Five Scarpetta Novels by Patricia Cornwell Page B

was a misdemeanor, and we knew the local police would not be especially enthused about our case. Ill-equipped to make tread-pattern casts, we simply took photographs to scale of the footprints around our cars, although I suspected the most we would ever be able to tell from them was that the suspect was large and wore a generic-type boot or shoe with a Vibram seal on the arch of the rugged tread.
    When a youthful policeman named Sanders and a redtow truck arrived late morning, I took two ruined radials and locked them inside the trunk of Marino’s car. For a while I watched men in jumpsuits and insulated jackets twirl handjacks with amazing speed as a winch held the Ford’s front end rampant in the air, as if Marino’s car were about to fly. Virginia Beach officer Sanders asked if my being the chief medical examiner might possibly be related to what had been done to our vehicles. I told him I did not think so.
    â€œIt’s my deputy chief who lives at this address,” I went on to explain. “Dr. Philip Mant. He’s in London for a month or so. I’m simply covering for him.”
    â€œAnd no one knows you’re staying here?” asked Sanders, who was no fool.
    â€œCertainly, some people know. I’ve been taking his calls.”
    â€œSo you don’t see that this might be related to who you are and what you do, ma’am.” He was taking notes.
    â€œAt this time I have no evidence that there is a relationship,” I replied. “In fact, we really can’t say that the culprit wasn’t some kid blowing off steam on New Year’s Eve.”
    Sanders kept looking at Lucy, who was talking to Marino by our cars. “Who is that?” he asked.
    â€œMy niece. She’s with the FBI,” I answered, and I spelled her name.
    While he went to speak to her, I made one last trip inside the cottage, entering through the plain front door. The air was warmed by sunlight that blazed through glass, bleaching furniture of color, and I could still smell garlic from last night’s meal. In my bedroom I looked around once more, opening drawers and riffling through clothes hanging in the closet while I was saddened by my disenchantment. In the beginning, I had thought I would like it here.
    Down the hall I checked where Lucy had slept, thenmoved into the living room where we had sat until early morning reading the Book of Hand. The memory of that unsettled me like my dream, and my arms turned to gooseflesh. My blood was thrilled by fear, and suddenly I could not stay inside my colleague’s simple home a moment longer. I dashed to the screened-in porch, and out the door into the backyard. In sunlight I felt reassured, and as I gazed out at the ocean, I got interested in the wall again.
    Snow was to the top of my boots as I drew close to it, footprints from the night before gone. The intruder, whose flashlight Lucy had seen, had climbed over the wall and then quickly left. But he must have showed up later, or someone else must have, because the footprints around our cars clearly had been made after snow had quit falling, and they hadn’t been made by dive boots or surf shoes. I looked over the wall and beyond the dune to the wide beach below. Snow was spun-sugar heaped in drifts with sea oats protruding like ragged feathers. The water was a ruffled dark blue and I saw no sign of anyone as my eyes followed the shore as far as they could.
    I looked out for a long time, completely absorbed in speculations and worries. When I turned around to walk back, I was shocked to find Detective Roche standing so close he could have grabbed me.
    â€œMy God,” I gasped. “Don’t ever sneak up on me like that.”
    â€œI walked in your tracks. That’s why you didn’t hear me.” He was chewing gum and had his hands in the pockets of a leather coat. “Being quiet’s one thing I’m good at when I want to be.”
    I stared at him, my dislike of