Flesh and Blood: A Scarpetta Novel (Scarpetta Novels Book 22)

MARINO WATCHES AS I approach. Then Rand Bloom is staring at me. He smiles as if we’re friends.

  “Nice to see you up close and personal, Doctor Scarpetta.” His asymmetrical eyes are lasers locked on mine, a yellowish brown like a snake’s or a cat’s. “We’ve spoken on the phone, had several very pleasant conversations as a matter of fact.”

  “I know who you are,” I reply. “And our conversations haven’t been pleasant.”

  “You know each other?” Marino is knocked off his game, then he gets it back. “How?” he asks.

  “Mister Bloom is an investigator for TBP Insurers.”

  “There we go,” Marino says to him. “I knew you were a bottom-feeder.”

  “It looks like you got another unfortunate case, not that any of them are fortunate in your line of work,” Bloom says to me, and I don’t answer as I hold his intense stare. “A really bad day, a really tough one, and now you’ve got a canceled vacation. What a shame. But just so you know,” he adds and I don’t say a word, “I’m not here about his murder.”

  “Oh really?” Marino says. “Why would you assume we’d think you’re here because of a murder? And what murder are you talking about? His murder? Whose murder?”

  “It’s on the news, all over it like I’m telling you something you don’t know.” Bloom stares at me, unwaveringly like a cobra I decide, swaying to his own music before he spits venom in my eyes. “Very sad but his death isn’t covered by us and as depressing as it is life goes on. Well for most of us. Maybe not for you, Doctor Scarpetta.”

  “His death isn’t covered by you?” Marino moves closer to him, almost nose to nose. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Bloom doesn’t answer, and I take in the faint scars on his face, the deformity of his right eye from old lacerations and a fractured orbit. An obvious bridge, not a good one, replaces his upper front teeth. I can’t tell about the lower ones. At some earlier time he suffered a violent event that injured his face and mouth. A car accident or a bad fall. Maybe he was beaten.

  “Your life just stops when someone dies, am I right? And by the way Fort Lauderdale is a perfect eighty degrees and sunny. Well actually, North Miami Beach, right?” He looks me up and down, his gaze lingering where it shouldn’t and I can feel the heat of Marino’s anger. “Have you seen the building, Haulover Towers? I’m just wondering because it’s right across the inlet from Haulover Park, thus the name. The park is public, constant barbecues, parties, music and ice cream trucks. Can be extremely loud. Same with the causeway, all those cars.”

  “Why don’t you shut the hell up?” Marino is glancing at me and at messages landing on his phone, and his face is dangerous.

  “The fact is Joanna Cather and I have unresolved business pertaining to her husband’s frivolous suit against my company’s client Emerson Academy.” Bloom continues to ignore Marino and direct his comments to me, and I don’t show my outrage.

  I don’t show my shock.

  CHAPTER 15

  HE KNOWS ABOUT THE condo in Bal Harbour. How is that possible?

  Benton wouldn’t lease or purchase a property in either of our names. He always uses Limited Liability Companies, LLCs. He’s FBI, former undercover, former protected witness, a seasoned profiler who has seen it all. He’s as secretive as anybody could possibly be and ferocious about protecting our personal lives.

  “Unfortunately Jamal Nari’s tragic death doesn’t change the fact he and his wife are greedy and unreasonable,” Bloom is saying. “I was going to try to talk some sense into her and had no choice but to hang out and wait.”

  “Some sense into her?” Marino asks. “You decide to have this little chat with just her after you found out her husband is dead?”

  “Joanna doesn’t return my phone calls. If she did I wouldn’t have to resort to such measures.”

  “The thing is you were seen in this neighborhood yesterday,” Marino continues to pound away at him. “Before her husband died. You were seen driving past when Joanna was inside the house early this morning. Then I saw your truck in Cambridge later, around eleven, an hour after his death. Can you explain?”

  “I’m an easygoing guy. I hate it when people push me against a wall and I can no longer be polite.”

  “No longer being polite means killing somebody, if necessary? So they can’t collect insurance money?”

  “I didn’t say anything even close to that.”

  “You need to leave Joanna Cather the hell alone starting right now,” Marino threatens as I notice the house, someone looking out a window, and then the front door opens.

  The woman who emerges must be Mary Sapp, overblown in a short green dress with long brassy blond hair and bright red lipstick. She shields her eyes with her hand, squinting at us in the low sun. Then she ducks back inside to set the alarm. I can hear its warning beeps as she reappears and shuts the door behind her. She snaps a lockbox over the outside handle, and that piques my attention.

  It’s not the sort of thing one does when a house is no longer on the market, and the practice is a dangerous one. Lockboxes hold keys and sometimes alarm codes, allowing other Realtors to show a property without the listing agent present. Given the right tools, the shackles can be cut and the metal vaults can be forced open, which was what happened in Nantucket last Thanksgiving, a case that hasn’t been solved, a horrific one.

  A Realtor arrived at an oceanfront estate to check on damage after a bad storm and discovered the lockbox was missing. Thinking nothing of it she returned to her office for a key and the alarm code, and when she entered the house someone was waiting. She was savagely beaten and stabbed during a struggle that began in the foyer and ended in the flooded basement where she was drowned and hanged from a pipe. The murder was sensational enough to cause most Massachusetts Realtors to stop using lockboxes. I don’t understand why Mary Sapp does unless she’s careless.

  Patty Marsico, I think of the victim and envision her contused bloody face, the bones shattered in it, her jaw and teeth broken, one of her eyes avulsed from its socket. It looked as if someone had spray-painted blood all over the house and I remember something else. Another ugly coincidence, and when there are enough of them, they likely aren’t chance or random. I send Bryce a text: Patty Marsico, last November. Wasn’t TBP Insurers involved?

  “You can’t stop me from talking to her.” Bloom confronts Marino. “I’m just doing my job and you have no right to tell me what to do unless I’m guilty of a crime. And I’m certainly not.” He smiles boldly, his dental bridge very white and horsey. “And you know that, of course. Because if I were guilty of anything at all I’d be in cuffs that are much too tight and thrown into the back of a filthy cruiser that has a cage.”

  “I’ll tell you what you’re guilty of,” Marino says, “being an asshole. And I’m not done with you but guess what? We’ll wait and follow up at the station. You got some explaining to do.”

  “I’ll check my calendar and call my lawyer.”

  “Be as cocky as you want. It won’t help.” Marino is seething and his letting Bloom go for now tells me a number of things.

  Marino doesn’t want Boston PD involved any more than it already is, and whatever information he’s getting through messages and emails isn’t offering sufficient justification for him to bring in Bloom right now on suspicion of murder or any other charge. Something else is going on that is making Marino angry and agitated, his bad mood not simply about a smart-ass insurance investigator.

  I wonder what Machado is digging up in the Nari case, and I watch Mary Sapp take her time following the sidewalk to the street, pausing every other step in her high-heeled shoes, on her phone, the busy successful Realtor who drives a hundred-thousand-dollar car. She stops and says something about rescheduling a showing as she looks at her watch, gold, a sparkle of diamonds. She tucks the phone in her shoulder bag, an expensive designer one.

  I glance at a me
ssage from Bryce. Affirmative. TBP Insurers. That same A-hole too. Rand Bloom, who’s called me at least fifty times trying to get to you, and why you ever return his calls, I don’t know. Victim’s husband sued her real estate company for negligence or something. You were deposed, remember? Why are you asking? Oh, let me guess. Another death, another claim? Another day, another dollar?

  Too much information! Dammit, I think. My staff can’t get it through their heads that anything written creates a record. It can end up in court. It doesn’t matter if it’s a text message or a Post-it and Bryce is the worst offender. He’s going to get me into trouble one of these days.

  “Is everything all right here?” Mary Sapp asks when she reaches us. “Did you need to speak to me?” She directs this to Bloom. “Have we met?”

  He introduces himself and her reaction conveys the truth. She looks slightly flustered and then has no expression on her heavily made-up face. She feigns ignorance and indifference. She seems distracted as if she has places to go and people to see, and I don’t believe it. She may have no trouble misrepresenting a property or taking advantage of a client but she’s not a good actress. I suspect she and Bloom haven’t met and she had no idea he was the person she was seeing in the gray truck. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t familiar with each other.

  “No, ma’am. I’m not here to speak to you. You’re not who I’ve been looking for,” he says too sweetly, too politely. “I’ve been trying to have a word with your lessee. But while I have a moment of your time, I have to ask if you’re fully aware that there are some things you should be concerned about? Unless of course you don’t care if you rent a nice property like this to, well, a tenant of questionable character.”

  “This property is no longer under agreement,” she says and the way she says it confirms she has information.

  Of course she does. She’s already gotten it from him, probably over the phone. Rand Bloom is too streetwise to do his dirty work by email or any other form of communication that leaves a trail.

  “Jesus,” Marino exclaims. “You talked to her, didn’t you?” He glares at both of them, and she glances at her car, fidgets with her keys, shifting her crocodile bag to her other shoulder. “You get her on the phone first? You pass on a lot of unsubstantiated shit so maybe Joanna’s not welcome here anymore? What kind of dirtbag does something like that?”

  “I’m sorry,” the Realtor says coldly. “The contract clearly states that the lease is null and void if there is reason to suspect criminal activity.”

  “Reason to?”

  “That’s what it says. Close enough.”

  “And what criminal activity might that be?” Marino asks. “What bullshit did you feed her?” He glares at Bloom as if he might tear him apart.

  “In reality there’s the not so trivial problem of why Joanna really quit her job. Added to that is her late husband’s extracurricular activities.” He crosses his arms at his chest, and the veins in his hands are ropey. He’s sinewy and strong. I imagine he’s a dirty fighter.

  “Cut the crap before I do it for you!” Marino bellows.

  “I’m going to show you something.” Bloom focuses on him, ignoring the hard-jawed uniformed cop ready to pounce. “Don’t shoot me,” Bloom says loud enough for the neighbors to hear. “I’m just getting an envelope from the inside of my truck, okay?” he yells. “So don’t go freaking out and shooting me.”

  HE REACHES INSIDE THE truck and makes a big production of slowly retrieving a manila envelope. Inside are eight-by-eleven photographs taken with a telescopic lens. Jamal Nari is in a black running suit, a baseball cap pulled low. He’s getting out of his recently purchased red SUV. The parking lot is dark and I can see the half moon high over the tops of buildings. I remember it was half full at the beginning of the week, just days ago.

  The photographs were taken in quick succession, Nari as he walks under tall light standards, his head bent, entering a diner called Jumpin’ Joe’s in Revere where there are drive-by shootings, gangs and drugs. More images, not many people inside, just a few in line, and Nari stares up at an illuminated menu with pictures of burgers, fried chicken, breakfast sandwiches. He places an order and looks tense. The woman working the counter hands him a white bag big enough to hold several meals. He walks back outside, pauses by his SUV, glancing around, his eyes wide and glassy. He checks the contents of the bag. The last photograph zooms in on his hands, on a small clear plastic envelope of white powder.

  “Who’ve you shown this to besides us?” Marino is incensed. “Not the police I’m pretty sure. Let me guess. You showed it to him, to Jamal Nari to blackmail him.”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

  “You were making sure he drops any possible damages he might get from the school. You may as well answer because I’ll find out.”

  “It’s privileged. I don’t care what you find out.”

  “I’m sorry.” Mary Sapp directs this at Marino. “I hate to disappoint Joanna, especially at a time like this. I sincerely do,” she says and there is nothing sincere about her.

  I think about the twelve thousand dollars in deposits that I’m betting will be forfeited. Good luck getting the money back. The legal fees and aggravation won’t be worth it, and I wonder what her share is and if Bloom will get a cut.

  “As you can understand, the owner can’t have something of this nature . . . ,” the Realtor explains. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to make sure she arranges to move out the boxes. They put a number of them in there.”

  “Nobody’s moving a damn thing.” Marino’s voice is like a gavel slamming down. “This house is now part of a crime scene. In fact your pal here Mister Bloom has made sure it has to be searched very carefully. We’re going to need to go through everything in it not only because of Jamal Nari’s death but also now that the photos introduce the possibility of illegal drugs. A complicated multijurisdictional investigation like this could take a long time. You know, tests in the labs. They can take months, even a year,” he exaggerates. “You might just have a hard time renting it anytime soon. You mind getting a couple of your guys out here to secure this place?” He directs this at the Boston police officer. “I’ll be coming back later or someone else from my department will. So we can start processing the house and everything in it, including fuming it.”

  “Fuming?” Mary Sapp looks genuinely worried.

  “Superglue.”

  “Glue! You can’t use glue on . . .”

  “For fingerprints,” Marino says. “I’m going to need yours for exclusionary purposes.”

  “Mine?”

  “Obviously yours are going to be inside the house. You go through any of their belongings? We going to find your prints on any of their property?”

  “What? I don’t appreciate the insinuation . . .”

  “The glue can make a mess, the dusting powders too.” He cuts her off. “You’ll want a professional cleanup crew in here after we’re done. And we need the alarm code and a key.”

  “The owner is going to be very upset. This is a very pristine, highly desirable property.” Now she looks angry.

  Bloom got to her. He made sure Nari and his wife would be in violation of their rental contract. The obvious motive is further harassment, his photographs of Nari disastrous. Had he not died his life would have been in shambles. He may have ended up in prison on drug charges and that certainly would have been the end of his discrimination suit.

  “It’s a shame they didn’t take what we offered when the offer was good,” Bloom says to me, and he’s clearly talking about whatever settlement Emerson Academy was willing to pay. “You know what they say. A bird in hand.”

  “Tell you what you’re going to do right now with your bird in hand.” Marino pokes his big middle finger in Bloom’s chest.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  Marino pokes him again, hard on his sternum. “Yo
u and your bird get in your truck and fly away, and if I find out you’re bothering Ms. Cather or anybody else involved in this case, I’ll have you arrested for interfering in a police investigation.”

  “Get your hands off me.”

  “Not my hands. Just my finger.” Marino holds it up, flipping him off.

  “I’m reporting you to your commissioner,” Bloom yells.

  “Knock yourself out,” Marino says.

  CHAPTER 16

  THE SUN IS SHARPLY angled and the outside air blowing through the vents is warmer as Marino takes a different way back to outmaneuver traffic, his efforts hopeless I suspect. President Obama landed at Hanscom Air Force Base twenty minutes ago. His motorcade is on its way to Cambridge.

  He’s having dinner with key fund-raisers at the Charles Hotel and holding a press conference in Boston in the morning and police and the military are everywhere, closing lanes of traffic, blocking bridges and restricting flight areas, securing the water, land and air. Helicopters thunder over the harbor and up and down the river, Army Black Hawks, Marine Chinooks and Coast Guard Dauphins, low and slow and circling. I hear their thunder and feel their vibration as emergency alerts pop up on the display of my phone.

  More than a thousand protestors already have gathered at Copley Square, the Common and along streets near the site of last year’s Boston Marathon bombing that killed three and wounded more than two hundred and fifty. Anti-Muslim sentiments are boiling over as we move closer to the trial set for the fall, and members of the Primitive Calvinist Alliance have arrived by the busload to preach their message of hate.

  It’s the extremists who worry me most, cells of crazies justified by the Almighty in their twisted minds, jubilant and vile when innocents are shot and blown up at schools, shopping malls, in Afghanistan or last year in Boston. The more people hate, the more they hate. It spreads like a plague, the only cure humaneness and decency, in short supply it seems. Yesterday the president made a statement from the White House urging Americans not to “rush to judgment” about entire groups of human beings.