there’s not exactly a 7-Eleven handy, and the park is dark as shit. We’re setting up lights.”
“Please don’t turn them on yet. The scene will blaze like Fenway.”
“Don’t worry. We’re keeping everything dark until we’re ready. Doing what we can to keep the gawkers away, especially any assholes trying to film with their phones. There’s student housing everywhere. Eliot House is right there on the other side of Memorial Drive and it’s as big as the Pentagon, plus you got the Kennedy School, and traffic on Memorial Drive. Not to mention the bridge is right there, and across the water is Boston. So we got no plans of lighting up the scene right this minute.”
“Do we have a name?” I ask.
“An ID was found on the path near her bike. Elisa Vandersteel, twenty-three years old from the UK. Of course that’s if it’s the dead lady’s. I’m guessing it probably is,” Marino says, and my mood sinks lower. “I’m told the picture looks sort of like her, for what it’s worth. And I just pulled up in front of the Faculty Club. You coming out?”
“Where in the UK?” I almost don’t want to ask.
“London, I think.”
“Do you know what kind of shoes she had on?” I envision the cyclist’s off-white Converse sneakers, and I’m pretty sure I caught a peek of bike socks, the kind that are below the ankle.
“Her shoes?” Marino asks as if he didn’t hear me right.
“Yes.”
“Got no idea,” he says. “Why?”
“I’ll see you in a minute,” I reply.
I step away from the front door, pausing by the antique entryway table with its big flower arrangement.
Inside the drawing room Benton is discreetly tucked to one side of a window near the baby grand piano. He’s on the phone, his face hard and somber. There’s nobody else inside with him, and I wish I could tell him about the woman on the bicycle. He saw her too, and now the worst may have happened.
But I don’t get any closer. I know when not to disturb him, and I notice that Mrs. P is back at her station, her round old-fashioned glasses staring at me. As I glance at her she quickly looks down and begins to open menus, checking the printed pages inside. I can tell she senses something is wrong.
I can’t hear what Benton is saying to whoever he’s on the phone with, but I get the impression based on his tone that he’s not talking to the same person he was a moment earlier. I catch his eye and indicate I have to go, and he nods. Then he turns away. He doesn’t place his hand over his phone to ask what’s happening or offer what might be going on with him. And that makes me wonder if we really are being contacted about the same case.
But I don’t see how that would be feasible. At this stage there’s no reason I can think of for the FBI to be interested in a local death, possibly of a young woman from London named Elisa Vandersteel. But it’s disturbing that Marino mentioned the International Criminal Police Organization, Interpol. I don’t know why he did or if I might have misheard. But I can’t stop thinking of the cyclist with the blue helmet and Converse sneakers who called me the peanut-butter-pie lady.
I realize the ID found near her body might not be hers, but when I met her she sounded British, possibly from London, and my stomach clenches harder. I feel a sense of urgency that’s personal. As if I knew the woman who’s been killed. As if I might be one of the last people she ever spoke to or saw. And I will myself to control my thoughts.
I can’t say for a fact whose dead body is in the park or how the death occurred or why, I remind myself. I open the door and step out into the dark oven of the patio, where no one is sitting in the stifling night air. I follow the walkway, looking all around me with every step I take. I listen for the quiet nocturnal sounds of insects, of birds lifting off branches in a startled burst, their wings whistling.
I listen for the creaking of old trees, the rustle of leafy canopies or chirp of a katydid. But it’s dead quiet except for traffic that gusts like the wind, rushing, then lagging before it picks up again. I’m aware of the solid roughness of the bricks beneath my softly tapping shoes, mindful of the thick static air and the bright bug eyes of vehicles on Quincy Street.
I pass the same foliage and rockery I did earlier when I was with Benton, but it seems I’m on another planet now, surrounded by unfamiliar voids of lawn, and hulking dark shapes and shadows. Nothing moves except traffic beyond the split-rail paling silhouetted ahead. I can see the libraries sleepily lit up across the street in the Yard, where I was walking not even an hour and a half ago. I reach the sidewalk, and Marino’s SUV is parked at the curb behind Benton’s Audi.
It seems like déjà vu as I climb in and stare at the rear of my husband’s blacked-out Batmobile illuminated in the glare of headlights. Only he’s not in it now, and I feel a pang of loneliness as I see the empty dark space where he was sitting behind the wheel, watching us in the rearview mirror but a very short time ago.
Benton is still inside the Faculty Club, and I continue watching for him to emerge from the red front door, to see him illuminated in the entrance light as he steps outside and follows the walkway. But there’s no sign of him. He must still be on the phone, and it enters my mind that in the midst of all this chaos he has to take care of banal matters such as paying for a dinner we didn’t get to eat. I didn’t think of asking for the check. I simply walked out.
As I pull my door shut and set my briefcase by my feet, I ask Marino what else he instructed my two autopsy technicians Rusty and Harold to bring to the scene.
“And have they already left?” I pull my shoulder harness across me and the steel tongue snaps into the buckle that as usual I had to dig out of the crack in the seat. “Because I need protective clothing and a scene case. I don’t have anything with me, not even a pair of gloves. And there’s no time for me to stop by my office.”
“You need to relax,” Marino says. “I’ve got it covered.”
He looks the way he did when I saw him last, except he’s taken off his tie. I see it on the backseat, sloppily coiled like a polyester snake.
“Please assure me we’re keeping the lights off.” It’s not possible I’m going to relax. “We turn on portable floodlights and we may as well send out invitations and a press release.”
“Remember where I used to work? Remember who used to take care of all that and still knows how?” He checks his mirrors. “I know the drill.” His eyes are darting and he’s sweating. “I guess Benton’s staying?” Marino stares at the Faculty Club, boxy and dignified in the distant dark.
A pale gold light fills the tall twelve-paned windows, and I can see inside the drawing room, the masculine leather furniture, the sparkling chandelier, the gleaming baby grand, and I look for Benton. But there’s no way he’s lingering in front of windows for all the world to see.
“I’m not sure what he’s doing,” I reply. “He was on the phone with Washington when I was leaving.”
“Let me guess,” Marino says, and right off he’s assuming
