Page 86 of Unnatural Death

“Fruge will make sure you get home okay,” Marino informs me. “Thanks, buddy. I owe you,” he says to Fruge.

“Gotcha covered.”

“I appreciate the gesture, but I’m driving my own car,” I announce to them, my hair getting wet in the snow.

“It’s not a good idea,” Marino says, his plaid cap turning white.

“It’s not open for debate.” I won’t be argued out of it.

“Fine. Then I’ll be right behind you,” Fruge promises.

“This really isn’t necessary …,” I start to protest.

“I’ve got instructions from the Secret Service to hand you off at your front door,” she says, and Benton must have talked to her. “If there’s even the slightest problem, Doctor Scarpetta, we’ll have backup before you can blink. But I need to go over some things with you about the dentist Nan Romero. As of a few hours ago, the FBI has taken over her case.”

“Great,” Marino says sarcastically.

“How about we talk on the phone while we’re driving?” I suggest to Fruge as I look up at thick flakes swirling.

“I’ll call you.” She trots off to her SUV, almost losing her footing.

“Let me know when you’re home, Doc.” Marino unlocks the pedestrian door.

“What about Tron and Lucy?” I ask. “When are they picking you up?”

“You’ll probably pass them on the way out. Drive safe and see you later,” he says to me before disappearing inside the vehicle bay.

My take-home Subaru is one of the few perks of the job, and I dig out the snow brush. The windows are covered as quickly as I clean them off, and I climb behind the wheel. Starting the engine, I turn on the heat. As I wait for the car to warm up, I text Benton that I’m on my way. He replies instantly that he’s already home and for me to be very careful. There are black ice warnings, and a lot of accidents reported.

Best if Dorothy’s not out driving in this. I feel guilty that I’m hoping she’ll stay home.

She’s here and has been for a while, he answers, and I know what that means.

Tell her to make sure Marino knows he’s invited. He’s off to get his truck.

Eventually he’ll show up at the house, both of them staying over. As much as I’d like to be alone with my husband, tonight it’s not going to happen. The glass is fogging up, and I blast the defrost, sitting quietly for a moment. I need to take a beat before I talk to Fruge about yet another problem. It’s important I’m feeling steady when I reach my front door.

I don’t want it obvious that I’m dispirited by what I’ve learned. For a while, Carrie Grethen was banished from our house, from the very planet. She wasn’t a topic of conversation. I didn’t think about her anymore. I didn’t wonder if she was behind every bad thing. And what she might do next. My phone rings through the car’s speakers, and it’s Fruge.

“You ready? Anything wrong?” She may as well be rapping on my window, prodding me along.

“Leaving now.” Checking my mirrors, I back out of my assigned spot next to the bay door.

I drive slowly through the snowy parking lot, and Fruge is behind me in her unmarked Ford Interceptor. She whelps her siren at the black Tahoe we pass going the other way. Lucy and Tron flash their lights at me, on the way for Marino. Moments later I’m on West Braddock Road, where businesses are closed. Only the Safeway grocery store is busy, panicky shoppers desperate to stock up because of the weather. My phone starts ringing and it’s Fruge again.

“What’s on your mind?” I answer. “I’ll try to answer your questions as long as both of us pay attention to our driving.”

“The dentist Nan Romero. I’m worried she was murdered.”

“That’s quite a statement to start with.”

“I just can’t figure out how the hell that happened. It’s not like she was tied up in the chair and forced to inhale nitrous oxide.” Fruge’s voice sounds through my car’s speakers. “If someone were ordering you to do such a thing, don’t you think you might resist? Maybe fight like hell? Because I sure as hell would. And do you really think she wrapped all that painter’s tape around her lower face? I personally find that really weird.”

“As you know, I didn’t go to that scene or do the autopsy,” I remind her. “It’s Doug Schlaefer’s case.”

I focus intently on the road, the flakes getting smaller as the temperature continues to plummet. I’m making sure there’s plenty of room between me and the car in front. Fortunately, the traffic is thinning as the roads get slick, my headlights reflecting off bright whiteness and roiling fog.

“I saw her body when she came in and am aware of the painter’s tape,” I tell Fruge, my eyes watering in the reflected glare. “I agree it’s peculiar, but people determined to commit suicide will do all sorts of things to make sure they don’t change their minds. Cuffing their hands behind their backs when hanging themselves. Wearing heavy clothing and putting rocks in their pockets when walking into the river to drown.”

---