“Of course not.”

“Not me.” He shook his head, sucking in smoke. “No friggin’ way I’d even want to be in the room.”

“I wish he had been my case,” I said. “I wouldn’t have signed him out as a natural death. The world should know the truth, so maybe somebody else would think twice about popping Percodan.”

We were in front of one of the gift shops now, and people were gathered around televisions inside, watching Elvis videos. Through outdoor speakers, he was singing “Kentucky Rain,” his voice powerful and playful, unlike any other I had ever heard in my life. I started walking again and told the truth.

“I am a fan and have a rather extensive collection of his CDs, if you really must know,” I said to Marino.

He couldn’t believe it. He was thrilled.

“And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread that around.”

“All these years I’ve known you, and you never told me?” he exclaimed. “You’re not kidding me, right? I never would’ve thought that. Not in a million years. Hey, so maybe now you know I got taste.”

This went on as we waited for a shuttle to return us to the parking lot, and then it continued in the car.

“I remember watching him on TV once when I was a kid in New Jersey,” Marino was saying. “My old man came in drunk, as usual, started yelling at me to switch the channel. I’ll never forget it.”

He slowed and turned into the Peabody Hotel.

“Elvis was singing ‘Hound Dog,’ July 1956. I remember it was my birthday. My father comes in, cussing, turns the TV off, and I get up and turn it back on. He smacks the side of my head, turns the TV off again. I turn it back on and walk toward him. First time in my life I ever laid a hand on him. I slam him against the wall, get in his face, tell the son of a bitch he ever touches me or my mother again, I’m going to kill him.”

“And did he?” I asked as the valet opened my door.

“Shit no.”

“Then Elvis should be thanked,” I said.

Seven

Two days later, on Thursday, November 6, I started out early on the ninety-minute drive from Richmond to the FBI Academy at Quantico, Virginia. Marino and I took separate cars, since we never knew when something might happen to send us off somewhere. For me, it could be a plane crash or derailed train, while he had to deal with city government and layers of brass. I wasn’t surprised when my car phone rang as we neared Fredericksburg. The sun was in and out of clouds, and it felt cold enough to snow.

“Scarpetta,” I said, on speakerphone.

Marino’s voice erupted inside my car. “City council’s freaking,” he said. “You got McKuen whose little kid’s been hit by a car, now more crap about our case, on TV, in the papers, hear it on the radio.”