Page 34 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

I peer through a magnifying lens at blackish-red fingerprints and smears on the front door handle and jamb. The deadbolt lock’s interior latch is bloody, and I point it out.

“Most likely Zain’s blood,” Benton says.

“That’s how it’s looking, and it shows that the front door was closed when he was leaving the house.” Marino has put on a surgical mask, and it moves as he talks.

“It looks like Zain thought he needed to unlock it.”

He indicates the bloody latch.

“You swabbed all this when you first got here?” I hope.

“Everything by the book, Doc. And I’m thinking that maybe nobody broke in because the killer was already inside. Maybe nobody left the house until Zain cut himself and fled to find a phone signal. Pretending to be a victim.”

“Not impossible,” Benton considers. “But we don’t know what Zain was thinking, as panicked as he must have been. Whether he was attacked or injured himself to create an alibi? Either way he was badly hurt and about to die.”

“I don’t trust him,” Marino says.

“Speaking of not trusting people.” I return the magnifying lens to his scene case. “The hospital director passed us in his Mercedes a few minutes ago. Was he coming from here?”

“The piece of shit wasted no time showing up and trying to butt in.” Marino opens a box of PPE coveralls.

“It looked like he was heading back to the security gate for some reason,” Benton adds.

“That’s because Dana Diletti’s producer called Graden Crowley’s cell phone while I was standing on the porch not letting him inside the house,” Marino says, anger sparking. “When Lucy shot the drones out of the air, for some reason the producer called him about it.”

“I’m sure Graden wasted no time giving Dana Diletti his contact information the instant her crew rolled up,” I reply. “He’s probably the one who gave the FBI the remote gate opener. Inserting himself, manipulating, his predictable M.O.”

“I overheard him on the phone promising to have a word with the FBI about shooting down the drones,” Marino informs us. “And that the FBI should pay for any damage caused.”

“As if the FBI or any of us give a damn what Graden Crowley says,” I reply. “And I hope it won’t be all over the internet that Lucy was shooting down anything.”

“Well, she did,” Marino says. “Just not with a gun.”

“The director was trying to enter the house?” Benton frowns.

“Sticking his nose in everything just like he always does,” Marino replies.

“A clever way to make sure there’s an explanation if his DNA’s found in the house,” Benton says, his attention everywhere.

“As usual, Crowley claimed he has a right to know what’s going on,” Marino elaborates.

“He seems to have this idea that the police need permission to work a homicide on private property. And in the first place, this house doesn’t belong to him.

None of the private residences do, but he acts like he’s in charge of everything and everyone. ”

“I’m not surprised.” I envision his smug smile and arrogant eyes. “And he may not own this place, but he probably feels he owned Georgine Duvall. He was her boss.”

“I wonder what secrets she took to the grave.” Marino hands us pairs of Tyvek shoe covers.

“Plenty, I have a feeling,” Benton says.

“It’s shocking to me that Georgine would work here,” I reply.

I remember her once apologizing for being a free spirit. Intuition is everything, Kay, she’d say. I always trust my gut more than my brain.

“I knew her when she was in Charlottesville.” I’m careful what I tell Marino. “She didn’t strike me as suited for the restrictive, regimented environment of a hospital. Especially one with such a tarnished reputation. And I can’t imagine her putting up with the likes of Graden Crowley.”

“Does she have an office here?” Benton asks as we work shoe covers over our boots.

“I was told no,” Marino says. “Mostly, she deals with patients remotely. When the sessions are in person, she sees them in her home in Yorktown. If it’s patients here, she’s usually talking to them in their rooms and other areas of the hospital.”

“Did she ever see patients inside this place?” Benton asks.

“Graden Crowley said no. And there’s nothing I’ve noticed to make me think that she was seeing anybody here,” Marino explains.

“Do we know what was going on that required her to show up at the hospital in person?” I ask. “Especially this time of year.”

“Last night was the Christmas party for staff. And it included patients not needing to be locked up. Sounds insanely fun.” Marino makes another insensitive comment.

“That’s not a good reason for her to come here,” Benton says.

“No kids, her husband dead, she didn’t have anyone to spend holidays with.” Marino explains what Graden told him.

Georgine arrived on the island two weeks ago. She planned to stay through January as she’d done every year since she began working here eight years ago, Marino informs us.

“I don’t buy it,” Benton says.

“Me either,” Marino agrees.

“Very odd,” I add.

While we talk in the foyer, melting snow slides off the steeply pitched portico, the sun breaking through the skylight. A bird flutters on it, shaking off water, and makes scratchy sounds as it flits about the streaked dirty glass.

“Why would Georgine Duvall pick Mercy Island to hang out? How crazy is that? Why not go to a resort or maybe a spa?” Marino asks.

“Not much I’m hearing about her is making sense,” I reply. “But it’s been many years since I was around her.”

“Where was the party last night?” Benton wants to know.

“Inside the hospital ballroom. I’ve seen it before when the doc and I have responded here, this big room off the lobby,” Marino says.

“Do we know if Georgine went to the party?” I ask.

“She sure did if Crowley’s telling the truth,” Marino replies. “They went together. He said he picked her up at six p.m. and dropped her off back here at nine.”

“He drove her in the storm?” I remember the snow and wind, the deteriorating conditions as Marino and I left the O’Leary house. “And then he headed home as bad as the roads were?”

“Do we know where he lives?” Benton looks at me.

“Belle Haven, last I heard.”

“He decided not to try driving home.” Marino continues relaying what the director passed along to him. “The hospital has a guestroom he stays in from time to time.”

“Then he was on the grounds when Georgine Duvall was murdered,” Benton replies.

“I’m wondering about their relationship,” I add.

“Is he married?” Benton asks.

“Never has been, according to Wikipedia,” Marino answers. “Probably why he didn’t give a shit about not being home on Christmas Eve.”

I sense Marino’s hurt feelings. No doubt he’s thinking about Dorothy sending him out into the cold and snow. She relegated him to spending an all-nighter with Fruge, and it wasn’t the right thing to do.

“Wikipedia?” Benton looks at him. “Seriously? That’s the best you can do?”

“I don’t feel like asking Janet a damn thing right now.” Marino stands up from rooting around in his backpack, a protein bar in hand. “Besides, she’s too busy talking to Dorothy, right? I’d rather ask Google. I’d rather ask a crystal ball.”

“When Crowley dropped off Georgine last night, where was Zain?” Benton follows sticky mats to the living room.

“Supposedly here.” Marino has peeled open the protein bar like a banana, chewing as he talks.

“Did she let herself in?” Benton questions. “Or did Zain open the door for her?”

“I don’t know,” Marino says. “Maybe you can ask Janet to check the cameras. I’m not asking her a damn thing.”

Benton is already typing the question to her.

“Cameras weren’t recording,” he reads her instant answer.

“Of course they weren’t,” Marino mutters.

Benton’s Tyvek-covered feet make slippery sounds while he looks around the living room. I recognize the parquet floors, the whitewashed stucco walls, the exposed oak timbers in the plaster ceiling. I remember finding the house beautifully appointed but couldn’t get past the history.

The chapel was where patients and their loved ones prayed for healing and relief from suffering.

I can well imagine things going on that weren’t holy or helpful.

Stories I’ve read about the old lunatic asylum suggest a chaplain was quick to hold out his hand for offerings that never found their way into the collection plate.

“Was Graden aware that Georgine allowed Zain to stay here whenever he was up this way interning at the White House?” I ask as the Doomsday Bird approaches.

It reverberates low overhead, roaring toward the river, the three of us looking up as if we can see it.

“Crowley’s aware that Georgine Duvall let Zain stay here for free whenever he was up this way,” Marino says when the quiet returns.

“Do we know why she did this?” Benton asks. “A favor for Calvin Willard, possibly? And where was Graden when you two were having this conversation?”

“I was on the porch with the door shut so he couldn’t see anything. He was on the sidewalk.” Marino chews the last bite of his protein bar.

He drops the wrapper into the biohazard bag.

“The way Crowley talked made me think she had a professional relationship with Zain,” Marino explains.

“What did he say that made you wonder that?” I have a feeling I know where this is headed.

“He got squirrelly when I kept asking why Zain always stayed here, especially without paying rent. Was it personal? Was it business or just a favor?” Marino replies. “Why didn’t Zain stay with his rich uncle when he was up here working at the White House and hanging out with important people?”

“I wonder how often Georgine was here when Zain was,” I reply, my suspicions gathering.

“We should all be wondering it,” Marino says. “And her place in Yorktown is just minutes from William & Mary. I’ve got a feeling she knew Zain pretty damn well.”

“Lovers?” Benton asks.

“Nope, I sure as hell don’t think so. Like I said, she wasn’t his type,” Marino disparages.

“We have no idea what Zain’s type is,” Benton answers.

“Zain was her patient?” My spirits sink as I remember the past.

“What else would he be?” Marino says.

I envision Georgine vibrant and energetic.

She was warm and quick to rescue whoever she thought needed it, often treating her patients like family.

It was unwise and unsafe. She and I had discussions about this very subject, and she wouldn’t listen.

She’d smile and remark that I was tainted by what I do for a living.

Kay, you mustn’t lose your ability to trust, she’d say. People are basically good. It’s the rare person who will take advantage.

You and I politely disagree about that, I’d answer.

“I came right out and asked if she was Zain’s private shrink,” Marino explains. “Crowley says of course not. It wouldn’t be appropriate for a male patient to stay with his female psychiatrist. Those were his exact words.”

“It wouldn’t be appropriate for any reason,” I answer.

“Bizarre to think of staying in the same house as your shrink,” Marino says. “I would think you could lose your medical license for shit like that.”

“Georgine was kind to a fault. She was unorthodox, in many ways na?ve, and not much for boundaries. At least she was like that back in my Richmond days,” I tell Marino without sharing too much.

He doesn’t know that Lucy was her patient once, and it’s not for me to offer.

I’m not going to explain that Georgine played fast and loose with accepted protocols.

She’d meet Lucy for coffee or lunch. Their sessions were in Georgine’s home, and on occasion she invited Lucy for dinner and a sleepover.

They played tennis and rode horses together. My teenage niece would help her with computer questions and other technical challenges. During the first few months of therapy, Lucy seemed lighter of spirit and perhaps less lonely. This was followed by her becoming hostile and impossibly defensive.

When I suggested to Georgine that boundaries might be in order, she simply smiled, shaking her head as if I was hopelessly negative.

It’s important my patients see me as a trusted friend, someone they feel perfectly safe with in any situation, she told me. Not everybody is ill-intended, Kay.