“Marino’s heard rumors that Ring’s having an affair with a well-known local broadcaster,” I then said. “She’s with the same station that had the misinformation about the case, about the victim being Asian.”

He was silent. I knew he was thinking about proof again, and he was right. This all sounded circumstantial even as I said it.

Then he said, “This guy’s very smart. Are you aware of his background?”

“I know nothing about him,” I replied.

“Graduated with honors from William and Mary, double major in psychology and public administration. His uncle is the secretary of public safety.” He piled worse news upon bad. “Harlow Dershin, who’s an honorable guy, by the way. But it goes without saying this is not a good situation for making accusations unless you’re one hundred percent damn sure of yourself.”

The secretary of public safety for Virginia was the immediate boss of the superintendent of the state police. Ring’s uncle couldn’t have been more powerful unless he had been the governor.

“So what you’re saying is that Ring’s untouchable,” I said.

“What I’m saying is, his educational background makes it clear he has high aspirations. Guys like him are looking to be a chief, a commissioner, a politician. They’re not interested in being a cop.”

“Guys like him are interested only in themselves,” I impatiently said. “Ring doesn’t give a damn about the victims or the people left behind who have no idea what has happened to their loved one. He doesn’t care if someone else gets killed.”

“Proof,” he reminded me. “To be fair, there are a lot of people—including those working at the landfill—who could have leaked information to the press.”

I had no good argument, but nothing would shake me loose from my suspicions.

“What’s important is breaking these cases,” he went on to say, “and the best way to do that is for all of us to go about our business and ignore him, just like Marino and Grigg are doing. Follow every lead we can, steering around the impediments.” His eyes were almost amber in the overhead light, and soft when they met mine.

I pushed back my chair. “We need to set the table.”

He got out dishes and opened wine as I arranged chilled shrimp on plates and spooned Bev’s Kicked By A Horse Cocktail Sauce into a bowl. I halved lemons and wrapped them in gauze diapers, and fashioned crab cakes. Wesley and I ate shrimp cocktail as night drew closer and cast its shadow over the east.

“I’ve missed this,” he said. “Maybe you don’t want to hear it, but it’s true.”

I did not say anything because I did not want to get into another big discussion that went on for hours, leaving both of us drained.

“Anyway.” He set his fork on his plate the way polite people do when they are finished. “Thank you. I have missed you, Dr. Scarpetta.” He smiled.

“I’m glad you’re here, Special Agent Wesley.”

I smiled back at him as I got up. Turning on the stove, I heated oil in a pan while he cleared dishes.