60 E. 54th is Hotel Elysée which has, notably, the Monkey Bar-not “officially open” unless you’re in the know. Like a private club, very exclusive, very Hollywood. A hangout for major celebs and players.
Was it possible the Monkey Bar was open now, at three-seventeen a.m.? It would appear, based on the log, that Scarpetta’s BlackBerry was still at the East 54th Street address. She remembered what Lucy had said about latitude and longitude. Maybe Carley hadn’t gone to the Monkey Bar after all but was in the same building.
Scarpetta e-mailed her niece:
Bar still open, or is BB possibly in the hotel?
Lucy’s reply:
Could be the hotel. I’m in a witness situation or I’d go there myself.
Scarpetta:
Marino can, unless he’s with you.
Lucy:
I think I should nuke it. Most of your data are backed up on the server. You’d be fine. Marino’s not with me.
She was saying she could remotely access Scarpetta’s BlackBerry and eradicate most of the data stored on it and the customiza tion-in essence, return the device to its factory settings. If what Scarpetta suspected was true, it was a little late for that. Her BlackBerry had been out of her possession for the past six hours, and if Carley Crispin had stolen it, she’d had plenty of time to get her hands on a treasure trove of privileged information and may have helped herself earlier, explaining the scene photograph she put on the air. Scarpetta wasn’t about to forgive this, and she would want to prove it.
She wrote:
Do not nuke. The BB and what’s in it are evidence. Please keep tracking. Where is Marino? Home?
Lucy’s reply:
BB hasn’t moved from that location in the past three hours. Marino is at RTCC.
Scarpetta didn’t answer. She wasn’t going to mention the password problem, not under the circumstances. Lucy might decide to nuke the BlackBerry, despite what she’d been instructed, since she didn’t seem to need permission these days. It was rather astonishing what Lucy was privy to, and Scarpetta felt unsettled, was nagged by something she couldn’t quite pinpoint. Lucy knew where the BlackBerry was, seemed to know where Marino was, seemed invested in everyone in a way that was different from the past. What else did her niece know, and why was she so intent on keeping tabs on everyone, or at least having the capability? In case you get kidnapped, Lucy had said, and she hadn’t been joking. Or if you lose your BlackBerry. If you leave it in a taxi, I can find it, she’d explained.
It was strange. Scarpetta thought back to when the sleek devices had appeared and marveled over the premeditation, the exactness and cleverness, of how Lucy had managed to surprise them with her gift. A Saturday afternoon, the last Saturday in November, the twenty-ninth, Scarpetta remembered. She and Benton were in the gym working out, had appointments with the trainer, followed up by the steam room, the sauna, then an early dinner and the theater, Billy Elliot. They had routines, and Lucy knew them.
She knew the gym in their building was one place they never took their phones. The reception was terrible, and it wasn’t necessary, anyway, because they could be reached. Emergency calls could be routed through the fitness club’s reception desk. When they had returned to their apartment, the new BlackBerrys were there, a red ribbon around each, on the dining-room table with a note explaining that Lucy, who had a key, had let herself in while they were out and had imported the data from their old cell phones into the new devices. Words to that effect and detailed instructions. She must have done something similar with Berger and Marino.
Scarpetta got up from the dining-room table. She got on the phone.
“Hotel Elysée. How may I help you?” a man with a French accent answered.
“Carley Crispin, please.”
A long pause, then, “Ma’am, are you asking me to ring her room? It’s quite late.”
14
Lucy had finally stopped typing. She’d quit looking at maps and writing e-mails. She was going to say something she shouldn’t. Berger could feel it coming and couldn’t stop her.
“I’ve been sitting here wondering what your fans would think,” Lucy said to Hap Judd. “I’m trying to get into the mind-set of one of your fans. This movie star I’ve got a crush on-and now I’m in a fan’s mind. And I’m imaging my idol Hap Judd with a latex glove on for a condom, fucking the dead body of a nineteen-year-old girl in a hospital morgue refrigerator.”
Hap Judd was stunned, as if he’d been slapped, his mouth open, his face bright red. He was going to erupt.
“Lucy, it’s occurred to me, Jet Ranger may need to go out,” Berger said, after a pause.
The old bulldog was upstairs in Lucy’s apartment and had been out to potty not even two hours ago.
“Not quite yet.” Lucy’s green eyes met Berger’s. Boldness, stubbornness. If Lucy wasn’t Lucy, Berger would fire her.
“What about another water, Hap?” Berger said. “Actually, I could use a Diet Pepsi.” Berger held Lucy’s eyes. Not a suggestion. An order.
She needed a moment alone with her witness, and she needed Lucy to back off and cut it out. This was a criminal investigation, not road rage. What the hell was wrong with her?
Berger resumed with Judd. “We were talking about what you told Eric. He claims you made sexual references about a girl who had just died in the hospital.”
“I never said I did something as disgusting as that!”
“You talked about Farrah Lacy to Eric. You told him you suspected inappropriate behavior at the hospital. Staff, funeral home employees engaging in inappropriate behavior with her dead body, perhaps with other dead bodies,” Berger said to Judd as Lucy got up from the table and left the room. “Why did you mention all this to someone you didn’t know? Maybe because you were desperate to confess, needed to assuage your guilt. When you were talking about what was going on at Park General, you were really talking about yourself. About what you did.”
“This is bullshit! Who the hell is setting me up?” Judd was yelling. “Is this about money? Is the little fucker trying to blackmail me or something? Is this some sick lie that insane bitch Dodie Hodge has cooked up?”
“No one is trying to blackmail you. This isn’t about money or someone allegedly stalking you. It’s about what you did at Park General before you had money, possibly before you had stalkers.”
A tone sounded on Berger’s BlackBerry next to her on the table. Someone had just sent her an e-mail.
“Dead bodies. Makes me want to puke just thinking about it,” Judd said.
“But you’ve more than thought about it, haven’t you,” Berger stated.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re going to see,” she said.
“You’re looking for a scapegoat or want to make a name for yourself at my fucking expense.”
Berger didn’t offer that she’d already made a name for herself and didn’t need the help of a second-rate actor.
She said, “I’ll repeat myself, what I want is the truth. The truth is therapeutic. You’ll feel better. People make mistakes.”
He wiped his eyes, his leg bouncing so hard he might fly out of the chair. Berger didn’t like him, but she was liking herself less. She was reminded that he had brought this on, could have avoided it had he been helpful when she’d placed that first call three weeks ago. If he’d talked to her, she wouldn’t have found it necessary to come up with a plan that rather much had taken on a life of its own. Lucy had made sure it had taken on a life of its own. It had never been Berger’s intention to prosecute Hap Judd for what allegedly had happened at Park General Hospital, and she had little or no faith in some handyman pot-smoking snitch named Eric whom she’d never interviewed or met. Marino had talked to Eric. Marino said Eric had told him about Park General, and yes, the information was disconcerting, possibly incriminating. But Berger was interested in a much bigger case.