I set coffee on the kitchen table, where Lucy was seated. Sweat was rolling down her shoulders and face, and I tossed her a dish towel. She took off her shoes and socks, and I was slammed with an image of Benton sitting there, doing the same thing. He always hung around the kitchen for a while after running. He liked to cool down, to visit with me before he took a shower and buttoned himself up in his neat clothes and deep thoughts.
“A couple people out walking their dogs in Windsor Farms,” she said. “Not a sign of anybody in your neighborhood. I asked the guy at the guard gate if anything was going on, like any more taxi cabs or pizza deliveries showing up for you. Any weird phone calls or unexpected visitors trying to get in. He said no.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“That’s chicken shit. I don’t think she’s the one who did that.”
“Then who?” I was surprised.
“Hate to tell you, but there are other people out there who are none too fond of you.”
“A large segment of the prison population.”
“And people who aren’t in prison, at least not yet. Like the Christian Scientists whose kid you did. You think it might occur to them to harass you? Like sending taxies, a construction Dumpster, or calling the morgue early in the morning and hanging up on poor Chuck? That’s all you need, is a morgue assistant who’s too spooked to be alone in your building anymore. Or worse, the guy quits. Chicken shit,” she said again. “Petty, spiteful, chicken shit generated by an ignorant, little mind.”
None of this had ever occurred to me before.
“Is he still getting the hang-ups?” she asked.
She eyed me as she sipped her coffee, and through the window over the sink, the sun was a tangerine on a dusky blue horizon.
“I’ll find out,” I said.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number for the morgue. Chuck answered immediately.
“Morgue,” he nervously said.
It was not quite seven, and I suspected he was alone.
“It’s Dr. Scarpetta,” I said.
“Oh!” He was relieved. “Good morning.”
“Chuck? What about the hang-ups? You still getting them?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Nothing said? Not even the sound of somebody breathing?”
“Sometimes I think I hear traffic in the background, like maybe the person’s at a pay phone somewhere.”
“I’ve got an idea.”
“Okay.”
“Next time it happens, I want you to say, Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Quinn.”
“What?” Chuck was baffled.
“Just do it,” I said. “And I have a hunch the calls will stop.”
Lucy was laughing when I hung up.
“Touché,” she said.