Page 28 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

A state police SUV is closing in behind us, and I assume it’s the one we passed a moment ago. The trooper’s dark glasses are fixed on us like a sniper about to fire.

“Uh-oh. I’m not liking this one bit.” I watch in my side mirror as the trooper rides our bumper. “What the hell does he want?”

“Got no idea.”

“Did we do something we’re not supposed to? Speeding maybe? An expired inspection sticker?” I suggest.

“No.”

“Then why might he be following us, Benton?”

“Not for any legitimate reason,” he replies as the trooper begins whelping his siren, the emergency lights strobing. “You got to be kidding me.”

Slowing down, we pull off the road, the tires splashing through deep ice water puddles. The state police SUV halts menacingly close, almost touching the rear of our car, red and blue grille lights strobing.

“This is beyond unsettling,” I say to Benton.

“Something’s not right, that’s for sure,” he replies as we watch the uniformed trooper climbing out, putting on his campaign hat.

He shuts his door, his right hand down by his holstered gun as he slogs toward us in his bulky winter coat and boots. Benton lowers his window, cold damp air blowing in as he digs in a pocket for his badge-wallet.

“What seems to be the problem?” he says as the trooper bends down, bearded with a flattened nose.

I’m startled before realizing why, careful not to register recognition. His mirrored sunglasses reflect our faces peering out at him as he peers in at us. There’s nothing remotely friendly about his demeanor.

“I think you know what the problem is,” he answers aggressively as I look at his nametag.

Trad Whalen is built like a weightlifter, thick neck, wide shoulders.

He looks very different from the photo I saw while going through Rowdy O’Leary’s files last night.

The state trooper wasn’t bearded and as muscular then or last February when he rudely directed me where to park at the former governor’s funeral in Ivy Hill cemetery.

“I’m a federal agent and armed.” Benton displays his badge. “But then you’d know that from running my plate. I suspect you knew that before you decided to pull us over for no valid reason.”

“I always have a valid reason, sir. Where are you headed?” Trad Whalen has a thick Virginia accent.

He takes Benton’s wallet, his hands strong and hostile. I notice he wears an expensive military-style Bell & Ross watch and no wedding band.

“The chief medical examiner and I are on official business.” Benton’s face is granite.

I know he’s incensed. But it doesn’t show.

“That would be you, ma’am?” Whalen says to me while studying Benton’s credentials.

“Yes, I’m Doctor Scarpetta.” I tell him what I’m sure he knows.

He returns Benton’s wallet, burrowing into a pocket for a small bottle of Purell hand sanitizer.

Squirting a dollop into his palms, he rubs them together as if worried about catching a virus from touching our belongings.

I watch with growing distrust as he digs out a pair of vinyl exam gloves, transparent and cheap.

I recall the transcript of his interview with Reba O’Leary, and comments about her husband being unstable and paranoid. Rowdy repeatedly contacted the state trooper about the Phantom Slasher. And here we are on the way to the latest murder.

“Good morning, ma’am.” Whalen awkwardly works his hands into the gloves like someone who rarely wears them. “What official business are you on this early Christmas morning? Somebody die?”

“Somebody usually does,” I answer.

“You always Uber with the Secret Service, ma’am?”

“Not always.” I won’t let him get a rise out of me.

“You two are married?” he asks, and he damn well knows we are.

“Yes,” I tell him.

“I see. Sounds like you’re getting your husband to chauffeur you, ma’am. That’s mighty nice of him.”

“We’re riding together,” is all I say.

“Are you armed, ma’am?”

“Yes.” I pick up my briefcase from the floor, placing it in my lap. “My pistol is in a side pocket. Do you need to see it?”

“No, ma’am. But I need to see an ID.”

“Doing it now,” I reply, and the more he calls me ma’am the more inflamed I’m getting.

“Why the gloves?” Benton asks him.

“You know how many times I’ve gotten COVID, the flu, not to mention colds and pinkeye from touching people’s crap? They cough and sneeze all over the place, probably hoping I’ll get sick.”

“Yet you don’t bother with a mask. So I guess you’re not that worried,” Benton comments.

“I’m going to dig out my creds,” I inform the trooper, preferring not to be shot.

I open my briefcase slowly, making sure he can see my hands while I tell him exactly what I’m doing. There can be no confusion unless I want a bullet in my head. I’m exceedingly careful as I pull out the two thin black leather wallets.

He takes them without looking, nailing me with his mirrored sunglasses, the din of cars on the parkway relentless and loud. I can feel drivers staring as if Benton and I are traffic violators or fugitives. Whalen resumes questioning me in the same condescending tone.

“What death are you talking about, ma’am?”

“I wasn’t talking about one.”

“You think you’re smart, dontcha?”

I don’t answer.

“Why did you pull us over?” Benton asks him.

“Why do you think?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well guess what, Special Agent Benton Wesley? You didn’t come to a complete stop at the last intersection.”

“What intersection?”

“At Bashford Lane,” Trooper Whalen says, his duty belt dangerously close to Benton’s door.

“The light was green.” Benton is unflappable. “And how about stepping back a little before you scratch the paint.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want to do that to your fancy Tesla, would we?”

As he says this, something metal on his belt touches the door, making a quiet scraping sound.

“If you damage my car, you’re going to hear about it,” Benton warns, and Trad Whalen smiles.