Free Dust by Patricia Cornwell

anymore. He was in love with me, and he told me so. He said it more than once while we ate dinner. Then he never said it again.
    “I warned you. I predicted you’d want to do exactly what you’ve done.” I’m intentionally vague. “I just don’t know why you couldn’t discuss your career plans with me instead of my suddenly getting cold calls for references and letters. The way you handled it wasn’t right.”
    “Maybe the way you handled things that day in Richmond wasn’t right.” He knows. He remembers.
    “I don’t disagree.”
    “I didn’t want you to talk me out of it this time, okay?” he says.
    “I would have tried.” I unlock my iPhone to access the Internet. “For sure I would have tried to talk you out of quitting the CFC. You’re absolutely right.”
    “At least you admit it for once.” He seems pleased.
    “Yes I admit it, and to talk you out of a life’s decision like that would have been unfair.” I type Gail Shipton’s name in a search screen. “It was unfair the other times I did it and I’m sorry. I sincerely am. But I selfishly wouldn’t have wanted to lose you, and hopefully I haven’t.”
    I can tell by his face in the near dark that he is moved by what I just said, and I wonder why it’s so hard for me to say what I feel. But it is. It always has been.
    “Now we’ve got a case to work,” he says. “The way we used to.”
    “Better than we used to. We have to be better. In the past ten years the world hasn’t exactly become a nicer place.”
    “That’s one of the reasons I’m doing this,” he says. “Law enforcement needs people with perspective who can see the way things were and where they’re headed. When you and me were getting started it was all about serial killers. Then Nine-Eleven happened and we had to start worrying about terrorists, not to imply we don’t have to worry about serial killers too because there’s more of them than ever.”
    I find a Fox streaming news feed from thirty-five minutes ago describing MIT graduate student Gail Shipton as missing, last seen late yesterday afternoon in Cambridge at the Psi Bar.
    It’s speculated she might be the dead woman just discovered at MIT’s Briggs Field, and the accompanying video shows Cambridge and MIT police setting up auxiliary lighting in a red dirt infield near a parking lot. That scene cuts to Sil Machado giving a statement. The rain is loud in the microphone and drips off his baseball cap.
    “At this time we have no formal comment about the situation.” Machado’s nickname is the Portuguese Man of War but he doesn’t look fierce as he stares into the camera.
    A twitch of nervousness runs beneath his somber demeanor, his shoulders hunched tensely against the rain and wind. He has the stiff expression of someone who is uncomfortable and trying not to show it.
    “We do have a deceased individual,” he says, “but no confirmation of what happened or if it might be the woman reported missing.”
    “I don’t believe it.” Marino glances over at my phone as he listens. “Machado and his fifteen minutes of fame.”
    “Has Dr. Scarpetta been contacted?” the correspondent asks.
    “As soon as we’ve cleared the scene the body will be transported to the medical examiner’s office,” Machado states.
    “Is Dr. Scarpetta on her way here?”
    I scan to see what else might be on the Internet as wipers loudly drag the glass, and then Marino’s cell phone rings. It sounds like a revving Harley-Davidson with Screamin’ Eagle pipes. He touches a button on his earpiece and Sil Machado’s voice is on speakerphone.
    “Talk about the devil and look who calls,” Marino says.
    “Channel Five’s been showing a picture of her,” Machado starts in. “At least we’re getting a lot of tips from people who think they saw her at the Psi Bar. But nothing helpful so far.”
    “How did Channel Five get her picture?” Marino’s earpiece blinks bright blue.
    “Turns out the girl who reported her