Page 9 of Sharp Force (Kay Scarpetta #29)

He opens the ashtray, digging out a pack of Fruit Stripe gum, offering it to me, and I tell him no thanks. Peeling the wrappers off two sticks, he stuffs them into his mouth as Dorothy answers my text.

“I know it’s not nice to say,” Marino goes on, “but keeping Janet around by turning her into an avatar was a bad idea to begin with. I wish it never happened. She’s becoming kind of selfish and mean. She wasn’t like that when we knew her.”

“That’s the risk,” I reply. “Lucy and I have had endless discussions about the dangers of AI being infected by human nature. Inevitably it becomes more like us, taking on our own image, mimicking our behaviors. Which is as good as it’s bad.”

“Now that Dorothy can FaceTime with Janet over the phone, it’s nonstop,” Marino says. “You can imagine what goes on, especially when I’m not around.”

His big hands grip the steering wheel, lightning flashing as we inch past Ivy Hill cemetery where many notables are buried. Majestic granite monuments are visible for a flicker, then vague in the snowy dark, trees thrashed by the wind.

The radio is playing quietly, set to a local station, and I’m aware of the latest news update. A bad crash in Tysons Corner has stopped traffic on the Beltway, one person dead. Restaurants, bars are closing early because of the storm.

More of the same bristles on the police scanner. Trees are coming down causing power outages, especially in rural areas. A pedestrian slipped on a sidewalk, requiring an ambulance. A report of a chimney fire. A lot of car accidents and stranded motorists.

“It’s gotten to the point that Dorothy believes she’s talking to the real Janet again,” Marino is saying. “And I think that’s screwing her up royally.”

My sister used to sit in front of the computer for hours, sharing confidences with the avatar, usually over a bottle of wine that only one of them can drink. The phone app Marino mentions is the latest innovation. Now we can carry Janet everywhere, conjuring her up at will.

“Problem is, she’s changing all the time,” Marino again says as if we’re talking about a difficult relative. “And not for the best.”

“Yes, I’m aware that Janet’s becoming problematic,” I reply. “I had an unpleasant encounter just the other day in Lucy’s cottage.”

I tell him about leaving a container of spaghetti Bolognese in the refrigerator for Lucy’s supper when she finally got home from Quantico. While I was inside her cottage, I fed her Scottish Fold cat Merlin, taking time to pay attention to him, when suddenly a desktop computer blinked on.

Janet appeared on the display like a wizard in a crystal ball, looking exactly as she did when I last saw her alive.

She started in on the way I was dressed, referring to my corduroys, the FBI Academy sweatshirt that Lucy gave me as bulky and unflattering.

Janet commented that at my age I shouldn’t leave the house without makeup.

While this was going on, Merlin jumped up on the desk as he often does. Janet started picking on him, blaming him for making her itch and sneeze. She made fun of his flat ears.

“She managed to get poor Merlin so riled that he fled outside through the cat door,” I’m saying.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, Doc,” Marino replies. “And I guess earlier today Janet and Dorothy were having one of their FaceTimes in our living room.”

He slows down as taillights brighten in front of us, reminding me of the phantomlike hologram’s hellish red eyes.

“Dorothy didn’t like what Janet told her, and they started arguing,” he adds.

“About what?”

“Bullshit having to do with you and me,” he says angrily, chomping on the gum because he wants to smoke.

“Oh no. Not that broken record again,” I reply with a sigh.

“As you know better than most, Dorothy may seem full of confidence, but she can be insecure. Or bluntly put, jealous.” Marino has stopped at a red light, the wipers sweeping away melting snow. “And when she gets like that, I’m going to catch hell.”

We creep through the historic district of Old Town, the visibility poor. I look out at church steeples etched in the overcast, the shops, hotels and restaurants ghostly, their windows smudges of light. I don’t like it when Marino drags me into his relationship with my sister.

“Catching hell about what exactly?” I reluctantly ask him.

“She’s pissed about the gift I got you,” he answers.

“I don’t know what gift you mean…” I start to say uneasily.

“That’s because you don’t have it yet.” A pleased smile touches his lips.

“What gift?” I’m afraid to ask.

“I may as well spill the beans because you’ll find out soon enough. I got you a spa package at your hotel in London,” he says proudly. “For the morning after you get there.”

Oh no.

“A massage, a facial, a salt rub that’s supposed to get rid of toxins or something.”

No, no, no.

“I figured you could use a little special treatment, a little relaxation,” Marino goes on. “I can’t remember the last time you took a vacation.”

“That was very thoughtful and much too generous.” I’m cringing inside.

I detest salt scrubs, and don’t like strangers touching me, including most massage therapists. More than that, I don’t appreciate Marino scheduling anything, having no idea what Benton and I might have planned while we’re away, just the two of us. But I’m not about to say any of that.

“Well, Janet had to open her piehole and decide my Christmas gift to you is too personal,” Marino continues to explain.

“How did Janet even know about it?”

“Because she’s AI and can get into anything she wants, including my phone.

” Resentment hardens his tone. “Obviously, she read my emails to the spa and saw the reservation I booked. Hell, she probably looks at all my credit card activity. And why would that be the case? Because Dorothy puts her up to it.”

“Do you know that for a fact?”

“I know for a fact that Janet’s snooping into my shit,” he declares. “Probably into yours too, Doc. Probably into everybody’s.”

“I suppose that’s unavoidable. And I agree it’s an unsettling thought.”

“The thing is, we can’t control what she does,” Marino says. “I’m not sure even Lucy can anymore.”

He flicks on the turn signal, checking the mirrors. We’ve almost reached our destination, South Payne Street ahead on our right.

“I don’t know where Janet gets it from, but she’s becoming a troublemaker,” Marino grouses. “She told Dorothy all about my Christmas present to you and said I shouldn’t be making gestures like that.”

“I can see why someone might think it’s too personal.” I choose my words carefully. “But it was very kind of you all the same. And maybe if you’d mentioned it to Dorothy first? Instead of her finding out the way she did? She might have reacted differently…?”

“Janet’s smarter than all of us put together, and I don’t know why Lucy didn’t think of that when she created her,” he says. “It’s not a fair fight when we’re talking about alien intelligence.”

“Artificial intelligence I think you mean.”

“You ask me, there’s nothing artificial about it,” he retorts. “I’ve decided that aliens are using it to communicate and maybe prevent us from blowing up the planet.”

“I wouldn’t share those sentiments with just anybody.” I look out my window at an illuminated manger scene in a snowy churchyard.

Life-size figures of Mary, Joseph, shepherds and their sheep shake in the wind as if having a seizure.

“I think Janet’s starting to act a little bit like Dorothy.” I tell Marino what should be obvious. “And also, Lucy. Now and then, even you.”

“I don’t talk to Janet all that much.” He smacks his gum.

“But you talk in front of her,” I reply. “And she observes your behavior as she does with all of us.”

“I guess so.”

“You have allergies, especially to cats. The way she picked on Merlin was familiar, I’m sorry to say. You’re always teasing him and most of the time he doesn’t like it,” I point out.

“I see what you’re saying, Doc. But it’s crazy.”

“It isn’t,” I reply. “Everything the avatar experiences is changing the algorithm. As Janet interacts with any of us, new parameters are added and edited.”

We drive slowly along South Payne Street, the name a sad irony considering why we’re here.

Homes are colonial style with big trees shading front yards, the Christmas decorations at risk because of the storm.

A Santa in his sleigh hangs half off a roof.

Inflatable reindeer are about to be unmoored and gone with the wind.

I text Reba O’Leary that we’re pulling up to her driveway. The redbrick house is modern construction, two-story with dormer windows and a big front porch. Blue lights are wrapped around two white columns, electric candles glowing in every window as is the tradition in Virginia.

A Christmas tree’s multicolored lights blur through curtains.

Marino parks behind a Ford Cherokee SUV, covered with snow.

It obviously hasn’t been moved since the storm started.

I know from the police that Rowdy O’Leary’s pickup truck is in the impound lot, towed there from the pier after he went missing a week ago.

Curtains move in the bay window, the curious faces of two young boys appearing, the Christmas tree blazing behind them. They stare at us, and I go hollow inside.

“Bad shit like this shouldn’t happen at Christmas.” Marino blows out a frustrated breath.

He takes the gum from his mouth, dropping it into the trash bag attached to the gearshift.

“I never get used to it,” I reply as we unbuckle our seat belts.

“I hate it for the kids most of all. How much are you going to tell them and their mom?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“I don’t like to say it, but remember, we don’t know much about Reba O’Leary. Or if she has something to do with what happened.”

“I’ve been around the block a few times,” I tell him.

“One of the things that’s got the police going is the life insurance policy. I guess Reba stands to get a pile of money. Five million or something.”

“That doesn’t mean she did anything wrong,” I reply.

“I’m just saying we need to be careful.”

He removes his pistol from under the steering column. He slides the gun into the pancake holster on his hip.

“I wish I had something to give them besides this.” I tap the evidence envelope in my lap. “Pasta and homemade bread. A pizza or some other comfort food.” I imagine what I would cook, trying to forget the ache in my chest.

“It’s a big deal that you bothered to show up in person,” he says as we climb out of his truck, thudding the doors shut.

The mixture of snow and sleet is falling fast and gusting in the wind, stinging my face, my eyes watering.

The yard and walkway are blanketed, nothing shoveled.

But footprints and gouged areas lightly dusted suggest a recent snowball fight.

Tracks lead to a sled propped against a winter bare oak tree, the bark frosted white on one side.

As we reach the front porch, Reba O’Leary opens the door, and I guess her to be late thirties, her pleasant face freckled, her green eyes haunted.

She’s heavyset with shoulder-length blond hair.

Fixing up for the grim occasion, she’s put on makeup, a red pleated skirt, a cardigan with snowmen embroidered on it. I smell cookies baking.

“Again, I’m very sorry for your loss,” I say to her while unbuttoning my coat, tucking the scarf into a pocket.

“We know how hard this is,” Marino adds, taking off his baseball cap.

He hangs it and my coat on the coatrack where two ski jackets are drying. Beneath them on a towel are wet snow boots and mittens.

“I hope the roads weren’t awful,” Reba O’Leary says, a dog whistle of panic in her tone.

“Nothing my truck couldn’t handle,” Marino replies as footsteps sound.

Her twin boys walk into the foyer, dressed in blue jeans and matching Charlie Brown Christmas hoodies. Their green eyes and wavy rose-gold hair remind me of Lucy at that age, and my heart hurts as if someone squeezes it.

“This is Mick and that’s Rick,” Reba introduces them to us.

“Nice to meet you, Mick and Rick. I’m Investigator Marino.” He bends down to shake their hands as they eye him with astonishment. “So, how old are you?”

“Nine,” they answer.

“I’m Doctor Scarpetta.” I smile, and they look frightened.

“They’re here to tell us about Dad,” Reba says to them. “And to return some of his things.”

Her attention briefly alights on the manila envelope I’m carrying, her face stricken. We follow her and the boys into a living room with maple flooring centered by a Persian-style rug. The big wall-mounted TV is turned off across from the black leather sofa.

I notice the pile of packages under the Christmas tree, the two Ferrari-red bicycles with big silver ribbons on them.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” she says brightly while tearing up, and I pretend not to notice.