him caused her to feel such despair as more memories rushed back at her:
Reporting him missing.
Feeling as if she were living a scene in a hundred movies as she clutched the phone and begged the police
