“Well, of course I had an inkling. I did have errands to run,” Bryce says mysteriously. “Tomorrow’s his birthday and I wasn’t sure if you’d remember, as sick as you’ve been. Not to mention decorating for Christmas, so he walks into a happy, festive house?”
“You found out when, and who did you tell?”
“Lucy and I had conversations. I mean, you don’t have a tree or a single light, not one candle in a window,” he lectures me. “That was painfully loud and clear every time I dropped things off, such a dark, unfriendly house, with no fire on the hearth not even a week before Christmas? Could it be more depressing? I imagined poor Benton coming home. He can’t hear me, can he? And, yes, the gate needs to be adjusted again. I’m watching it not shut, stammering like it’s having a seizure or trying to say something. I’ll try to do it from in here.”
“The problem is it wasn’t properly adjusted the last time it was supposedly serviced.” I tuck the fanny pack under my arm, feeling the weight and shape of what’s inside it.
“You’re telling me? This morning cars were backed up onto the street, it’s so damn slow, and I almost got smacked by a Honda Element and guess who would have paid the piper even though it wasn’t my fault? A tin lizzie like that hitting my big bad X-Six, can you imagine? Well, I should say Ethan’s. I can’t exactly afford a BMW on my salary. Speaking of — what the hell is Lucy driving and what is that you just took off? Are you wearing a gun? Since when?”
“I don’t want any information about the ID or anything else released yet,” I tell him as we walk past Marino’s empty spot where he won’t be parking his design-flawed pickup truck anymore. “Who else knows that Benton was coming home?”
“If I’m not mistaken, you’re packing a pistol. Sexy, but how come? And why such an ugly accessory, that big black bulky thing? Don’t they make them in leather or cheerful colors? I could tell Cambridge PD to release the information. Then it’s their discretion and not our problem.”
“That’s probably best as long as we’re absolutely positive —”
“It took Dr. Adams all of half an hour,” Bryce interrupts again. “Apparently in addition to everything else she had a recent extraction of number twenty —”
“Bryce, who did you tell that Benton was coming home and when? It’s important I know —”
“A healing socket with a titanium post for an implant yet to be installed. I know that’s not the right word for it.”
“Bryce…?”
“I realize crowns aren’t installed like crown molding, excuse the pun.” He drops his voice for emphasis. “Well, it’s not exactly a pun except the crown part of it.”
I lift the box cover of the jackshaft operator next to the bay and scan my thumb into the biometric lock.
“Not that I’m sure what a number twenty is,” Bryce continues talking nonstop. “But I think it’s a molar.”
“Did Lucy tell you Benton was flying in today?” I press a button and the torque motor starts. The massive metal shutter door lurches up loudly.
“Of course. I encouraged her to fly her big bird to D.C. and airlift him out. Did someone ruin your surprise? I promise it wasn’t me.”
If Bryce knew, there’s no telling who else did, not that I’m sure it explains anything. In fact, I don’t see how it does. Even if he were indiscreet, how would the killer have found out such a detail, assuming Benton’s suspicions are valid? Why would it matter when he was flying home? Maybe the killer can’t resist watching the spectacle he creates but that doesn’t mean the victim selection or the timing has anything to do with Benton. It’s more likely that Granby is capitalizing on Benton’s deepest fears, wearing him down and upsetting him, knowing full well what it would do to him if he thought anything he’s published might influence a violent predator. Benton very well may be paranoid by now, and based on what he’s just told me I wouldn’t blame him.
“Is Ernie in today?” I ask. “I’ve got trace evidence to drop off to him and we’ve got a fence post and bolt cutter coming in for tool marks. Plus DNA. So if you’ll alert Gloria, and while you’re at it also check on the tox lab, the additional screens I want in the suicide from last week, Sakura Yamagata, I want a rush on everything as quickly as humanly possible.”
“Tell me something new.”
“This is new. I’m very concerned about what we might be dealing with around here.”
“You’re not going to give me a clue?”
“I’m not,” I reply. “I also need you to find out when Dr. Venter, the chief in Baltimore, could have a word with me.”
“I’ll get right on it,” Bryce says. “And Ernie’s in the evidence bay, working on the totaled car from that drunk driver Anne’s this minute scanning. Plus we got a possible OD on the way, probably a suicide, a woman whose husband got killed in a motorcycle crash exactly one year ago to the day. One Happy Holidays deserves another, as they say. An average of ten suicides per week since Thanksgiving. Has it gotten worse?”
“More than twenty-five percent worse.”
“Well, now my day is totally ruined.”
Through the widening space beneath the door I see Lucy’s huge SUV inside where it really shouldn’t be. But she parks where she wants whether she’s driving one of her supercars or roaring up on a motorcycle, rules meaning nothing to her. I note the two gurneys haphazardly abandoned against a wall, a body pouch wadded up on top of one of them. A hose is sloppily coiled near a floor drain, the spray nozzle leaking.
“Why are we working up a car from a motor-vehicle fatality?” I ask Bryce.
“Because lawyers are calling.”
“Lawyers are always calling. That’s not a reason.”
“Not just any. Carin Hegel.”
“What exactly does she want?” I ask.
“She wouldn’t say.”
Benton and I duck under the door rolling up as he communicates with someone, typing with his thumbs. I press the Stop button just inside, then I press Close. I turn on lights. All of the storage cabinets are locked at least and the floor is clean. I don’t smell any bad odors.
“I think it’s something to do with the blood alcohol so maybe you should talk to Luke. Lawsuits and more lawsuits,” Bryce says as the heavy door rolls back down, clanking and humming. “Would it be okay with you if I have pizzas sent in from Armando’s? By early afternoon we’re going to have a full house and I don’t mean dead people. You need to eat, for once, and I have a change of clothing for you all laid out. The usual navy blue suit fresh from the dry cleaner and sensible low-heeled pumps plus brand-new stockings with no picks or runs.”
“Where am I going? I’m not even supposed to be in today.” I stop by the hose and turn off the water all the way.
“I’m interviewing Marino’s replacement, remember?” Bryce says. “Jennifer Garate, rhymes with karate. She’s worked in New York City as a death investigator for the past five years and was a physician’s assistant before that? We went over her application some weeks ago, but of course we went through a lot of them. She was very pleasant on the phone and Luke seems to like her photograph a little too much. I admit I thought it a bit odd that she had it taken on a beach wearing what I call bootyfits, hot yoga shorts or whatever to show off what she’s got, which is quite something I guess. You’re here, thank God, and can weigh in. Maybe Benton would since he’s in the neighborhood?”
“No,” I answer. “Benton wouldn’t.” I turn off speakerphone because Benton isn’t listening.
I imagine he’s dealing with his field office or the BAU and politics are kicking into a higher gear. I wonder if the FBI will begin looking for Martin Lagos around here, looking for someone Benton is convinced is dead. Already I’m calculating what to do about any DNA results we may get from the panties on Gail Shipton’s body or from the mentholated ointment recovered from the grass. For the first time in my career I don’t trust what might happen to any profiles my DNA lab uploads into CODIS.