Page 46 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

As we drive to Dulles International Airport, Benton is checking his mirrors. I can tell by the hard look on his face that he’s alerted on something.

“What is it?” I ask.

“The state police. Three cars behind us,” he says, and I turn around.

I see what he’s talking about, the sun glaring on the gray SUV’s windshield. I can’t tell who’s behind the wheel until Trad Whalen is in the left lane next to us. He remains parallel to our Tesla beyond Arlington National Cemetery.

Glancing over at us repeatedly, his face menaces as he points two fingers at his mirrored sunglasses, then at us. A reminder that he’s watching, and we’d best not forget it. Speeding ahead, he turns off at the next exit.

“Calvin Willard must have given him instructions,” Benton says. “Making sure we’re reminded to behave or else.”

“Well, we aren’t behaving in the least.” I continue looking for the trooper, wondering if he’s been tipped off about where Benton and I are headed.

I have no doubt that Calvin Willard would be most unhappy knowing we’re on our way to Yorktown to review his nephew’s psychiatric records. If the FBI hadn’t secured Georgine Duvall’s house, it would have been raided by now. The senator would have made sure of it.

“Marino is texting that he’s left Mercy Island and wants me to call him,” I tell Benton as I read the message.

“What did you find out?” Marino says when he answers the phone.

I give him the upshot of what we learned from Zain.

It appears he has the same residue in his hair that we found at the scene, and I mention the blood on the steps and the robot’s feet.

I tell Marino about the razor blades in Zain’s bathroom, and that he was Georgine’s live-in patient much of the time.

He had been since graduating from high school.

“Well, here’s the other thing that’s not looking good for poor ol’ Zain.” Marino’s sarcastic tone bodes more trouble. “Lucy’s already checking out the robot, and it sure as hell doesn’t clear him of any suspicion. I just texted you a video, Doc.”

I open the file, turning up the sound as the recording begins. Robbie’s I.R. camera shows the robot making his way down the stairs. I can see the oak flooring, the blood in the dark hallway. I catch a blurry glimpse of a bootie-covered foot that looks gray in infrared.

Then nothing. The robot has stopped on the bottom step, the railing showing. I hear someone moving.

“Robbie, go home!”

Zain Willard’s stressed whisper is unmistakable, followed by the sound of the robot clunking back up the stairs. The video clip ends.

“Pretty damn incriminating, right?” Marino’s big voice returns to the car’s speakers. “Why would he order his robot to leave? Well, we know why. Because Zain didn’t want to be caught on camera cutting his own throat. Or about to do it. Or maybe he was standing there in PPE holding a knife.”

“There’s another thing to consider,” Benton says. “Maybe he was being protective of Robbie the same way you would be of a pet.”

“I’m thinking the same thing,” I reply. “He was afraid that whoever broke in wanted to steal his robot.”

“He didn’t want to be on camera because he’s the killer.” Marino has his mind made up. “And here’s the other thing we know thanks to the robot.”

As we suspected, it was Graden Crowley who had champagne with Zain and Georgine. They also ate pizza, and that’s consistent with what Doug Schlaefer found in her small intestines.

“Pepperoni, mushrooms, peppers not fully digested,” Marino explains. “Her STAT blood alcohol is point-oh-two.”

“That sounds about right if she had a few glasses of champagne before going to bed at midnight,” I reply.

“Was Graden Crowley’s visit recorded? Was Robbie in the room?” Benton asks.

“Yep, you can see Crowley walking in the front door with Georgine, carrying the bottle of champagne. But even more important is what the robot caught on camera before that,” Marino explains. “While Georgine and Crowley were out at the Christmas party.”

Robbie recorded Calvin Willard showing up at seven p.m. to chat with Zain and drop off the $18,000 check for Georgine. Marino says that the senator asked how things were going. How was Zain feeling? His uncle hoped that Zain wasn’t still “miffed” at him.

“Miffed about what?” I ask.

“Lucy says it’s obvious from the recorded conversation that the White House internship was going to end after the New Year.” Triumph rings in Marino’s voice. “It sounds like Zain didn’t know he was about to be canned until last night.”

Apparently, Calvin Willard didn’t think it was good for him politically, didn’t want an appearance of nepotism. He was sorry but there was nothing he could do about it, and what this tells me most of all is he considered Zain a liability. Possibly, the presidential candidate’s advisors did.

“He seemed worried that Zain would blame him for being fired, basically,” Marino explains. “News like that would be enough to incense Zain, maybe cause him to do something impulsive. Lucy says there’s a good chance he’s about to be arrested.”

The FBI will make the case that Zain had a love-hate relationship with Georgine. His de facto psychiatrist, she was paid with piles of cash and exorbitant gifts, and this is going to look terrible for the senator.

“Maybe we know how she was able to afford keeping up her family home in Yorktown,” I point out. “And have a multimillion-dollar place on Mercy Island.”

“Tax-free checks were the tip of the iceberg. Lucy’s found out that Georgine was getting a lot of wires from some bogus account in the Cayman Islands.” Marino continues filling us in.

“Sounds a little bit like Rowdy O’Leary,” Benton replies as we pick up the Beltway.

“Exactly. He was mowed down in a hit-and-run.” Marino talks excitedly. “Then he starts getting payments from the Cayman Islands.”

“And Trad Whalen was involved in his case,” Benton adds. “And he’s obviously trying to intimidate us.”

He tells Marino that when the state trooper pulled us over early this morning, he attached a hacking device on our car. Benton adds that Whalen was just tailing us again.

“I think we know the reason,” Marino replies. “Calvin Willard doesn’t want you investigating his nephew. He’s telling you to back off or bad shit will happen.”

“What about Rapid DNA?” I ask. “Any luck yet?”

“We’ve verified Georgine Duvall’s identity, not that there was a shred of doubt. The only DNA profile recovered from the broken fake fang is her own,” Marino informs me.

“That’s too bad,” I reply. “But I’m not surprised since it was embedded in her body.”

“Lee Fishburne says it’s like you figured, Doc, and the three-D-printed tooth is made from acrylic,” Marino explains. “And he says something weird showed up on SEM with the residue that lit up.”

The trace evidence examiner used the scanning electron microscope to look at the fluorescing powder I swabbed at the scene.

He’s verified that the information from the Raman spectrometer is correct.

But included in the powdery mixture of chlorophyll and calcite are microscopic fragments of reddish-black animal hair that we can’t identify.

“Lee has no idea what the hell it is,” Marino explains. “He says, and I quote, that the structure of the medulla doesn’t match anything in the databases.”

“What about the swabs I took on the stairs and the bottom of Robbie’s feet?” I ask.

“Both Georgine’s and Zain’s DNA are on the robotic dog,” Marino says. “Clark says the smears are a mixture of their blood. He believes the robot walked in both.”

“Not good for Zain either,” Benton comments.

“His goose is cooked. He’ll go to trial for being the Slasher, and Bose Flagler’s already sharpening his knives.” Marino’s choice of words is unfortunate. “He can’t wait to take Zain Willard down.”

It’s almost one o’clock when we reach Dulles International Airport, and I think of the dismal irony.

This is where we would have been headed in a few hours for a very different reason had the Slasher not struck again.

Benton and I would be getting ready to fly to London instead of on our way to Georgine Duvall’s Yorktown home.

The news is nonstop about her murder. Dana Diletti is giving interviews on CNN, Fox and the major TV networks while the governor reminds the public that we don’t know for a fact who the Phantom Slasher is.

… We shouldn’t assume he’s been caught. We need to remain vigilant, she’s saying on social media. We don’t have evidence proving who this is. Only rumors. And biased opinions when this shouldn’t be about politics. I’m asking everyone not to rush to judgment…

Faye Hanaday is texting that she’s examined Zain’s necklace under the microscope. A defect in the sterling silver chain looks recent and is consistent with his story about the knife hitting it.

“Unfortunately, that doesn’t help him either,” Benton says as he parks outside Signature Flight Service. “Bose Flagler’s going to say Zain did it to himself.”

“If so, it would make more sense that it was an attempted suicide,” I reply as we climb out.

“And maybe it was.”

“Faye says the blade must have hit the necklace with considerable force to leave the deep gash she’s seeing,” I tell Benton.

“Attempted suicide doesn’t mean he didn’t murder Georgine. Any way we look at it, Zain’s got a major problem,” he explains as we walk inside the small private terminal.

Soft music plays, the handsome lobby decorated for the holidays, the air fragrant with cinnamon, clove and citrus.

Globed candle flames waver on tables, a perfectly proportioned Christmas tree glowing by the fireplace.

Only a few passengers are sitting on the plump leather furniture, waiting for private flights somewhere.

At the front desk we help ourselves to a glass bowl of peppermints. We give the agent a tail number, showing our IDs while making small talk. Her name is Joan, retired from the Air Force. We’ve been around her before when meeting Lucy here.

“Have a good one,” she says.