Page 81 of Sharp Force
“Never has been, according to Wikipedia,” Marino answers. “Probably why he didn’t give a shit about not being home on Christmas Eve.”
I sense Marino’s hurt feelings. No doubt he’s thinking about Dorothy sending him out into the cold and snow. She relegated him to spending an all-nighter with Fruge, and it wasn’t the right thing to do.
“Wikipedia?” Benton looks at him. “Seriously? That’s the best you can do?”
“I don’t feel like asking Janet a damn thing right now.” Marino stands up from rooting around in his backpack, a protein bar in hand. “Besides, she’s too busy talking to Dorothy, right? I’d rather ask Google. I’d rather ask a crystal ball.”
“When Crowley dropped off Georgine last night, where was Zain?” Benton follows sticky mats to the living room.
“Supposedly here.” Marino has peeled open the protein bar like a banana, chewing as he talks.
“Did she let herself in?” Benton questions. “Or did Zain open the door for her?”
“I don’t know,” Marino says. “Maybe you can ask Janet to check the cameras. I’m not asking her a damn thing.”
Benton is already typing the question to her.
“Cameras weren’t recording,” he reads her instant answer.
“Of course they weren’t,” Marino mutters.
Benton’s Tyvek-covered feet make slippery sounds while he looks around the living room. I recognize the parquet floors, the whitewashed stucco walls, the exposed oak timbers in the plaster ceiling. I remember finding the house beautifully appointed but couldn’t get past the history.
The chapel was where patients and their loved ones prayed for healing and relief from suffering. I can well imagine things going on that weren’t holy or helpful. Stories I’ve read about the old lunatic asylum suggest a chaplain was quick to hold out his hand for offerings that never found their way into the collection plate.
“Was Graden aware that Georgine allowed Zain to stay here whenever he was up this way interning at the White House?” I ask as the Doomsday Bird approaches.
It reverberates low overhead, roaring toward the river, the three of us looking up as if we can see it.
“Crowley’s aware that Georgine Duvall let Zain stay here for free whenever he was up this way,” Marino says when the quiet returns.
“Do we know why she did this?” Benton asks. “A favor for Calvin Willard, possibly? And where was Graden when you two were having this conversation?”
“I was on the porch with the door shut so he couldn’t see anything. He was on the sidewalk.” Marino chews the last bite of his protein bar.
He drops the wrapper into the biohazard bag.
“The way Crowley talked made me think she had a professional relationship with Zain,” Marino explains.
“What did he say that made you wonder that?” I have a feeling I know where this is headed.
“He got squirrelly when I kept asking why Zain always stayed here, especially without paying rent. Was it personal? Was it business or just a favor?” Marino replies. “Why didn’t Zain stay with his rich uncle when he was up here working at the White House and hanging out with important people?”
“I wonder how often Georgine was here when Zain was,” I reply, my suspicions gathering.
“We should all be wondering it,” Marino says. “And her place in Yorktown is just minutes from William & Mary. I’ve got a feeling she knew Zain pretty damn well.”
“Lovers?” Benton asks.
“Nope, I sure as hell don’t think so. Like I said, she wasn’t his type,” Marino disparages.
“We have no idea what Zain’s type is,” Benton answers.
“Zain was her patient?” My spirits sink as I remember the past.
“What else would he be?” Marino says.
I envision Georgine vibrant and energetic. She was warm and quick to rescue whoever she thought needed it, often treating her patients like family. It was unwise and unsafe. She and I had discussions about this very subject, and she wouldn’t listen. She’d smile and remark that I was tainted by what I do for a living.
