Flesh and Blood. Patricia Cornwell
to clear it with me first. “We need to compare notes and see if we can figure out the distance this psycho is shooting from.”
“Funny you would mention that too. I got a theory and a way to test it. Especially now since you got a relatively undamaged solid bullet in your case.”
“News to me. But we haven’t been to her office yet. We haven’t had time to take a whiz for that matter.”
“Liz Wrighton sent me a photo,” Kuster says. “Right hand, one-ten twist, 5R rifling, one-ninety grain solid copper, ballistic tip. Five lands and grooves with a rolled leading edge. I’m thinking a .308 with a freaking accurate barrel like a Krieger Match. Not the sort of rifle you carry around when you’re hunting. Tough to shoot unsupported. You’d set up with a bipod or bag rests filled with sand, rice, popcorn, whatever.”
“Hunting meaning people.” Marino stops at the intersection of Audrey Street and Memorial Drive, waiting for a break in traffic.
“A typical tactical magnum rifle, only what I’m thinking about isn’t typical. I can set us up on the range, borrow what I need from SWAT. Last fall they got the latest greatest for the Super Bowl, had it all ready to go on the stadium roof just in case. Maybe you don’t remember that either, were too busy throwing back beers and tequila and telling war stories about Scarpetta and your high school days plus being pissed at Machado. Where’s he at during all this?”
“Getting in the way,” Marino says. “The Doc’s here in the car and we’re on speakerphone, headed to the morgue so maybe stop talking about her.”
“Nice to meet you, Doctor Scarpetta. What I’m referring to is a PGF. A Precision Guided Firearm that can turn a rookie shooter into a top gun sniper who can hit a target dead center at a thousand yards out or more. Unfortunately police and the military aren’t the only ones who can buy something like this. That’s what I have nightmares about. It’s just a matter of time.”
Marino ends the call and uneasily looks around us while we sit perfectly still, the traffic heavy on Memorial Drive. He’s glancing in his mirrors, out the windows, up at rooftops and suddenly accelerates across three lanes into eastbound traffic to a cacophony of blaring horns.
“How about you don’t get us killed by driving like a kamikaze pilot.” I start picking up what just spilled out of my shoulder bag.
“No point in being a damn sitting duck.” His eyes continue darting around, and his face is red. “We need to go see Kuster tomorrow. We can’t waste time on this.”
“It would be nice if you’d ask before making plans that include me.”
“He can help with shooting reconstructions.” Marino takes off his Ray-Bans. “No one better. You mind cleaning these for me?”
He drops his sunglasses in my lap.
I dig a tissue out of my jacket pocket. “What about brushes with law enforcement? Did the other victims have any reason to fear the police? What about drugs?”
“Not that I’ve heard.” He pulls down the visor and a stack of napkins flutter into his lap. “But it makes sense that Nari and his wife were scared shitless. Imagine being accused of having sex with some screwed-up juvenile? When Machado called she probably did think she was about to get arrested.”
“I’d say life couldn’t get much worse for her right now.” I continue to work on his Ray-Bans. “They need to be washed with soap and water. They’re also badly scratched. You’ve had these how long?”
“Gotta get new ones but hate to spend the dough.” He takes his glasses from me and puts them back on. “A hundred and fifty bucks a pop.”
I know what to get him for his birthday next month. He crams the napkins into the glove box and I catch a glimpse of the bagged pennies inside. I imagine a sharpshooter with a PGF and very specific ammunition that is difficult to trace because so far all that’s left is frag. I’m already puzzled by a detail I didn’t know, what Kuster said about an intact bullet. Luke Zenner must have recovered one from Nari’s body and that’s very surprising. It’s hard to believe.
Marino is chewing gum, his jaw muscles clenching. He’s chomping away because he really wants to smoke and he continues to feel for the pack of cigarettes in his jacket pocket. Pretty soon he’ll pull out a cigarette and not light it. As I’m thinking it he does it and then his cell phone rings through the speakerphone.
“Yeah,” he answers gruffly.
“This is Mary Sapp,” a woman says. “I’m returning your call from the house on Gallivan. There’s a truck parked in front and I’m not sure I should leave.”
He signed the lease this past Monday, agreeing to the asking price and three months’ rent in advance. Jamal Nari paid twelve thousand dollars so he and his wife could get in instantly.
Usually a renter has an attorney review a contract—especially a renter who has experience with litigation and has no reason to be trusting. But he was in too much of a hurry according to Realtor Mary Sapp, who has completely rerouted us. Across the Harvard Bridge, on Massachusetts Avenue now, and Marino is driving fast. He’s flying. Whenever a car doesn’t get out of his way, he flips on his emergency lights and whelps the siren.
It doesn’t matter that we’ve entered Boston and he’s left his jurisdiction without letting a Cambridge dispatcher know. He’s requested a backup from Boston PD and he hasn’t bothered telling Machado or anyone else what is going on. Nor is he concerned that I’m not headed to my office when I have cases to supervise, where I have a job and my own responsibilities and my own problems to worry about. He didn’t ask if my coming along for the ride is okay and I message Bryce Clark that I’ve been held up.
OMG! Do you mean robbed? he fires back, and I don’t know if he’s trying to be funny.
I’m with Marino. How is Luke doing?
Finished with post but assume you don’t want him released? I mean case from Farrar Street, not Luke.
Do not release, I reply as I overhear what Marino is asking Mary Sapp. I need to take a look at him.
Marino is reassuring the Realtor that she is safe as long as she stays inside the house. But she doesn’t sound as if she’s worried about being safe. She doesn’t sound afraid. In fact she sounds something else. Dramatic, overly charming and helpful. It occurs to me that she might be enjoying herself.
No funeral home picked out anyway. Another message from Bryce appears in a gray balloon.
Then don’t ask me if he should be released yet, I think but I’m not going to put that in writing.
I talked to the wife. She’s in a fugue state, doesn’t have a clue what to do no matter what I tell her, Bryce writes and he shouldn’t editorialize.
Will let you know when I’m headed in. I end our dialogue.
“… I probably wouldn’t have thought much about it except for what’s all over the news.” Mary Sapp’s voice fills the car, a voice that is too cheerful in light of the circumstances.
Already I don’t have a good opinion of her.
“I’m glad you’re thinking about it and are smart enough to stay put inside the house.” Marino encourages her to do as he says. “And you’re sure about the description.”
“Oh yes. Yesterday around two or three in the afternoon. I was doing another walk-through of the house, taking more photographs, making notes, making sure they didn’t damage anything when they dropped by,” she replies.
“Dropped by for what?”
“She’s been carrying in boxes of their