Marino picks up the ice chest as if it weighs nothing and walks through his shabby, cluttered living room and stops at the front door. He looks around at the thirty-six-inch color TV-not a new one, but a Sony and plenty nice. He stares sadly at his favorite reclining chair, where it seems he has spent most of his life, and he feels an ache so deep it's a cramp in his bowels. He imagines how many hours he has spent half-drunk, watching football and wasting his time and efforts on the likes of Trixie.
She's not a bad woman. She's not evil. None of them have been. They're simply pitiful, and he is even more pitiful than any of them because he has never insisted on more for himself, and he could have.
"I won't be calling you after all," Marino tells her. "I don't even give a rat's ass what happens to the house. Sell it. Rent it. Live in it."
"You don't mean that, baby." Trixie begins to cry. "I love you."
"You don't know me," Marino says from the door, and he feels too tired to leave and too depressed to stay.
" 'Course I do, baby." She crushes out a cigarette in the sink and rummages in the refrigerator for another beer. "And you're going to miss me." Her face twists as she smiles, crying at the same time. "And you'll get your ass back here. I was just mad when I said you wouldn't. You will." She pops off the bottle cap. "One reason I know you'll be back is, what?" She points coyly at him. "Can you guess what Detective Trixie noticed, huh? You're leaving without your Christmas decorations.
"All those millions of plastic Santas, reindeer, snowmen, jalapeno pepper lights and the rest of what you been collecting for a century? And you're gonna drive off and just leave 'em in the basement? Naw-uh. No way, naw-uh."
She talks herself into believing she's right. Marino wouldn't leave for good and not pack up his beloved Christmas decorations.
"Rocco's dead," he says.
"Who?" Trixie's face goes blank.
"See, that's what I mean. You don't know me," he says. "It's all right. It ain't your fault."
He shuts the door on her, shuts the door on Richmond for good.
87
THE MISSING WOMAN'S name is Katherine Bruce. She is now considered abducted, the latest victim of the serial killer, presumed dead. Her husband, a former Air Force pilot now employed by Continental, was out of town, and after trying to reach his wife for two days with no success, he became concerned. He sent a friend to the house. Katherine wasn't there, nor was her car, which was discovered parked at the Wal-Mart near LSU where it did not draw attention to itself, since the lot has cars in it twenty-four hours a day. Her keys were in the ignition, her doors unlocked, her purse and wallet gone.
The morning is barely materializing, as if its molecules are slowly gathering into a sky that promises to be clear and bright blue. Nic knew nothing about the abduction until yesterday's six o'clock news. She still can't believe it. Katherine Bruce's friend, according to what has been released to the media, called the Baton Rouge police immediately yesterday morning. The information should have been released immediately and nationally. What did the idiot task force do? Give the friend, whose identity has not been disclosed, a damn polygraph to make sure Katherine really is missing? Were they digging up the backyard to make sure the pilot husband didn't kill and bury his wife before flying out of town?
The killer got an extra eight hours. The public lost eight hours. Katherine lost eight hours. She might still have been alive, assuming she's not alive now. Someone might have spotted her and the killer. You never know. Nic obsessively walks the Wal-Mart parking lot, looking for any detail that might speak to her. The huge crime scene is mute, Katherine Bruce's car long gone, impounded somewhere. Nothing but bits of trash, chewing gum and millions of cigarette butts out here.
It's 7:16 when she makes her only find thus far, one that would have thrilled her as a child: two quarters. Both of them heads. That's always luckier than tails, and right now she'll nurture any fantasy of luck she can. After she heard the news last night, Nic rushed here right away. If the coins were on the tarmac at that time, her flashlight didn't pick them up. And she didn't see the coins first thing this morning, when she returned and it was still dark. She takes photographs with thirty-five-millimeter and Polaroid cameras and memorizes the coins' location, making notes, just as she was taught at the forensic academy. She pulls on surgical gloves and secures the coins in a paper evidence envelope, then trots into the store.
"I need to see the manager," she tells a checkout clerk who is busy ringing up a cartful of children's clothing while a tired-looking young woman-maybe a mother-pulls out a MasterCard.
Nic thinks of Buddy's overalls and feels terrible.
"That way." The clerk points to an office behind a swinging wooden door.
Thank God he's in.
Nic shows him her badge as she says, "I need to see the exact location where Katherine Bruce's car was found."
The manager is young and friendly. He is clearly upset.
"Glad to show you. I sure know where it is. The police were out here for hours, poking around, and then they towed it. This is really awful."
"It's awful, all right," Nic agrees as they leave the store and the sun begins to show its bright face in the east.
The location of Katherine Bruce's 1999 black Maxima was approximately twenty feet from where Nic found the quarters.
"You're sure this is where it was?"
"Oh, I'm sure, yes ma'am. Parked right here five rows away. A lot of women who shop after dark park relatively close to the front door."
In her case, that didn't help. But she must have been at least somewhat security-conscious. Well, maybe not. Most people want to park as close to a store entrance as possible, unless they drive an expensive car and don't want anyone dinging the doors. Usually, it's men who worry about that. Nic has never understood why so many women don't seem to have much interest in cars or their upkeep. If she had a daughter, she'd make sure her little girl knew the name of every exotic car, and Nic would tell her if she works hard, maybe she'll drive a Lamborghini someday-the same thing she tells Buddy, who has numerous models of sports cars that he loves to roll into walls.
"Did anyone notice any unusual activity the night she drove her car into this lot? Did anyone spot Katherine Bruce? Did anyone see anything at all?" Nic asks the manager, both of them standing in the same spot and looking around.
"No. I don't think she ever made it inside the store," he says.
88
THE BELL 407 HAS THE most beautiful paint job Lucy has ever seen.
It should. It's her helicopter, and she designed its every detail, excluding those that came with it green, or straight out of the plant. Its four blades, smooth ride and maximum speed of 140 knots (damn good for non-military) and computerized fuel control are just a few of the basics. Added to that are leather seats, pop-out floats in case of an engine failure over water, which is very unlikely to occur, a wire strike for scud-running into power lines (Lucy's too safe a pilot for that), an auxiliary fuel tank, storm scope, traffic scope and GPS-all her instrumentation the best, of course.
The 34th Street heliport is on the Hudson, midway between the Statue of Liberty and the Intrepid. Out on pad 2, Lucy walks around her bird for the fourth time, having already checked inside the cowling and sight glasses for oil levels, oil drips, pop-out buttons on filters or hydraulic leaks that always remind her of dark red blood. One of many reasons she is fanatical about lifting weights in the gym is if she ever lost her hydraulics in flight, she'd have to muscle the controls. A weak woman would have a hard time with that.
She runs her hand lovingly along the tail boom, squatting again to check antennas on the underside. Then she climbs into the pilot's seat and wishes Rudy would hurry up. Her wish is granted as the door to the FBO swings open and Rudy appears with a duffel bag and trots to the helicopter, a hint of disappointment crossing his face when he spots the empty left seat and, as usual, finds himself the copilot. Dressed in cargo pants and a polo shirt, he is the typical handsome hunk.