Page 25 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

“What about Georgine Duvall?” I collect a pair of tactical boots from my closet floor. “What does she drive?”

“A Cadillac Lyriq. Lucy says it’s charging inside the garage at Thirteen Shore Lane. Both cars are there.” Benton is putting on his watch and signet ring.

“Do we know where Zain was not even two months ago when Fiona Webb was murdered on Halloween?” I’ve carried my boots to a chair, sitting down.

“I’ve been sent his White House schedule. He wasn’t interning on Halloween. One would assume he was at William & Mary.” Benton steps in front of the full-length mirror.

“Williamsburg is a three-hour drive from here, depending on traffic. Not exactly close but a doable distance if you’re in and out of Northern Virginia committing crimes.” I pull on my socks.

“It appears that Georgine Duvall allowed Zain to stay at her place whenever he was up this way.”

“I wonder why?” I’m lacing my boots.

“It would seem she’s friendly with Senator Willard,” Benton says. “The two of them were at UVA together.”

“As I’ll keep pointing out, Zain’s been in striking range when each murder has occurred,” I reply. “And then he’s on Mercy Island staying in the same house with Georgine when she was killed a few hours ago. I must admit it makes me uneasy.”

“Most sexually violent psychopaths don’t commit suicide or self-injure. They don’t target their friends and housemates.” Benton looks in the mirror as he knots his tie.

“Most,” I repeat. “But not all.”

“There’s no evidence he has a history of mental illness or anything else alarming, according to his background check. You don’t intern at the White House without the Secret Service doing a deep dive into your life and everyone around you.”

“Even if your uncle is Calvin Willard?”

“Even then,” Benton says. “But it certainly gave Zain an advantage.”

“What do we know about him besides not seeming like someone who might be violent?” I return to my closet for a belt.

“An only child. His father was a lawyer and died when Zain was a kid. I suspect that’s when his rich, powerful uncle Calvin stepped in.”

“Died how?”

“An accident. A tree fell on him in their backyard.” Benton has his eyes on his phone. “Based on what I’m skimming in his background report, Zain grew up in D.C. He started interning at the White House three summers ago.”

“What do we know about his mother?”

“A pediatrician,” Benton says. “She lives in Seattle, remarried and moved there after Zain graduated from high school.”

“What do people say about him? Those who work with him at the White House?” I ask, thunder cracking, the wind swooshing in the chimney.

“I know from my own encounters that he’s polite but a little weird.” Benton walks over to the fireplace.

He clanks the damper closed, sweeping white ashes off the hearth.

“Awkward and introverted,” he’s saying. “There have been no complaints about him being aggressive or even difficult.”

“His internship at the White House?” I ask.

“He’s at the Office of Science and Technology Policy.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know the details. But he has a robotic dog named Robbie that he brings to work on occasion, using it for show-and-tell,” Benton says. “I’ve seen it doing tricks for dignitaries, all sorts of high-level visitors to the White House. His uncle gets a big kick out of it.”

“That seems risky if the robot is capable of recording whatever’s going on,” I reply.

“It’s not allowed in secure areas like the Situation Room,” Benton says. “And having robotic dogs around isn’t new. The Secret Service is already using them in certain situations. To patrol the fence line around the White House, for example.”

“I’ve seen videos of them at Mar-a-Lago,” I recall.

“Part of Zain’s internship involves R&D of this sort of thing,” Benton explains. “I guess when your uncle is a U.S. senator who may be the next president, you get special privileges and access.”

“Sounds like Zain Willard might be capable of causing all kinds of sophisticated trouble such as signal jamming and hacking?” I suggest.

“Maybe so.”

“And most of all, would he have the ability to use holograms to stalk, spy and create a public panic?” I ask.

“Maybe. But the timing wouldn’t make much sense.”

The phantomlike hologram was seen by first responders while Zain was bleeding on the sidewalk, Benton points out. Some fifteen minutes later, Marino and Fruge saw the same projected apparition as Zain was driven away in the ambulance.

“Marino mentioned something about a drone,” I tell Benton, and surprise glints in his eyes.

I explain what Marino told me about the two men he believes are CIA spies.

“I hope he doesn’t run his mouth about that,” Benton says.

“Then you think the Slasher is using a drone?”

“In fact, we know he is, and not the sort of thing your average hobbyist buys off the internet. It’s been detected intermittently in the earlier cases. And it was picked up by sensors on Mercy Island before and after this morning’s home invasion.”

“Then I don’t see how it could have been Zain at the controls,” I decide. “He was in the ambulance when Marino saw the phantomlike hologram.”

“And if Zain’s the killer, what happened to the weapon?” Benton is putting on thick socks and Chelsea boots. “How could he hide it after the fact without tracking his own blood everywhere?”

“He couldn’t. As much as he was bleeding, he would have left a trail no matter what.” I’m looking at my phone, checking the internet for a mention of this morning’s attack.

So far, nothing.

“I remember when Calvin Willard first ran for office long ago, about the time we left Virginia thinking we’d never be back.

” Skimming through a slew of emails, I mark them as unread for later.

“And here we are, and he’s likely going to be the Democratic nominee for president. Favored to win in the latest polls.”

“Let’s hope that never happens,” Benton says.

“And of course, the Secret Service would have no reason to watch Zain?”

“No.” Benton clips his badge holder, his pancake holster to his belt.

“Does Calvin Willard know what’s going on?” I ask from my closet, grabbing a winter tactical jacket.

“Yes, the senator knows.” Benton slides his pistol into the holster. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Kay?”

He looks at me as he walks to my bedside table, and I know what’s coming.

“No, I didn’t forget. But I wish you would,” I tell him.

“Statute eighteen-point-two.” He retrieves my Glock from the bedside drawer.

“Do we really have to think about this today?” I tuck a lip balm in a pocket of my cargo pants. “Don’t we have enough to deal with?”

“Statute eighteen-point-two,” he repeats. “A White House involvement in a hugely sensational serial murder case, and you’ll be under even more scrutiny than ever. Politics and extreme publicity, and your enemies will come after you given the chance.”

“As you’ve said before. More than once. And they come after me anyway.”

“It will be worse.”

“I don’t like keeping track of a gun while shrouded in PPE, dealing with a very bloody scene that’s contaminated with bleach.” I watch him de-cock the Glock, rendering it safe.

He drops out the pistol’s magazine, clearing a semi-jacketed hollow-point from the chamber while explaining that the Slasher’s drone has stealth and other high-tech capabilities. That’s how he spies on his victims. It’s how he creates his holograms.

“You don’t want to be noncompliant.” Benton hands me the gun, the ammunition. “All you need is someone like Maggie Cutbush or Elvin Reddy finding out that you’re not obeying the law. Even if it’s a stupid one.”

Earlier in the year, the Virginia General Assembly passed a bill mandating that certain first responders, investigators, government officials, even schoolteachers are required to be sworn in as civilian cops.

I’ve been one since I began my career as a medical examiner in Miami where I was born and raised.

But carrying my peace officer badge and weapon was always up to my discretion.

Not anymore because of statute §18.2. It states that there will be adverse consequences if the employee does not agree to be trained to enforce the law.

This includes carrying a concealed handgun pursuant to this section…

Snapping the Glock’s slide forward, I reload the magazine without chambering a round. I tuck the pistol into the back of my waistband for now. Opening a dresser drawer, Benton finds the thin black leather wallet holding my civilian law enforcement credentials. He hands it to me.

“You’ve been qualifying on the range for as long as we’ve known each other,” he says in a gentler tone as we leave the bedroom. “You know how to handle yourself in police situations. It’s second nature to you.”

He’s looking up a number in his contact list as we follow the hallway. I’m behind him on the stairs, listening as he cancels the Rosewood.

“… Thank you as always for being so understanding…” Benton is saying. “Yes, yes, we’ll definitely try again…”

I envision the majestic hotel with its view of central London, and reality sets in hard. The trip isn’t going to happen. It really isn’t.

Off the phone now, Benton says to me, “They wished you a Merry Christmas, already had a cake and a bottle of champagne ready.”

I open the entryway closet as Merlin saunters through the living room, headed toward us. Collarless, still muttering and meowing, he doesn’t look happy. I pet him, asking if he’s hungry.

“This is the way he was last night.” I pick up my black Pelican scene case the size of a large toolbox. “Acting spooked as if he senses something.”

“An unpleasant thought.” Benton grabs a Secret Service tactical coat that will conceal the gun on his hip.

“Maybe it’s just the wildlife, the raccoon and who knows what else is out there. I hope it’s not for some other reason.” I can’t stop seeing the two red orbs that appeared after Marino drove away from the house.

Collecting my Kevlar briefcase from the table near the front door, I tuck my Glock into a side compartment equipped with a rapid-release Velcro tab.

“Where is Georgine Duvall’s place in Yorktown?” I ask.

“The historic area.” Benton takes the scene case from me. “It would appear from real estate records that the house has been in her family for generations.”

“I remember her mentioning how much she loved the place. She said she had happy memories of going there when she was growing up,” I reply. “Historic Yorktown is very close to Williams & Mary where Zain is in grad school.”

Benton carries my scene case past the Christmas tree. Santa lights up, cheerily hailing us. Merlin hisses just like he always does, and I don’t blame him.

“Lucy obviously knows what’s happened to Georgine. How did she seem when you were talking to her?” I ask.

“You’d never know she was her patient once,” Benton says.

“I hate to think what this will reopen,” I reply as we reach the kitchen. “Lucy’s first year at UVA was brutal for her. And it wasn’t exactly a cakewalk for me either.”