Free Dust by Patricia Cornwell Page B

ahead to the most significant part. “‘Claims made by former clients were frivolous and were dropped, according to CEO Dominic Lombardi. In a recent interview with
The Wall Street Journal
he explained that “sadly, sometimes clients expect miracles and then get angry when that doesn’t happen.” He added that Double S continues to be a highly respected financial management company with clients all over the world.’”
    “A weird name for money managers. Sounds like the name of a ranch,” Marino comments as the silo-shaped silhouette of the Cambridge Forensic Center, the CFC, appears up ahead.
    But that’s not where we’re going. I’m reminded of how close the death scene is to my headquarters.
    “It certainly could be one of the horse farms around there.” I’m struck by another close proximity.
    Double S is but a mile or two from Lucy’s fifty-acre country estate, fenced in and gated, cameras everywhere, a helipad, indoor firing range, and multiple garages. She has a series of rustic buildings that belie the spartan décor and intense technology inside a main house that is sided in one-way glass with a sweeping view of the Sudbury River. I wonder if she knows her neighbor Dominic Lombardi, and I certainly hope she’s not a client but I doubt she would be. My niece has been burnt before and is very careful with her money.
    “Maybe he runs his financial business out of his home,” I suggest as I continue searching the Internet for details about Gail Shipton’s lawsuit, what few there are.
    News about her case is almost nonexistent, and I suspect Double S has made sure of that.
    “It looks like she filed the suit some eighteen months ago for a hundred million dollars. I seriously doubt a jury around here would go for a number like that. Breach of fiduciary duty, breach of contract,” I read on as I explain. “The upshot seems to be that financial management software used by Double S has rendered the accounting unreliable, and money may be missing.”
    “In other words, stolen,” Marino says.
    “Obviously that can’t be proven or this would be a criminal matter, not civil.” I’m again reminded of the case Carin Hegel mentioned when I ran into her a few weeks ago. I wonder if it’s the same one.
    I have an unsettled feeling it is.
    “Where the hell would a grad student get money like that?” Marino turns on the defrost.
    “Technology, mobile-phone apps,” I read and again I think of Lucy, who amassed a fortune at a very young age from creating and selling search engines and software systems.
    I send her a text.
    “Huh.” Marino leans close to me, popping open the glove box. “Getting filthy rich from high-tech stuff. Sounds familiar, right?” He grabs a lint-free window-cleaning paper towel. “I sure as hell hope the two of them don’t know each other.”

8
     
     
    Boats moored for the winter are shrink-wrapped in white plastic on the river, the red triangle Citgo sign glowing brightly over Fenway Park on the Boston side of the Harvard Bridge.
    I check my phone again but there’s no word from Lucy. Fog hangs over the dark ruffled water as I ride inside Marino’s SUV, an ominous feeling tightening its grip on me. I’m not sure if my unsettledness is left over from the weekend or if it’s related to the prowler. I’m not sure if I’m sensing something else or am simply exhausted.
    Marino is full of himself and his policing philosophies and plans. His assessments about crime trends couldn’t be more depressing or bleaker. He hasn’t stopped talking while I barely listen, my mind pulled into an ugly, dreadful place where I don’t want to be.
    Put your hands up in the air!
 
    Don’t shoot!
 
    Words heard over a school intercom intrude upon my thoughts when I least expect it. I continue to be stunned that an exchange would be so banal between a mass murderer and his victims.
    “Mimicry,” Benton offered an explanation that doesn’t satisfy. “Mimicking TV shows, movies, games.