Page 37 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

It seems she came here to escape the holidays if anything.

The house doesn’t appear to have been cleaned in quite a while, and that’s not like her either.

The fireplace is thick with gray ashes that have blown onto the hearth and floor.

I notice dust bunnies under an end table, and cobwebs high in a corner.

“I sure would like to know what was going on with her,” I comment while continuing to look around. “Because everything I’m seeing is out of character. Not that we were close. But I knew her well enough.”

I can’t imagine Georgine would furnish her Mercy Island pied-à-terre so spartanly, nothing matching or tasteful.

I have no sense that she ever lived here.

I don’t know why she would buy the former chapel to begin with.

But perhaps she thoughtfully decorated it at first, filling it with lovely furniture, hanging art on the walls.

“Does she have an office in the house?” I ask Marino. “Any sign of any paperwork, anything like that?”

“Nope,” he says. “Just a computer tablet on the desk in her bedroom. Her phone is there too, and I didn’t touch them, will leave that for Lucy and Tron.”

“What about filing cabinets?”

“None here,” he replies.

“I’m assuming Georgine keeps her patients’ records in Yorktown.

Maybe she made a mention of someone she was having trouble with.

A patient, for example.” I explain what I’m thinking.

“Maybe we can get a better idea of her relationship with Zain Willard. I’d like to take a look at her medical notes before the feds haul them away. ”

“Lucy and Benton are the feds. I’m sure they can make that happen,” Marino says.

Moving closer to the coffee table, I look at the laptop computer, the books on machine language, robotics and blockchain technology. I pick up one of them as Marino watches. There’s no name inside, but many sections are underlined, a lot of comments in the margins.

“Zain’s got several computers in his room on the third floor,” Marino says. “Based on what I saw on his desk, he’s also into gaming, and, like I mentioned, he’s got a robot dog. Not a real dog he has to take care of and pay attention to. That tells me something about him.”

As I flip through the book on robotics, a check falls out. Signed by Calvin Willard, it’s made out to Georgine Duvall in the amount of $18,000 and dated yesterday. Tax Free is typed on the memo line.

“Holy shit,” Marino says. “He must have been paying her for something. I doubt he was giving her that kind of money for no reason.”

“You might be right that she was Zain’s personal shrink,” I decide.

The living area opens into a kitchen of modern stainless-steel appliances, an art glass chandelier hanging over a table in front of a window, the shade down.

I notice the clean dishes in the drain rack, the bread and bakery goods on the counter near a black leather Gucci pocketbook that looks old.

Next to it is a set of keys on a keychain that’s attached by a ring to a holstered pepper spray.

I wouldn’t expect Georgine to own much less carry such a thing.

“Looks like she’d gotten security conscious when she didn’t used to be,” I comment, the odor of bleach making my eyes water.

“I would hope so considering where this place is located,” Marino says.

“That didn’t used to be a concern for her,” I reply. “She didn’t worry about who she let in her house, for that matter. And I remember her commenting that her husband insisted on setting the alarm at night. Otherwise, she wouldn’t bother.”

“Nothing appears to be stolen,” Marino informs me. “She’s got four hundred and ninety dollars in her wallet. And a bunch of credit cards. But in the other Slasher murders, nothing was missing either.”

“Burglary isn’t what motivates him,” I reply. “In the other cases, it doesn’t appear he rifled through anything. He came in to kill. And then left.”

“Maybe it’s not on his agenda because he doesn’t need money,” Marino says. “Maybe because he’s got a rich uncle who’s always going to take care of him.”

On top of the kitchen garbage can is a large pizza box, and I ask if it’s from last night.

“I’ve looked at the receipt,” Marino says.

“Of course you did.”

“A meat lover’s large ordered from Donato’s Pizzeria at around six p.m.,” he says.

“Delivered or picked up?”

“Delivered. Took about an hour, probably because of the weather.”

“How does that work when someone shows up at the hospital’s front gate with a food delivery?” I wonder.

“An intercom.” Marino points out the speaker box next to light switches. “You talk to whoever you’re expecting. You can push a button to open the front gate remotely. All the homes here have the same thing, Crowley told me.”

“Do we know if hospital security officers were patrolling last night?” I ask. “Do we know if they patrol at all?”

I’m looking inside the pantry. Cans of soup, tuna fish, cases of water and other basic supplies. Also bottles of liquor and beer. A mop, a broom, a dustpan. A few miscellaneous tools, a plastic tray filled with screws and nails.

“Crowley says that all of them were working the Christmas party,” Marino says. “They weren’t driving around in the storm.”

“How many is all of them?”

“Supposedly a total of three were on duty, and it’s not their job to patrol the residences because they’re privately owned,” Marino explains. “No security back here in other words.”

“Did Zain Willard order the pizza?” I open the refrigerator. “Who paid for it?”

I don’t see any leftover slices or have the impression that Georgine or Zain did much in the way of cooking.

There are packages of deli meats, takeout containers of yogurt, potato salad, soups, macaroni and cheese, and bags of premixed salad with packets of dressing.

Also ketchup, mustard, jellies and jams, and a couple bottles of white wine.

In the freezer are ice cube trays, packages of hot dogs and hamburgers, a bag of frozen cherries, a skull-shaped bottle of Crystal Head Vodka.

“Zain called in the pizza and paid for it in cash when it was delivered, based on the receipt,” Marino tells me.

“How do you know he’s the one who called in the order?” I ask.

“It’s his cell phone number on the receipt.”

“And you know it’s his number how…?” I hope to hell he didn’t call it.

“I asked Janet. That was earlier before I decided not to talk to her anymore.”

“If Graden Crowley was telling you the truth, Georgine wasn’t home when the pizza was delivered.” I’m working out the timeline. “She was with him at the Christmas party until he dropped her off here at nine p.m. It would be helpful if we can verify that.”

“It shouldn’t be hard. A lot of people would have seen her there. They can’t all lie about it. And hopefully cameras picked it up,” Marino says.

“Unless they’re not working like most of them, including the ones here.” I open the stainless-steel trash can at the end of the counter.

Pulling out the bag, I look inside.

“I took a peek earlier,” Marino says. “Nothing grabbed my attention.”

My gloved hands dig through paper towels, paper plates, coffee grounds, a tuna fish can, numerous water bottles. Also, an empty bottle of Schramsberg Blanc de Blancs champagne, and a few pizza crusts.

“Are we to assume Zain ate an entire large meat lover’s pizza by himself?” I ask.

“I know I could. I could do it right now,” Marino says.

“And you’re almost twice his size.”

I pluck the champagne bottle out of the trash, setting it upright on the counter.

“It doesn’t fit with everything else I’m seeing,” I tell him.

I point to the oak wine rack to the left of the refrigerator. The four reds and three whites are premier cru burgundies. I saw two bottles of white Bordeaux inside the refrigerator, and they aren’t cheap either.

“All of it is French and expensive.” I’m standing in front of the wine rack looking at the labels. “Maybe that means nothing. But the champagne is from California and inexpensive, comparatively speaking. I’m wondering if it was a gift from someone.”