in some markets, and neither of them had on much in the way of clothing. It was still early, not even ten a.m., but seemed more like late afternoon. Berger felt as if she had jet lag. She was still in the silk pajamas and robe she’d put on after getting out of the shower minutes before Lucy had shown up at her building.
In the space of less than five hours since Scarpetta, Benton, Marino, Bacardi, and Morales had been in her living room, Berger had learned the grotesque truth and had watched it as if it was happening before her eyes. She’d witnessed the tortured deaths of three people who had fallen prey to a man who was supposed to protect them: a doctor who never was, who shouldn’t have become a cop, who shouldn’t have ever been allowed within a mile of any living creature.
So far, only Jake Loudin had been located. He wasn’t about to admit he might know Mike Morales, might actually use him to euthanize pets that didn’t sell or God knows what he used him for. Maybe Morales went by the name of Juan Amate when he entered the basements of pet shops and added yet one more layer of misery to the world, for a fee. Maybe Berger would get lucky and find a way to coax Loudin into admitting, in exchange for a reduced sentence, that he’d called Morales last night after Eva Peebles was in the wrong place at the wrong time, a pet store basement. Berger really didn’t think that Loudin had asked Morales to murder anyone. But Eva Peebles’s existence was becoming an inconvenience that gave Morales the excuse to have a little more fun.
The intercom buzzed as she finished getting dressed, and Lucy was sitting on the bed, because they had been talking nonstop.
Berger picked up the house phone as she buttoned her Oxford cloth shirt.
“Jaime? It’s Kay,” Scarpetta’s voice said. “I’m at your door.” Berger pressed the zero on the keypad and remotely unlocked it, and said, “Come in, I’ll be down in a minute.”
Lucy said, “All right with you if I take a quick shower?”
Marino watched Headline News on his PDA as he walked swiftly along Central Park South, leading with his shoulder, weaving through other pedestrians like a football player with the goal in sight.
Benton, in his blue pinstriped suit, was sitting at a table across from a correspondent, Jim somebody. Marino couldn’t remember, because it wasn’t one of the more famous ones at this hour in the day. Below Benton’s name in bold block letters was:
DR. BENTON WESLEY, FORENSIC PSYCHOLOGIST,
MCLEAN HOSPITAL
“Thanks for joining us. And with us is Dr. Benton Wesley, former chief of the FBI’s behavioral science unit at Quantico, and you’re now, actually, at Harvard, and here at John Jay?”
“Jim, I want to get straight to the point because this is extremely urgent. We’re appealing to Dr. Oscar Bane to please contact the FBI. . . .”
“Let me just back up and tell our viewers this is in reference to cases that you can’t miss, no matter where you look—the two absolutely appalling homicides committed in New York over the past couple of nights. What can you tell us about those?”
Just ahead was Columbus Circle and the Time Warner skyscrapers, where Benton was in the studio this very second. This was a bad idea. Marino understood why Benton didn’t think there was a choice, and why he didn’t want to ask Berger first. He didn’t want her held accountable, and Benton didn’t answer to her. He didn’t answer to anyone. Marino understood, but now that Benton was making his appearance on international TV, something didn’t sit well about it.
“What we’re asking is if he’s listening, to please call the FBI.” Benton’s voice on live TV, through Marino’s earpiece. “We have reasons to be very concerned about Dr. Bane’s safety, and he is not—and I repeat—is not to contact local police or deal with any other authorities. He’s to call the FBI, and he will be escorted to safety.”
One of the things Scarpetta always said is never push somebody until that person has nothing to lose or nowhere to go. Benton always said it, too. So did Marino. Then why were they doing this? First, Berger had called Morales, and Marino had thought that was a terrible idea. She’d basically given him a head’s-up, maybe gloating a little as she stuck it to him. The brilliant Morales busted, caught. Berger was one hell of a prosecutor. She was tough, all right. But she shouldn’t have done that, and Marino still wasn’t sure why she had.
He had a funny feeling it was personal, at least in part. Scarpetta didn’t do anything like that, and she’d had her chance. When they were in Berger’s living room from midnight on, Scarpetta could have said a lot of things to taunt Morales, whom she didn’t like or trust any more than Marino did, even though they didn’t yet know his hobby was starring in his own damn snuff films. But Scarpetta had been completely professional, her usual self, with Morales sitting right there. If she’d thought he was a murderer but didn’t have a shred of proof, she would have kept her thoughts to herself. That’s who she was.
“I have to say, Dr. Wesley, this is probably the most unusual plea I’ve ever heard. I mean, maybe plea isn’t the right word, but why . . .”
Marino glanced down at the tiny figures bantering on his PDA. Berger’s building was maybe two more blocks away. She wasn’t safe. You push someone like Morales too far and rub his face in it, then what? Then he’s going to do something. Who’s he going to do it to first? The same lady he’s been trying to conquer ever since he became an investigator. The same lady he lies about, giving everybody the bullshit impression he has sex with the sex crimes DA. Not true. Not even close.
Morales wasn’t her type.
Marino had had a feeling he’d figured out who Berger’s type was, some rich guy like Greg. But as he’d watched Berger and Lucy together while everyone was in Berger’s living room, then watched Lucy follow her into the kitchen and suddenly leave the apartment, he’d changed his mind and had no doubt whatsoever.
Berger’s weakness, her passion, wasn’t men. Emotionally, physically, she was hardwired a different way.
“Oscar has every reason in the world not to trust anybody right now,” Benton was saying. “We have reason to believe certain fears he’s voiced to authorities about his own safety have merit. We’re taking them very, very seriously.”
“But hold on. There are warrants out for his arrest, for murder. Excuse me, but it sounds like you’re protecting the bad guy here.”
“Oscar, if you’re listening to me”—Benton faced the camera—“you need to call the FBI, whatever field office is local, wherever you might be. You’ll be escorted to safety.”
“Seems like everybody else ought to be worried about their safety, don’t you think, Dr. Wesley? He’s the one police suspect killed those—”
“I’m not going to discuss the case with you, Jim. Thank you for your time.”
Benton unclipped his mike and got up from the table.
“Well, this has been an unusual moment in the New York crime investigation. Two murders have rocked this New Year, and the legendary—I guess I can use the word legendary— profiler Benton Wesley is appealing to the man everybody thinks did it . . .”
“Shit,” Marino said.
No way Oscar was going to call the FBI, God, or anyone else after hearing that.
Marino logged out and closed his browser as he walked fast. He was sweating under his old leather Harley jacket, and the cold air was making his eyes water. The sun was trying to escape heavy, dark clouds. His cell phone rang.
“Yeah,” he answered, dodging people as if they had leprosy, not looking at any of them.
“I’m going to talk to a couple agents in the field office here. About what we’re doing,” Benton said.
“I guess it went okay,” Marino said.
Benton hadn’t asked for a critique, and he didn’t respond to it.
“I’ll make a few calls here at the studio, then head over to Berger’s,” Benton said, and he sounded down in the dumps.
“It went good, I think,” Marino said. “Oscar will hear it. No doubt about it. He’s got to be in a motel or something, and that’s all he’s got is TV. They’ll keep playing the segment all day and night, that’s for sure.”
Marino looked up at the fifty-two-story glass-and-metal building, fixing on the penthouse facing the park. The grand entrance had TRUMP in huge gold letters. But then, so did everything expensive around here.
