As best Scarpetta could recall, a sound technician miked her at around eight-twenty, which was at least twenty minutes earlier than usual, now that she thought about it, and she was led to the set and seated at the table. Carley Crispin didn’t appear until a few minutes before nine and sat across from her, sipped water with a straw, exchanged pleasantries, and then they were on the air. During the show and until Scarpetta left the building at close to eleven p.m., the location of her BlackBerry, according to Lucy, remained the same, with one proviso:
If your BB was moved to a different location at the same address-to another room or another floor, for example-lat and long coordinates wouldn’t change. So can’t tell. Only know it was in the building.
After that, at almost eleven p.m., when Carley Crispin and Scarpetta left the Time Warner Center, the BlackBerry left the Time Warner Center, too. Scarpetta followed its journey in the log, in the slideshow, clicking on a bird’s-eye, this one Columbus Circle, and then another bird’s-eye of her apartment building on Central Park West, which was captured at eleven-sixteen p.m. At this point, one might conclude that Scarpetta’s BlackBerry was still in her coat pocket and what the WAAS receiver was tracking and recording every fifteen seconds was her own locations as she walked home. But that couldn’t be the case. Benton had tried to call her numerous times. If the BlackBerry was in Scarpetta’s coat pocket, why didn’t it ring? She hadn’t turned it off. She almost never did.
More significant, Scarpetta realized, when she’d entered her building, her BlackBerry hadn’t. The next images in the slideshow were a series of bird’s-eye aerial photos, maps, and addresses that showed a curious journey her BlackBerry had taken, beginning with a return to the Time Warner Center, then following Sixth Avenue and coming to a stop at 60 East 54th Street. Scarpetta enlarged the bird’s-eye, studying a cluster of granite grayish buildings tucked amid high-rises, cars, and cabs frozen on the street, recognizing in the background the Museum of Modern Art, the Seagram Building, the French Gothic spire of Saint Thomas Church.
Lucy’s note:
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?