Page 15 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

We don’t see another car on South Payne Street, the lights of homes pallid in the storm. Marino opens the ashtray for more chewing gum. Juicy Fruit this time.

I take him up on the offer, my mouth parched. I’m shaky inside and blame it on low blood sugar. It’s almost nine o’clock, our staff Christmas lunch a long time ago, my stomach empty and raw.

“Rowdy had to have known what a deadbeat husband and dad he was, nothing but a liability after some asshole ran him over.” Marino gets back to that. “Be nice to find who’s responsible and lock up his ass. It would be the gift that keeps on giving.”

The gum’s fruity flavor makes my mouth water, carrying me back to my father’s store.

I remember a bell jingling when the front glass door opened, the cool fragrant air inside.

I envision the old cash register with its sliding drawer that I’d unlock first thing with the steel key I wore on a string around my neck.

“As far as I’m concerned, the driver should be charged with manslaughter,” Marino goes on, both of us vigorously chewing.

“That won’t happen, assuming the person is ever caught,” I reply. “Rowdy’s heart disease was due to his lifestyle. And possibly to genetics.”

“He made bad choices because someone else caused him to be disabled mentally, physically, in every way possible,” Marino says.

“True,” I reply.

“I guarantee he wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for the shitcan who slammed into him and sped away.”

“You’re probably right,” I agree. “But it wouldn’t hold water legally. And after six years, the police aren’t motivated anymore. Rowdy’s death likely won’t change that.”

“Huh. I’m not sure how motivated they were to begin with,” Marino says, driving well under the speed limit, our headlights reflecting off whiteness.

It’s hard to know where the pavement ends and the shoulder begins, snow blowing wildly in streetlights. I pass along the name of the state trooper Reba mentioned. Maybe Marino should get in touch with him.

“You’re reading my mind, Doc. I’ll give Trad Whalen a call ASAP, see what he has to say about the hit-and-run. Maybe there’s evidence that wasn’t ever tested.”

“I have some of Rowdy O’Leary’s records and will go through them when I get home,” I reply.

“A hell of a way to spend Christmas Eve,” Marino says.

“What else did you learn from the boys?” Already, I’m tired of the gum.

Taking it out of my mouth, I drop it into the trash bag.

“They told me enough that I believe Rowdy cared about them, spending a lot of time playing video games, watching movies,” Marino replies. “More a friend than a father, I got the impression.”

“Thank you for being kind. I think you might be their new hero.” I use my sleeve to wipe condensation off my side window.

“You don’t have to thank me, Doc. The least I could do,” he says. “The piece of shit who hit their dad did damage to them, too. And to Reba, but I’m not sure what I think of her yet.”

“You’re a good person.”

“Well, the little dudes have my number, and I’ll check on them tomorrow,” he adds as we drive through their neighborhood. “But I want to be careful how much attention I pay. Since we don’t really know what we’re dealing with.”

“No, we don’t,” I reply. “But you were right about the life insurance. And it’s substantial enough to cause questions should someone have reason to suspect Reba is somehow responsible for her husband’s death. Although I fail to see what involvement she could have had.”

Tire tracks are faintly visible through new snow, and we slow down as a splendid three-point buck trots across the street in front of us. He stands as still as an ice sculpture, staring, his eyes reflecting red in our headlights reminding me of the phantom hologram again.

“Looks like Santa lost one of his reindeer,” Marino says.

He taps his horn and the buck bounds away, vanishing in the snowy dark.

“It sounds like Rowdy left considerable debt.” I pick up where we left off. “I don’t know what he was making as a software designer, but I suspect his wife has been the one holding everything together at home while working full time as a nurse.”

“You can count on the insurance company doing everything it can to avoid making the payout,” Marino says, lightning flashing in the gloom. “A lot of insurers won’t pay if it’s a suicide.”

“Unless I find out something to convince me otherwise, I’m not ruling him a suicide,” I reply.

“There’s a lot to look into,” he says. “Including whether Reba might have had something going on outside the marriage. She’s nice-looking and around all kinds of people at the hospital. It’s obvious she and Rowdy didn’t have much of a relationship anymore.”

“She intimated as much.”

I tell him about the box of expired condoms in a cabinet, and that Rowdy mostly lived in his office.

“Apparently they fought a lot,” Marino says.

“The police will dig into her personal life, as if she hasn’t been through enough,” I reply.

“Maybe she has a relationship on the side,” Marino goes on. “Rowdy shot his gun twice, and I’m betting he did that while he was on the pier. Maybe Reba has a boyfriend who decided to show up, maybe encouraging Rowdy to give her a divorce.”

“That’s a lot of maybes,” I reply. “And do we know if she wanted a divorce?”

“Got no idea. But Rick and Mick were worried about Mom leaving. That’s what they said.”

Marino lightly taps the brakes, gradually coming to a stop as we reach King Street.

“I asked them a lot of questions about the night their dad disappeared,” he’s saying. “I got the impression that their parents were arguing before Rowdy went out the door with his fishing gear and cooler of beer.”

“Do we have any idea what they were arguing about?” I ask, the wipers thumping like a metronome.

A tow truck clanks by with chains on the tires.

“Sounds like she hated his fishing trips. Reba was asking him to stay home for once,” Marino explains. “His night fishing isn’t making much sense. I wonder what he was really up to. Especially since the pier he picked is used for trysts. Assuming Fabian knows what the hell he’s talking about.”

“He used to take dates there,” I reply. “I’d say he knows.”

“Making me wonder if Rowdy was a voyeur. Maybe he liked to watch.”

I pass along what Maggie told me about him looking at pornography on his phone.

“It’s clear he struggled with depression and liked having time to himself,” I explain. “If he hung out on the pier for voyeuristic reasons, to drink while looking at porn, that might be the explanation. In other words, he wasn’t there to fish.”

“I’d be depressed too if I couldn’t do anything physical anymore, including having sex and working out in the gym.

Not to mention, Dorothy would bail on me for sure,” Marino says.

“Rowdy’s moods will be used against him.

I doubt Reba will see any insurance money anytime soon.

Maybe never. Especially if you decide the case is undetermined. ”

“That’s not happening. But I’ll have to pend the manner of death for a while,” I reply, the Ace Hardware store we churn past closed, not a car in the lot.

Usually, Christmas Eve would be hopping in Old Town, but restaurants, bars and other businesses are empty. Holiday markets and Santa’s Magical Corner are dark and barricaded, parades and music fests canceled because of the weather.

Lighted evergreen swags strung over the street swing in arctic gusts that have torn loose pine garlands from doorways and lampposts.

An inflatable gingerbread man yanks at his tether in front of the mattress store.

A Grinch has escaped someone’s yard and is supine by the roadside, shaking in the wind.

Illuminated spheres and starbursts sway perilously in trees as if the world is coming to a furious end.

Marino’s big truck cuts through side streets that need plowing, hardly anyone out. We creep past abandoned cars that have plunged into the ditch. Burned-out emergency flares are black streaks in the shadowy snow.

Thunder reverberates, wind pummeling as the storm rages. I continue checking messages, worried about Benton, about Lucy and my sister, about everyone. I’m unsettled as if something awful is about to happen.

Any progress? I send a text to Benton.

Not good, he answers quickly.

Since we last communicated, he’s not gotten any farther than Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. A tractor-trailer jackknifed and is blocking two lanes of traffic. Benton tells me he’s been sitting without moving for the past thirty-five minutes, his electric car battery running low.

Down to 30%, he writes.

Do you need us to come find you? I text him back.

Negative & you’d never get here.

We’d figure out a way, I promise. Won’t have you stranded.

As I’m typing, I envision morbid scenarios should he be forced to abandon his SUV. He could be struck by a car. He could fall and hit his head, dying from exposure.

I’ll be fine, Benton answers. Where are you?

Pulling up to the house now, I let him know.

Marino stops at the black wrought iron front gate. On either side of the entrance is fencing that’s just as tall and formidable. Our nine-acre estate is monitored by an array of sophisticated cameras and sensors that Lucy installed and manages with AI help from Janet.

I find the remote control inside my briefcase, pointing it through the window.

The gate begins stuttering open, and I hope it doesn’t get stuck.

The snow is deep and not letting up. We sit impatient and restless, looking around at dark woods on either side, headlights shining on big trees that have been here for centuries.

“I don’t like leaving you home by yourself, Doc,” Marino says as the gate inchworms noisily along its metal track. “I really don’t. You know how I am when I get one of my bad feelings. And I’m getting one big-time.”

“Considering the day we’ve had, it’s no wonder,” I reply.

“I have a bad feeling, too. For one thing, I don’t like Dana Diletti staying in her house after what happened earlier.

I hope to God we don’t get called to respond there.

So far, the Slasher shows up to butcher his victims on major holidays, and tomorrow is the biggest of the year. ”

Then we’re driving through the entrance, our tires crushing unbroken whiteness.

We wait to make sure the gate shuts behind us, the snow luminous in the uneven glow of iron lamps.

With every passing moment Marino seems more uneasy, and I suspect I know what’s bothering him most. He’s not looking forward to what awaits him at home.

“I’m pissed Dana Diletti would put herself at risk, especially at a time like this,” he’s saying.

“The latest from Fruge is the cops aren’t patrolling her neighborhood.

As you might figure, they’re overwhelmed dealing with accidents, stranded motorists, domestic situations.

We’ve already got a murder-suicide, the bodies on the way to our office according to Fabian. The cops have their hands full.”

“We’d better pray the Slasher stays off the streets tonight because of the storm,” I answer.

“It makes sense that he would,” Marino says. “My guess is he sent the hologram into Dana Diletti’s bedroom to create a media sensation. And he’s gotten what he wanted, that’s for sure.”

“We can only hope he doesn’t intend to follow up on his scary gesture like he has three times before,” I reply as the gate clanks shut.