Page 11 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

I follow Reba O’Leary through the foyer. On the other side is a brief hallway that leads to a door she opens, turning on the lights.

We step inside a brown-carpeted room paneled in wormy chestnut, a wooden ceiling fan overhead, framed photographs covering the walls. The air is chilled, the thermostat registering sixty degrees, the metal-slatted blinds closed.

“As you’re probably noticing right away, there are no computers,” she tells me. “That’s because the police took them. The workstations, and his laptops.”

The L-shaped desk is crowded with video displays and disconnected cables, a router, a pair of Meta goggles and other gaming equipment. Near the ergonomic chair is a large gunmetal-gray safe with a keypad. Indentations in the carpet are from two computer towers no longer here.

Backup batteries and surge protectors are still plugged in. A blank whiteboard leans against a wall, and I don’t see files or paperwork of any kind. There’s none of the usual clutter I’d expect in a place where someone runs a business. Unless it’s a fraudulent one.

“When were the police here?” I ask Reba.

“The day after he disappeared,” she replies. “A couple of officers and a detective came by and said they’d found Rowdy’s phone on the pier. Also his gun, and that it had been fired twice.”

“Was his office searched? Or any other areas of your home?”

“Yes, the detective looked around the house, the basement,” Reba says. “But what they were most interested in were his computers.”

“Did the police give you a reason?”

“Maybe there would be something on them that showed he was having a problem with someone,” Reba explains. “I was asked permission. The detective was very polite. Nice, actually, and gentle with the boys. I didn’t see any reason not to let the police look at whatever they wanted.”

“Who’s the detective?”

“Blaise Fruge.”

“I know her well,” I reply. “She’s a good investigator.”

“She asked a lot of questions, that’s for sure. Wanting to know if Rowdy might have disappeared on purpose, maybe because he was involved in something illegal,” Reba explains. “And I told her I wouldn’t think so. He was a lot of things. But I’ve never known him to be dishonest.”

“Did Investigator Fruge want you to open the safe?” I continue taking notes.

“Yes. But I don’t have the combination,” Reba says. “That’s where Rowdy kept important documents. And his backup drives, things related to his programming and software design. As best I know.”

I’ve paused in front of a bookcase filled with technical volumes relating to software development, video games, artificial intelligence, the metaverse. There are works by John Mack, Richard Dolan and Avi Loeb. It would seem Rowdy was interested in UFOs and alien abductions.

I check dates on copyright pages, most going back to around the time Rowdy was hit by a car. He has books on health, wellness, exercise, most of all running. Reba watches me perusing.

“He was serious about his marathons, what he ate and how much sleep he got, fanatical, really, before the accident,” she says. “After he was hit by the car, he had to have both knees replaced.”

“Yes, I know that from his x-rays,” I reply. “And I could see he had significant arthritic changes in his hips and other joints. He must have been in chronic pain.”

“He was,” she says. “The only real joy in life he had left were the boys. And I’m not going to pretend otherwise, but things were strained between us. He was so unhappy and paranoid.”

I begin walking around her dead husband’s office, looking at photographs of him crossing the finish line in various marathons.

Before he was the victim of the hit-and-run, he was wiry, strong, with thick red hair and a big smile.

It doesn’t seem possible he’s the same man I had on my table a few hours ago.

His body bloated by the gases of decomposition, his froglike face flash in my thoughts. I envision the damage marine life did to his ears and lips. His eyes were gone, and I push away the images.

“Most of all, Rowdy was angry,” Reba says. “He was so angry, always saying there’s no justice. There just isn’t.”

“I suspect I’d feel the same way.” I continue looking around.

The shadowbox of medals from races he won. The framed newspaper stories and a magazine article about him in Runner’s World. I stop in front of a hotel-size refrigerator, and microwave oven. On a Formica side table are salt and pepper, hot sauce, a coffeemaker, a toaster oven and a cutting board.

Against the wall is a sofa bed, and behind the desk a bathroom. A large-screen TV is on the wall between the two windows.

“Did your husband ever sleep in here?” I ask. “It looks like the sofa pulls out into a bed?”

“Well, yes.” Reba stares at the corner of a sheet peeking out, bending down to tuck it in. “This was his man cave. He slept in here most of the time.”

“Would you mind if I check what’s in his medicine cabinet?” I ask, and she doesn’t care, shrugging permission. “Did Investigator Fruge look?”

“I think so,” Reba says. “But she didn’t take anything from in there.”

I step inside the office bathroom with its blue tile and brass fixtures, the décor 1990s.

An electric toothbrush, a razor and shaving cream are on the back of the blue porcelain sink.

I take in the jungle-themed wallpaper, the combined shower and tub.

The heated towel rack is turned off, the blinds closed in the window near the blue toilet.

Opening the mirrored cabinet door, I scan shelves of amber plastic prescription bottles with printed labels.

Rowdy was on medication for high blood pressure and migraine headaches.

He had multiple refills of them and the antidepressant Effexor.

Most of the bottles appear untouched and were prescribed years ago.

In the wooden cabinet under the sink, I discover a variety of laxatives, and diarrhea and stomach medications. There are bottles of Aleve and Motrin. A box of condoms has an expiration date of six years ago. Reba averts her gaze as I return the Trojans to where I found them.

“Did your husband stop taking his meds, including Effexor?” I ask her. “I notice that many of the bottles are full.”

“He didn’t take anything like he was supposed to and hadn’t been for the past three or four years.”

“Was the Effexor prescribed for depression, I assume?” I jot down the details.

“That and anxiety,” she says. “But he refused to go back to his doctor, and he certainly wouldn’t listen to me. Doesn’t matter that I might know a thing or two as a nurse. I’ve seen up close and personal what happens to people who don’t take their meds. As have you.”

“Where are you a nurse?” I walk out of the bathroom.

“Here in Alexandria. The hospital on Seminary Road. I work four a.m. to four p.m. Thursday through Sunday so I can be home as much as possible with the twins. Mostly I’m in the E.R., but I go wherever’s needed.”

“I hope you’re taking some time off to cope with all this?” I reply as we leave Rowdy’s office.

“Keeping busy while helping others is the best thing,” she says in the hallway. “And we’re shorthanded right now, even more than usual. ’Tis the season.”

We return to the living room, and I retrieve the manila envelope from the sofa. I tear open the flap, sliding out an evidence receipt that lists Rowdy’s personal effects.

“Fortunately, I have a sister in D.C. She’ll be here tomorrow morning bright and early,” Reba is saying. “That’s assuming the roads are okay. But they usually clear them pretty quick.”

Signing the form, I hand it and the pen to her. She reads the inventory carefully, taking a long time, as if she can’t comprehend what she’s looking at, wiping her eyes.

“My sister will keep the boys company and out of trouble until I get home,” Reba explains, her voice fractured. “We’ll open gifts. We’ll have Christmas dinner then.”

She places the form on the coffee table, bending over it with the pen.

“What about his other things?” she asks, signing her name shakily. “I don’t see anything about his clothing.”

“I’ll be holding on to that for now,” I answer.

She slides the form my way, and I tuck it in my briefcase, giving her the evidence envelope. Sitting back down on the sofa, I ask if she knew why her husband night-fished at that location on the Potomac.

“The pier is remote and in poor repair, and there are no facilities. No restrooms, for example,” I explain. “From what I understand, no one really fishes there. Except your husband did. I’m wondering what appealed to him about it.”

“I’ve never been there, and I hate fishing.” Resentment glints in her eyes. “I don’t eat fish, certainly not the ones he caught.”

“When did he start fishing on that pier at night?” I try again.

“He didn’t fish at all until after the accident. I’ve never understood it really except he liked spending time by himself when he could get it,” she explains as I think about Rowdy looking at pornography on his phone while digging into his cooler of beer.

A nervous sigh, and Reba steels herself, reaching for the envelope. She digs out the small jewelry box. Opening it, she doesn’t move, staring at what’s inside. Then she takes a deep silent breath. She’s clumsy working the ring out of its velvet slot.

The baguette-cut emerald flames brilliant green, trembling as she holds it up to the light. Tears flood again, angry ones this time.

“It’s beautiful,” I tell her, but she doesn’t try it on.

Returning the ring to the box, she sets it down hard on the coffee table.

“The receipt is inside the envelope,” I explain. “It will be helpful to have for insurance purposes.”

“How much did he spend?” she asks in a voice that’s dull and heavy.

I tell her the amount, catching a spark of fury in her eyes, a sob caught in her throat.

“Well, he shouldn’t have,” she says in the same dead tone. “Literally he damn well shouldn’t have. And you know how many times I’ve told him?”

“It appears he was carrying a lot of cash when he visited the jewelry store,” I add.