Читать книгу Chaos - Patricia Cornwell - Страница 16

“Male. And not old. But not young,” Benton says. “I doubt it’s a student unless we’re talking about a mature one.”

“As in a graduate student?”

“Don’t know, forties at least,” he replies. “Older but not so old as to preclude this person from moving about freely in all sorts of weather. More like someone from the homeless population around the Square but that doesn’t mean it’s what we’re dealing with. He’s educated but could be self-educated.

“He probably lives alone, probably has a psychiatric history. And he’s intelligent, way above the norm. He’s antigovernment, which means anti-authority, and yes, I’d say there’s genuine hostility toward you. He’s the sort to overidealize relationships and even assume ones that don’t exist.” Benton ticks all of this off like a grocery list.

He doesn’t even have to think about it.

“Could it be someone I know?”

“Yes. But it’s more likely you don’t. Possibly you’ve never met.”

“Marino thinks this person was using a prepaid phone, a TracFone, something that isn’t traceable,” I reply. “And that makes sense if you don’t live the sort of life that involves monthly phone bills, et cetera. But how does that fit with using some sort of voice-changing software that has to be installed?”

“It would seem to me that you could install software on just about any type of smartphone and still use it with prepaid cards.”

“Yes. And we associate such things with homeless people but there’s something else I’m sure you’ve considered …” I start to say, but the waiter is back with our sparkling water and lime.

Benton raises his hand to signal we’ll fill our glasses ourselves. When the waiter drifts away I mention the Obama Phone, a rather irreverent reference to a government program for low-income people that provides a free cell phone with unlimited minutes, texting and all the rest.

“That’s typically the sort of device we’re talking about in the homeless population we find in area shelters and out on the streets with their cardboard signs,” I explain as Benton listens. “But you have to apply and register for an Obama Phone, for lack of a better word. And I would think that if the person who called in the bogus complaint about me was using such a thing, then the number would trace back to the carrier.”

“SafeLink,” Benton says, and I can tell he’s already thought about it. “It’s one of the biggest and most popular noncontract cellular services.”

“But if the phone is part of a government program?”

“That would be the difference. You have to be registered. You have to enroll to qualify, and you have your own account.” He picks up the bottle of water and refills our glasses.

“That’s exactly what I’m getting at,” I reply with a nod. “So Lucy possibly could have traced the phone that made the nine-one-one call if the person were part of this program.”

“Yes she could,” Benton agrees.

“Then the witness who’s such a fan of mine wasn’t using an Obama Phone,” I summarize, and Benton just stares at me.

He knows that I’d rather the crank caller was using an Obama Phone, and that’s the bigger point. I’d prefer to take my chances with someone who truly might be a regular at the Square, perhaps some disenfranchised person who’s unpleasant and unstable but not harmful. What I don’t want is to be on the radar of an experienced criminal. Especially one sophisticated enough to create software that sends all of us down the wrong path.

If we can’t recognize evil, then we can’t say for sure it’s not in our midst. Whoever made the call, whoever Tailend Charlie is, even if they’re one and the same? The miscreant could be right in front of us. And there’s no thought much scarier than that. It would be devastating to learn that the person who lied about me to the police is someone I know. It would be worse if whoever is sending me death threats in Italian is someone I care about and trust.

“Who called you about the nine-one-one recording?” I ask Benton. “How did you get involved by the way?”

“Well I’m married to you. Start with that. But Bryce called me as I was finishing up a meeting and about to head out of the office. The lamb or the halibut? You decide. I’ll have what you’re having.”

“I’m going to try the halibut with brussels sprouts. How did you get a copy of the recording? I can’t imagine the Cambridge police gave that to Bryce.”

“They didn’t. I think we should go for a Burgundy. A Chablis premier cru.”

“The 2009 Montée de Tonnerre.” We’ve had it before, and the wine is refreshingly clean and pure with a chiseled finish.

“Very good,” Benton says, and he’s not going to tell me if he got the 911 audio clip from his friend the police superintendent, and I’m not going to ask further because I’m not sure I want to know.

The waiter is back with our salads, and both of us order the pan-seared halibut with brussels sprouts for our main course.

I ask for sides of spaghettini vegetables and wild mushrooms, and we order the Chablis. Then we wait in silence until he walks away again and can’t overhear our conversation, and I’m beginning to get the sense that he’s lingering. But only a few people have started to trickle in, and he’s probably bored.

“By the way, in case you didn’t know, we issued a new terror bulletin a few hours ago,” Benton says to me, and he means the FBI has.

“It’s hard to keep up with them. I just make it a habit to assume we’re on high alert all of the time. Anything specific?”

“Just that it’s something major, and there’s reason to suspect we’re talking the East Coast. Hopefully not Boston again but there’s a lot of chatter out there about it and also D.C.”

“Thanks for passing it along.” I look at him because I feel him watching me closely. “Is there something else? Because you look like you have a question. I can practically see it in a bubble over your head.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t say it.”

“And now you have to after a loaded comment like that.”

“All right. I’m wondering if it’s possible that Bryce is acting a little loosely wrapped because you are.”

“I’m loosely wrapped? I don’t believe I’ve heard that before. I’ve heard a lot of things including very vulgar things, but never that.”

“Let me ask you an important question. If Dorothy wasn’t suddenly coming to town, do you think the incident at Harvard Square would have happened?”

“No. Because I wouldn’t have had to bother with gifts or theater tickets.”

“That’s not the only reason, Kay. She’s coming here. She didn’t ask, she told, and as usual you accommodated. You paid for her ticket and even offered her a room in our house.”

“Which fortunately she declined because she’d rather stay with Lucy.” I feel anger rising like heat from a lower level of my psyche, a region of my inner self that I don’t approve of and might just hate.

“I have a feeling the person she’d rather stay with is Marino,” Benton says. “But only if he lived in a penthouse.”

I set down my glass too hard, and water slops over the rim. I watch the white tablecloth turn gray where the water soaks in. Then Benton uses his napkin to pat dry the mess I’ve made while I stare at him in disbelief.

“What are you talking about?” Noticing Mrs. P lighting a candle with an electric match several tables away, I try not to look upset.

I don’t want it to appear that I’m fighting with someone else. I realize how thin my skin is right now.

“I mentioned it when all of us were in Miami last,” Benton says as our waiter reappears with two glasses and the wine.

I think back to our most recent trip this past June, and remember that Marino and Dorothy started driving together to pick up takeout food. He rented a Harley and took her for a ride, and I recall Benton making a comment. When I’m with my family in Miami and also dealing with Lucy, Janet and Desi, I can be very distracted. But it’s also true that what Benton is alluding to is something I wouldn’t want to notice. I wouldn’t want it to be true. I can’t think of much that’s more frightening than the idea of Marino and my sister together.

The waiter slides out the cork with a soft pop, and hands it to Benton. He lifts it to his nose and watches as a small amount of the pale cold Chablis is poured.

“You do the honors.” He hands me the glass, and the wine is sharply clean, waking up my tongue.

Benton nods for the waiter to pour us each a taste.

“Happy Wednesday.” Benton touches his glass to mine in a toast, and this is the second time in the past hour that I’ve felt that an insect is in my clothing.

My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket.

“Now what?” I set down my glass as I check who’s calling. “Speaking of … It’s Marino again.”

After all that’s gone on, even he wouldn’t interrupt dinner unless there was a good reason. Now Benton’s phone is buzzing.

I catch a glimpse of a 202 area code before he says, “I’ve got to take this,” and he answers, “Wesley here.”

“Hold on,” I tell Marino without saying hello, and Benton and I are both getting up from our chairs. “You know where I am so it must be important. I assume I need to get somewhere I can talk.”

“Do it now.” Marino’s voice is hard.

“I’m walking out. Hold on,” I say to him as Benton and I collect our briefcases.

We drop our napkins next to our barely touched salads and glasses of wine. We leave as if we’re not coming back.