“The question is,” Berger continued, “where was Toni after she left her apartment building?”

“Not at work,” Marino said, trying to remember if Scarpetta ever made the kind of error that impeaches an expert, gets a case ruined in court.

He couldn’t think of a single example. But she didn’t used to be famous and on TV all the time.

“Let’s start with work, with High Roller Lanes.” Berger’s voice was strong and loud over speakerphone. “Marino, let’s start with you and Detective Bonnell.”

Marino was disappointed when Bonnell got up and moved to the other side of the desk. He made a drinking motion, maybe she could bring out the Diet Cokes. He had a different feeling as he looked at her, noting the color in her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes, how energized she seemed. He could feel her against his arm even though she was nowhere near him, could feel the firm roundness, the weight of her against him, and he imagined what she looked like, what she would feel like, and he was attentive and awake in a way he hadn’t been in a while. She had to know what she was doing when she was brushing against him.

“First off, let me describe the place because it’s not your typical bowling alley,” he said.

“More like something out of Vegas,” Bonnell said, opening a paper bag, getting out two Diet Cokes, handing one to him, her eyes touching his briefly, like sparks.

“Right,” Marino said as he opened the can, Diet Coke spurting up and running over, dripping on his desk. He mopped up the mess with several sheets of paper, wiped his hands on his pants. “Definitely a place for high-roller bowlers. Neon lights, movie screens, leather couches, and a glitzy lounge with a huge mirrored bar. Twenty-something lanes, pool tables, a damn dress code. You can’t go in there looking like a bum.”

He’d taken Georgia Bacardi to High Roller Lanes last June for their six-month anniversary. It was highly unlikely they’d be celebrating their twelfth. Last time they saw each other, first weekend of this month, she hadn’t wanted sex, had about ten different ways to tell him the same thing, which was forget about it. Didn’t feel good, too tired, her job at Baltimore PD was just as important as his, she was having hot flashes, he had other women in his life and she was sick and tired of it. Berger, Scarpetta, even Lucy. Including Barcardi, that was four women Marino had in his life, and the last time he’d had sex was November 7, almost six damn weeks ago.

“The place is beautiful, and so are the women who wait on you while you’re bowling,” he continued. “A lot of them trying to get into show business, modeling, a real upscale clientele, photos of famous people, even in the bathrooms, at least in the men’s room. Did you see any in the ladies’ room?” To Bonnell.

She shrugged, taking off her suit jacket, in case he had any doubt what was under it. He looked. He openly stared.

“In the men’s room there’s one of Hap Judd,” Marino added, because Berger would be interested. “Obviously not the highest place of honor, being on the wall above a urinal.”

“You know when it was taken and if he goes in there a lot?” Berger’s voice.

“Him and a lot of other celebrities who live in the city, or maybe when they’re filming here or whatever,” Marino said. “The inside of High Roller is like a steak house. Photos of famous people everywhere. Hap Judd’s photo might have been taken last summer. No one I talked to could remember exactly. He’s been in there, but he’s not a regular.”

“What’s the attraction?” Berger asked. “I didn’t realize bowling was that big with celebrities.”

“You never heard of Bowling with the Stars?” Marino said.

“No.”

“A lot of famous people bowl, but High Roller Lanes is also a hip hangout,” Marino said, and his thoughts were sluggish, as if the blood had drained out of his head, was flowing due south. “The owner’s some guy who has restaurants, arcades, entertainment centers in Atlantic City, Indiana, South Florida, Detroit, Louisiana. A guy named Freddie Maestro, old as Methuselah. All the celeb photos are with him, so he must spend a lot of time here in the city.”

He pried his eyes away from Bonnell so he could concentrate.

“Point being, you never know who you’re going to meet, is what I’m getting at,” Marino went on. “So, for someone like Toni Darien, maybe that was part of the appeal. She was looking to make money, and tipping is good in there, and she was out to make connections, to hook up. Her shift was what I call prime time. Nights, usually starting around six until closing at two in the morning, Thursday through Sunday. She’d walk to work or take a cab, didn’t own a car.”

He took a sip of Diet Coke, fixing his gaze on the whiteboard on the wall near the door. Berger and her whiteboards, everything color-coded, cases ready for trial in green, those that weren’t in blue, court dates in red, who’s on call for sex crimes intake in black. It was safe staring at the whiteboard. He could think better.

“What type of hooking up are we talking about?” Berger’s voice.

“My guess, in a high-rent place like that you can probably get whatever the hell you want,” Marino said. “So maybe she ran into the wrong person in there.”

“Or High Roller Lanes might have nothing to do with anything. Could be completely unrelated to what happened to her.” Bonnell said what she believed, which was probably why she hadn’t been particularly interested in the photographs or what was playing on the huge video screens over the lanes, or the sightings of the rich and famous.

Bonnell was convinced that Toni Darien’s murder was random, that she was targeted by a predator, a serial killer on the prowl. She might have been dressed for jogging, but that wasn’t what she’d been doing when she’d ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bonnell said Marino would understand better when he heard the 911 call made by the witness.

“I’m assuming we still have no clue about what’s happened to her cell phone and laptop.” Scarpetta’s voice.

“And her billfold and maybe her purse,” Marino reminded them. “Appears they’re missing, too. Not in her apartment. Not at the crime scene. And now I’m wondering about her coat and mittens.”

“The missing items might make sense in light of the nine-one-one call, the information Detective Bonnell received,” Berger said. “What a witness said. Possibly Toni got into a taxi, had those things with her for some reason because she wasn’t out jogging. She was out doing something else, possibly going to make a stop and then jog later.”

“What about any other types of chargers besides ones for the laptop and cell phone?” Scarpetta said. “Anything else in her apartment?”

“That was all I saw,” Marino said.

“What about a USB dock, for example? Anything that might indicate she had some other sort of device that needed charging, such as the watch she had on?” Scarpetta asked. “It appears to be some type of data-collection device called a BioGraph. Neither Lucy nor I can find it on the Internet.”

“How can there be a watch called that and it’s not on the Internet? Someone has to sell it, right?” Marino said.

“Not necessarily.” When Benton answered him, it was always to disagree or put him down. “Not if it’s in research and development or part of a classified project.”

“So maybe she worked for the fucking CIA,” Marino shot back.