Page 64 of Identity Unknown
“Ouch. That sounds petty. Not to mention damn stupid. I would have hoped I’m better than that.” He swirls the drink in his glass.
“We’re all capable.”
“I admit it gets under my skin that you two were together first. I wasn’t in your life except from a professional distance.”
“And now I’m here exactly where I want to be,” I reply as he places takeout boxes into the microwave.
“I won’t zap anything until you’re ready,” he says, and my attention is snagged by the TV news playing.
Dana Diletti is talking about her visit to Berkeley Plantation tomorrow morning, I can tell from the captions and film clips. Then the scene cuts to her live, standing in front of Sal’s gated driveway, Secret Service SUVs parked with headlights burning. I pick up the remote control from the coffee table, turning on the sound.
“… And tomorrow morning onFirst Up in VirginiaI’ll reveal more about the shocking death of Nobel Prize winner Sal Giordano, known as the ET Whisperer. He’s spent years trying to connect with intelligent life from beyond. Did he finally succeed? Did it kill him, and what might that mean for the rest of us? I’ll be sharing the details as our investigation continues…”
“What about searching his house?” I ask, muting the sound again. “I assume that by now someone’s gotten in there.”
“Agents are inside as we speak,” Benton says. “The five dozen white roses delivered included an explosive device for no extra charge.”
“How horrifying.” I think about what could have happened.
“A pipe bomb that would have been triggered by anyone picking up or moving the vase,” Benton adds.
“But Sal told me he carried it into the house himself,” I reply. “How does that make sense?”
“The device was remotely armed after he was on his way to West Virginia. The booby trap was left for whoever searched the house eventually. Our crime scene investigators. Agents like me. It could have been anyone.”
“How did someone know when he was leaving and where he was going?” I ask. “Unless the person was watching.”
“His property has been hacked. When you were talking on the driveway yesterday, it was recorded by the camera in front. You should expect that someone was monitoring your entire conversation.”
“What about the safe in his home office?” I ask.
“A dial safe but no luck. The cryptic code he microphotographed doesn’t work,” Benton says. “It must mean something else, could be anything.”
“Well, not anything.” I think of the numbers and letters written in Sal’s distinctive hand. “If he intended for us to find his note? Then he believed we’d figure out what it means.”
I go on to say that I need to call his sister and hope the number is still good. The last time I talked to Sabina Giordano was when their mother died a few years ago.
“We can send an officer to her door if that’s better. I have contacts with the carabinieri,” Benton suggests.
“That wouldn’t be better.” I imagine her shock at hearing police knocking on her door. “I’ll see you in a few minutes. When I’m clean, I’ll greet you properly.”
“You don’t have to be clean.”
“Yes, I do.”
I carry my drink through the bedroom, hoping I can reach Sabina Giordano before she hears about Sal in the news. She’s a few years younger than him, and it was always the two of them against the world when they were young. As close as they were, she’ll be completely undone. I find her number in my phone’s contacts list, and it’s a few minutes past fiveA.M.in Rome.
“Pronto,” she answers groggily.
“Sabina?” Digging inside my briefcase, I pull out my Moleskine notebook.
“Si? Chi è questo?”
“It’s Kay Scarpetta. So sorry to call you at this hour,” I say to her in Italian.
“Oh! What a lovely surprise, Kay! How are you?” Sabina answers in English, suddenly alert and happy. “Sal and I were just talking about you yesterday when I called to cheer him up about turning sixty. I told him not to feel bad because I’m not far behind.”
“Yes, I went by to see him…”