Cause of Death Read online

  "It's not a piece of shit," Lucy said.

  "Why the hell did you buy anything the color of parrot shit? That your Miami roots coming out, or what?"

  "No, it's my budget coming out. I got it for nine hundred dollars."

  "What about in the meantime?" I asked. "You know they won't take care of this speedily. It's New Year's Day."

  "You got that right," he said. "And it's pretty simple, Doc. If you're going to Richmond, you're riding with me."

  "Fine." I wasn't going to argue. "Then let's get as much done now as we can so we can leave."

  "Starting with your getting packed," he said to me. "in my opinion, you should boogie right on out of here for good."

  "I have no choice but to stay here until Dr. Mant returns from London."

  Yet I packed as if I might not be coming back to his cottage during this life. Then we conducted the best forensic investigation we could on our own, for slashing tires was a misdemeanor, and we knew the local police would not be especially enthused about our case. III-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 red tow 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.

  "It'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."

  "And no one knows you're staying here?" asked Sanders, who was no fool.

  "Certainly, some people know. I've been taking his calls."

  "So you don't see that this might be related to who you are and what you do, ma'am." He was taking notes.

  "At 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.

  "My 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, then moved 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.

  "My God," I gasped. "Don't ever sneak up on me like that."

  "I walked in your tracks. That's why you didn't hear

  " He was chewing gum and had his hands in the pock meets 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 him finding new depths.

  He wore dark trousers and boots, and I could not see his eyes behind the aviator's glasses. But it did not matter. I knew what Detective Roche was about. I knew his type well.

  "I heard about your vandalism and came to see if I could be of assistance," he said.

  "I wasn't aware we called the Chesapeake police," I replied.

  "Virginia Beach and Chesapeake have a mutual aid channel, so I heard about your problem on that," he said.

  "I have to confess that the first thing to go through my mind was there might be a connection."

  "A connection to what?"

  "To our case." He stepped closer. "Looks like someone really did a number on your cars. Sounds like a warning.

  You know, like just maybe you're poking your nose where someone doesn't think it belongs."

  My eyes wandered to his feet, to his lace-up Gore-Tex boots made of leather the color of liver, and I saw the tread pattern they had left in the snow. Roche had big feet and hands, and was wearing Vibram soles. I looked back at a face that would have been handsome were the spirit behind it not so petty and mean. I did not say a word for a while, but when I did I was very direct.

  "You sound a lot like Captain Green. So tell me. Are you threatening me, too?"

  "I'm just passing along an observation."

  He stepped even closer, and now I was backed against the wall. Melting snow heaped on top of it dripped down the collar of my coat while my blood ran hotter.

  "By the way," he went on, edging ever nearer, "what's new with this case of ours?"

  "Please step back," I said to him.

  "I'm just not sure at all that you're telling me everything. I think you have a real good idea about what happened to Ted Eddings, and you're withholding information."

  "We're not going to discuss that case or any other right now," I said.

  "See? That puts me in a bad spot because I have people I answer to." I couldn't believe it when he placed his hand on my shoulder as he added, "I know you wouldn't want to cause me trouble."

  "Don't touch me," I warned. "Don't push this any further.

  "I think you and me need to get together so we can overcome our communication problem." He left his hand where it was. "Maybe we can catch dinner in some quiet little laid-back place. You like seafood? I know a real private place on the Sound."

  I was silent as I wondered whether to jam my finger in his windpipe.

  "Don't be shy. Trust me. It's all right. This isn't the Capital of the Confederacy with all these snobby old hasbeens you got in Richmond. We believe in live and let live around here. You know what I mean?"

  I tried to move past him and he grabbed my arm. - I'm talking to you." He was beginning to sound angry.

  You don't go walking off when I'm talking to you."

  "Let go of me," I demanded.

  I tried to wrench my arm away. But he was surprisingly strong.

  "No matter how many fancy degrees you got, you're no match for me," he said under breath that smelled like spearmint.

  I stared straight into his Ray-Bans.

  "Get your hands off me now," I said in a loud, hard voice. "Now!" I exclaimed as if I would kill him instantly.

  Roche suddenly let go, and I trudged with purpose through the snow as my heart flew off on its own. When I reached the front of the house, I stopped, out of breath and dazed.

  "There are footprints in the ba
ckyard that should be photographed," I addressed everyone. "Detective Roche's footprints. He was just back there. And I want all of my belongings out of the house."

  "What the hell do you mean he was just back there?"

  Marino said.

  "We had a conversation."

  "How the hell did he get back there without us seeing him?"

  I scanned the street and did not see a car that might have been Roche's. "I don't know how he got back there," I said. "I guess he cut through someone else's backyard. Or maybe he came up from the beach."

  Lucy did not know what to think as she looked at me.

  "You won't be coming back here?" she asked me. "Not at all?"

  "No," I said. "I will not be coming back here ever again, if I have my way about it."

  She helped me pack the remainder of my belongings, and I did not relay what had happened in the backyard until we were in Marino's car driving fast on 64 West toward Richmond.

  "Shit", he exclaimed. "The friggin' bastard hit on you.

  Goddamn it. Why didn't you yell?"

  "I think his mission was to harass me on behalf of someone else," I said.

  "I don't care what his mission was. He still hit on you.

  YOU got to take out a warrant."

  " Hitting on someone is not against the law," I said.

  "He grabbed you."

  "So I'm going to have him arrested for grabbing my arm?"

  "He shouldn't have grabbed nothing." He was furious as he drove. "You told him to let go and he didn't. That's abduction. At the very least, it's simple assault. Damn, this thing's out of alignment."

  "You've got to report him to Internal Affairs," Lucy said from the front seat, where she was fooling with the scanner because it was hard for her hands to be still. "Hey, Pete, the squelch isn't right," she added to him. "And you can't hear a thing on channel three. That's Third Precinct, right?"

  "What do you expect when I'm way the hell near Williamsburg? You think I'm a state trooper?"

  "No, but if you want to talk to one, I can probably figure that out."

  " I'm sure you could tune in to the damn space shuttle," he irritably remarked.

  "If you can," I said to her, "how about getting me on it."

  CHAPTER 6

  WE ARRIVED IN RICHMOND AT HALF PAST TWO, AND )the guard raised a gate and allowed us into the secluded neighborhood where I very recently had moved.

  Typical for this area of Virginia, there had been no snow, and water dripped profusely from trees because rain had turned to ice during the night. Then the temperature had risen.

  My stone house was set back from the street on a bluff that overlooked a rocky bend in the James River, the wooded lot surrounded by a wrought-iron fence neighboring children could not squeeze through. I knew no one on any side of me, and had no intention of changing that.

  I had not anticipated problems when I had decided for the first time in my life that I would build, but whether it had been the slate roof, the brick pavers or the color of my front door, it seemed everyone had a criticism. When it had gotten to the point where my contractor's frustrated telephone calls were interrupting me in the morgue, I had threatened the neighborhood association that I would sue.

  Needless to say, invitations to parties in this subdivision, thus far, had been few.

  "I'm sure your neighbors will be delighted to see you're home," my niece dryly said as we got out of the car.

  "I don't think they pay that much attention to me anymore." I dug for my keys.

  "Bullshit," Marino said. "You're the only one they got who spends her days at murder scenes and cutting up dead bodies. They probably look out their windows the entire time you're home. Hell, the guards probably call every one of them to let 'em know when you roll in."

  "Thank you so much," I said, unlocking the front door.

  And just when I was beginning to feel a little better about living here."

  The burglar alarm loudly buzzed its warning that I had better quickly press the appropriate keys, and I looked around as I always did, because my home was still a stranger to me. I feared the roof would leak, plaster would fall or something else would fail, and when everything was fine, I took intense pleasure in my accomplishment. My house was two levels and very open, with windows placed to catch every photon of light. The living room was a wall of glass that captured miles of the James, and late in the day I could watch the sun set over trees on the river's banks.

  Adjoining my bedroom was an office that finally was big enough for me to work in, and I checked it first for faxes and found I had four.

  "Anything important?" asked Lucy, who had followed me while Marino was getting boxes and bags.

  "As a matter of fact, they're all for you from your mother." I handed them to her.

  She frowned. "Why would she fax me here?"

  "I never told her I was temporarily relocating to Sandbridge. Did you?"

  "No. But Grans would know where you are, right?" Lucy said.

  "Of course. But my mother and yours don't always get things straight." I glanced at what she was reading. "Everything okay?"

  "She's so weird. You know, I installed a modem and CD ROM in her computer and showed her how to use them. My mistake. Now she's always got questions. Each of these faxes is a computer question." She irritably shuffled through the pages.

  I was put out with her mother, Dorothy, too. She was my sister, my only sibling, and she could not be bothered to so much as wish her only child a happy New Year.

  "She sent these today," my niece went on. "It's a holiday and she's writing away on another one of her goofy children's books."

  "To be fair," I said, "her books aren't goofy."

  "Yeah, go figure. I don't know where she did her research, but it wasn't where I grew up."

  "I wish you two weren't at odds." I made the same comment I had made throughout Lucy's life. "Someday you will have to come to terms with her. Especially when she dies."

  "You always think about death."

  "I do because I know about it, and it is the other side of life. You can't ignore it any more than you can ignore night. You will have to deal with Dorothy."

  "No, I won't," She swiveled my leather desk chair around and sat in it, facing me. "There's no point. She doesn't understand the first thing about me and never has."

  That was probably true.

  "You're welcome to use my computer," I said.

  "It will just take me a minute."

  "Marino will pick us up about four," I said.

  "I didn't know he left."

  "Briefly."

  Keys tapped as I went into my bedroom and began to unpack and plot. I needed a car and wondered if I should rent one, and I needed to change my clothes but did not know what to wear. It bothered me that the thought of Wesley would still make me conscious of what I put on, and as minutes crept forward I became truly afraid to see him.

  Marino picked us up when he said he would, and somewhere he had found a car wash open and had filled the tank with gas. We drove east along Monument Avenue into the district known as the Fan, where gracious mansions lined historic avenues and college students crowded old homes.

  At the statue of Robert E. Lee, he cut over to Grace Street, where Ted Eddings had lived in a white Spanish duplex with a red Santa flag hanging over a wooden front porch with a swing. Bright yellow crime scene tape stretched from post to post in a morbid parody of Christmas wrapping, its bold black letters warning the curious not to come.

  "Under the circumstances, I didn't want nobody inside, and I didn't know who else might have a key," Marino explained as he unlocked the front door. "What I don't need is some nosy landlord deciding he's going to check his friggin' inventory."

  I did not see any sign of Wesley and was deciding he wasn't going to show up when I heard the throaty roar of his gray BMW. It parked on the side of the street, and I watched the radio antenna retract as he cut the engine.

  "Doc, I'll wait for him if you want to go on in
," Marino said to me.

  "I need to talk to him." Lucy headed back down the steps.

  "I'll be inside," I said and put on cotton gloves, as if Wesley were not someone I knew.

  I entered Eddings' foyer and his presence instantly overwhelmed me everywhere I looked. I felt his meticulous personality in minimalist furniture, Indian rugs and polished floors, and his warmth in sunny yellow walls hung with bold monotype prints. Dust had formed a fine layer that was disturbed anywhere police might recently have been to open cabinets or drawers. Begonias, ficus, creeping fig and cyclamen seemed to be mourning the loss of their master, and I looked around for a watering can. Finding one in the laundry room, I filled it and began tending plants because I saw no point in allowing them to die. I did not hear Benton Wesley walk in.