Page 10 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

Marino sits down in a blue wingback chair while I settle on the matching sofa. Mick and Rick perch on the fireplace hearth like matching andirons, the artificial logs flaming behind glass. Four stockings hung from the mantel have names on them in gold sequins.

Mick. Rick. Mom. Dad.

I notice the ornaments on the tree. Tiny rocking horses, motorcycles, rockets, flying saucers, the Avengers, Spider-Man, everything in twos.

Glass balls are of all shapes and sizes, the branches woven with golden ropes of angel hair and draped with tinsel that I can tell has been recycled. Reba catches me looking.

“Rowdy loves to decorate for Christmas, everything going up the minute Thanksgiving’s over,” she explains as if I asked a question, her voice catching. “He’d start decorating after Halloween, but I won’t let him.”

“My wife does the same thing,” Marino feels compelled to say. “She’d have the stuff up all year round if she had her way about it.”

“The two of you are married?” Reba looks at me, her eyes confused.

“No. It’s bad enough he has to work around me every day,” I reply, and she simply nods.

“Rowdy was the shopper and always did most of it early. That’s one thing he’s loved.

This time of year is his favorite.” She slips in and out of the past and present tense.

“There’s nothing he liked better than putting up the tree and buying presents.

” Her eyes tear up again. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in a jiff. ”

She abruptly walks off, passing through the formal dining room’s antique reproduction furniture, a gilt angel hanging from the crystal chandelier. Reba disappears into the kitchen while her twins continue staring at Marino. Now and then they glance at me with uncertainty and apprehension.

“So, what’s going on?” Marino asks them. “Looks like someone was outside a little while ago having a snowball fight?”

“Right before you got here,” Rick says.

“Who won?” Marino asks.

The boys shrug, not taking their eyes off him.

Then Mick says, “I did.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Did too.” Mick makes a rude face at his brother, the two of them carbon copies.

“The snow’s not all that good for snowballs,” Rick says to Marino as if I’m not present. “Because of the sleet mixed in. It’s too deep for sledding unless we went on the roads maybe. But Mom won’t let us.”

“That wouldn’t be safe,” I comment. “Especially after dark.”

I stop short of mentioning the dangers. I’m thinking about what happened to their father six years ago when a driver hit him and kept on going.

“How’d you get so big?” Rick gawks at Marino.

“You must lift a lot of weights!” Mick rejoinders.

“In the gym every day, whatever it takes to be strong,” Marino boasts. “Same thing you two should be doing.”

“How?” they ask.

“First you got to have the right equipment and supervision. You don’t want to hurt yourself,” he tells them. “Maybe I’ll give you some pointers sometime.”

“Okay!”

“But you’d have to work hard. Otherwise forget it.”

“We will!”

“A deal then,” Marino says.

They watch him unzip his black leather bomber jacket, taking it off, his muscles bulging through his tactical vest and black T-shirt. His big pistol is plainly visible.

“WHOA!”

He’s flexing his biceps, basking in the adoration, and I wonder if I should stop him. But I don’t. I sit quietly on the sofa while he pontificates about the importance of being in shape.

I can hear Reba in the kitchen, a pancake turner scraping against a cookie sheet, the smell of chocolate and potpourri sickening. My head hurts, my stomach unsettled, but I don’t let on. I’m perfectly calm as Marino continues wowing the O’Leary twins.

The more they’re transfixed by him, the more apparent that their father failed them ultimately.

Not by dying but by living the way he did.

Irresponsibly. Selfishly. Slothfully. Perhaps he couldn’t help it.

No doubt, he was suffering in every way imaginable.

But that doesn’t lessen the damage to his family.

“So, you two ever seen thundersnow before?” Marino asks the two boys.

“No, sir,” they answer at once, their eyes bright as they sit on the fireplace hearth.

“Well, it’s when you have thunder, lightning and snow all at the same time. Exactly what’s going on right now,” Marino explains, leaning forward in the wingback chair. “Some people believe it’s a magical sign, a good one. Like a shooting star or a double rainbow.”

“Maybe it’s Dad trying to tell us something,” Mick decides with a seriousness beyond his years.

“That’s stupid!” Rick snaps, his eyes fiery like the emerald ring his dead father had in a pocket.

“It’s not stupid,” Marino says. “I think people we care about try to let us know they’re okay. Sometimes they look after us without our knowing. And maybe they help us in ways they couldn’t while they were still here. As much death as I’ve seen, it’s made me believe in the afterlife.”

“You think Dad’s in heaven and sees us right now?” Mick looks up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, I think he’s watching.” Marino nods. “You should always assume he’s seeing everything you do. Was he religious?”

“He quit going to church after getting hit by the car,” Mick says.

“Catholic?” Marino eyes the crucifix on the wall near the dining room.

“We used to go to Saint Mary’s. But not anymore,” Rick explains.

“I grew up Catholic too,” Marino confides. “But haven’t been to church in a long time.”

“Sometimes Mom goes by herself,” Mick replies. “Dad hates it. He said God shouldn’t have let the car hit him.”

“I can understand him feeling that way,” Marino replies as I think of the necklace Rowdy O’Leary was wearing when he died.

He may have turned against the church, but not entirely. Or why would he have on a crucifix? Why would he allow one to hang inside his house?

“He was mad that God didn’t punish whoever hit him without stopping.” It’s Rick saying this. “He blamed God for a lot of things.”

“I can understand him feeling that way, too,” Marino replies.

“How many murders have you worked?” Mick then asks.

“More than I can count,” Marino answers as Reba returns with Christmas cookies.

She sets down the plate on the coffee table, her hands trembling as she passes around cocktail napkins with a partridge in a pear tree on them. I get up from the sofa, carrying over the evidence envelope. I show Reba that the back of it is sealed and scrawled with initials.

“Someone who works for me placed the items inside it,” I explain. “Are you all right with my opening it here?”

What I’m really asking is if it’s okay to do it in front of her children. Because that’s not my preference. It will be traumatic, and I can’t talk freely if they’re sitting here.

“Why don’t you two watch TV in your room for a little bit?” their mother says to them.

“Do we have to?” they plead in unison.

“Just for a little while,” she replies, her face distressed again, and Marino gets up from his chair.

He helps himself to a cookie, taking a bite while giving Reba a thumbs-up.

“Reminds me of when I was a kid,” he says with a mouthful. “I used to love M&M cookies, especially at Christmas when the candy coatings are red and green like these.”

He’s shamed me to reaching for one, nibbling off a small bite.

The buttery sweetness melts in my mouth, and what I’m doing goes against my training and better judgment.

I don’t eat at crime scenes or with witnesses, least of all potential suspects.

I could use a glass of water but won’t ask for anything.

“Delicious,” I tell her. “That was very kind of you.”

“I wanted to show at least a little hospitality.” Another bright smile, her eyes tragic. “Thank you both for going to the trouble of coming here, Doctor Scarpetta. And I believe you said your name is…?”

She looks blankly at Marino, and he tells her.

“Well, it was mighty nice of both of you to stop by with Rowdy’s things, especially in this weather…” Her voice dies in her throat again.

“Are you a real doctor?” Mick asks me cautiously. “Do you work in a funeral home?”

“I’m a real doctor, what’s called a forensic pathologist,” I reply. “And no, I don’t work in a funeral home. But I deal with them often.”

“What does a forensic pathologist do?” His eyes are wary.

“We try to figure out what happened to people who have died suddenly and unexpectedly,” I reply, and the boys don’t react. “Legally, we have to answer questions.”

“Please go on to your room,” Reba tells them.

“Come on, I’ll go with you,” Marino volunteers. “You can give me a tour. Are you two into sports?” he asks as they walk out of the living room.

“Baseball,” one of them says.

“I’m a pitcher,” says the other as they follow the hallway, disappearing through a doorway.

Reba sits down on the other end of the sofa, the leather cushion creaking. She turns to me, and I read the questions in her eyes. I can guess what’s coming.

“He thinks something’s not adding up? And I overheard him say he works murders?” She’s talking about Marino. “Why would he mention that unless you suspect somebody did something to Rowdy? Now it’s making more sense why I’m being asked so many questions I find disturbing.”

Digging into my briefcase, I pull out my Moleskine notebook. I open it to a clean page, contemplating what I can tell her. And what I won’t.

7:15 p.m., Christmas Eve, I jot down.

“I use those same notebooks at work,” Reba says to me.

W/Mrs. O’Leary inside lv room. I shorthand who I’m with and where we’re sitting.

“A habit that goes back to nursing school,” she adds, clearing her throat nonstop.

Pausing my pen, I look up to see her staring through tears.

“It’s a good way to keep track of things as they’re happening,” I reply. “An old habit of mine, too.”

I make a note of the address on South Payne Street, my every written word discoverable by attorneys. That doesn’t stop me from creating a record. People forget what they say during desperate moments. They misrepresent unintentionally. They also lie.

“You examined him,” Reba says. “What did you find out?”

“It’s too early for me to know for sure why your husband died,” I inform her. “I have an idea of the cause but not what might have led up to it.”

“What cause are you thinking?” She’s having trouble taking a deep breath.

“Your husband had serious heart disease,” I reply. “Had he complained about chest pains? Tachycardia? Getting out of breath?”

“That’s what killed him?” She’s wiping her eyes. “He wouldn’t go to a cardiologist. He wouldn’t go to doctors at all anymore. I knew it was just a matter of time…”

Her voice trails off. She stares down at her hands clasped in her lap.

“Likely, his heart disease was a factor.” I’m careful what I share. “But again, there’s a lot of information we don’t have. I won’t make a final ruling for a while.”

“It’s obvious there are suspicions about what really happened. A lady who works for the state called here today asking all kinds of questions,” she says.

“What lady?”

“Maggie something,” Reba replies to my dismay, and it was wrong of Maggie Cutbush to do such a thing.

Damn her!

She must have pounced on Reba not long after her husband’s body was recovered from the Potomac River. How insensitive. Not to mention stupid. Should Reba have any involvement in her husband’s death, Maggie just tipped her off.

“Maggie Cutbush?” I make sure, and Reba nods her head.

“She was asking questions about Rowdy’s mental health.” She dabs her eyes with a tissue. “And if he had an alcohol problem that might have caused him to fall off the pier.”

“I can tell you that she shouldn’t have been asking you anything at all,” I reply, and right about now I’d like to take off Maggie’s head. “I’m sorry that happened.”

Coughing several times, Reba continues glancing in the direction of her sons’ bedroom. The murmur of them talking with Marino is barely audible.

“She also wanted to know about Rowdy’s job. Did he work anymore,” she goes on. “Truth is, I don’t know.”

“I understand he was a software designer.”

“That’s right. He’s been working from home for the past six years. Ever since the accident.”

“Did he have many clients?” I ask.

“I’m not sure about anything he was doing. Or maybe not doing would be closer to the truth.” She continues staring off toward her sons’ bedroom. “Obviously, I don’t know what’s on his computers. Or who all he was in contact with. I didn’t talk about my work much, and he almost never mentioned his.”

“What type of software did he design?” I ask.

“He’s truly gifted with computers.” She looks at me.

“But he wasn’t productive like he used to be.

Doesn’t feel the same about the work. Doesn’t love it anymore.

Before he was hit by the car, he had a passion for what he did.

He was earning good money. He used to joke that we were on our way to being rich enough to buy a big house on the river like Monticello. ”

“At the time of the hit-and-run, did he have much in savings?” I turn to a new page in my notebook.

“Whatever he’d put away? He went through it quickly.” A glint of despair mixed with resentment. “I don’t know what all he spent it on, to be honest.”

“But he worked here in the house.”

“Supposedly,” she rues.

“Where is his office?” I ask.

“On the other side of the house. I can show you if you want.”

“Yes, I’d like to see it if that’s all right,” I reply. “Was he able to make a living anymore?”

“I don’t know. For sure nothing like he did. And whatever he made, he spent. And then some,” she says as we get up from the sofa.