29.

IT IS VERY HOT inside the hotel room and Scarpetta has given up adjusting the thermostat. She sits in a chair by the window and watches Marino on the bed. He is stretched out in his black pants and black shirt, the baseball cap lonely on the dresser, his black boots lonely on the floor.

“You need to getsome food in you,” she says from her chair near the window.

Nearby on the carpet is her mud-spotted black nylon crime scene kit, and draped over another chair is her mud-spattered coat. Wherever she has walked in the room she has tracked red mud, and when her eyes fall on the trail she has made, she is reminded of a crime scene, and then she thinks about Suzanna Paulsson’s bedroom and what crime may or may not have occurred there within the past twelve hours.

“I can’t eat nothing right now,” Marino says from his supine position. “What if she goes to the police?”

Scarpetta has no intention of giving him false hope. She can’t give him anything because she doesn’t know anything. “Can you sit up, Marino? It would be better if you sit up. I’m going to order something.”

She gets up from the chair and leaves behind her more bits and flakes of drying mud as she walks to the phone by the bed. She finds a pair of reading glasses in a pocket of her suit jacket and puts them on the tip of her nose, and she studies the phone. Unable to figure out the number for room service, she dials zero for the operator and is transferred to room service.

“Three large bottles of water,” she orders. “Two pots of hot Earl Grey tea, a toasted bagel, and a bowl of oatmeal. No thank you. That will do it.”

Marino works himself up to a sitting position and shoves pillows behind his back. She can feel him watching her as she returns to her chair and sits down, tired because she is overwhelmed, her brain a herd of wild horses galloping in fifty different directions. She is thinking about paint chips and other trace evidence, about the soil samples in her nylon bag, about Gilly and the tractor driver, about what Lucy is doing, about what Benton might be doing, and trying to imagine Marino as a rapist. He has been foolish, no, stupid, with women before. He has mixed business with the personal, specifically he has gotten sexually involved with witnesses and victims in the past, more than once, and it has cost him but never more than he can afford. Never before has he been accused of rape or worried that he might have committed rape.

“We have to do the best we can to sort through this,” she begins. “For the record, I don’t believe you raped Suzanna Paulsson. The obvious problem is whether she believes you did or wants to believe you did. If it’s the latter, then we will have to get to motive. But let’s start with what you remember, the last thing you remember.

And Marino?” She looks at him. “If you did rape her, then we’ll deal with that.”

Marino just stares at her from his upright position on the bed. His face is flushed, his eyes glassy with fear and pain, and a vein has popped out on his right temple. Now and then, he touches the vein.

“I know you probably have no burning desire to give me every detail of what you did last night, but I can’t help you if you don’t. I’m not squeamish,” she adds, and after all they’ve been through, such a comment should be funny. But nothing is going to be funny for a while.

“I don’t know if I can.” He looks away from her.

“What I’m capable of imagining is worse than anything you may have done,” she tells him in a quiet but objective tone.

“That’s right. You probably wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Not hardly,” she says. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve done a thing or two myself.” She smiles a little. “As hard as that might be for you to imagine.”

[“_Toc93039646”]