Blow Fly

107

BATON ROUGE IS A SKYLINE of black smokestacks of different heights, and a pearly smog hangs in a band across the dark horizon.

In the distance, the night is illuminated by the blazing lights of petrochemical plants.

Albert Dard's mood is improving as his new friend drives along River Road, not far from LSU's football stadium. Along a graceful bend in the Mississippi, he points to iron gates and old brick pillars up ahead.

"There," he says. "That's it."

Where he lives is an estate set back at least a quarter of a mile from the road, a massive slate roof and several chimneys rising above dense trees. Scarpetta stops the car, and Albert gets out to enter a code on a keypad, and the gates slowly open. They drive slowly to the classical-revival villa with its small, wavy glass windows and massive masonry front porch. Old live oak trees bend over the property as if to protect it. The only car visible is an old white Volvo parked in front on the cobblestone drive.

"Is your father home?" Scarpetta asks as her silver rental Lincoln bumps over pavers.

"No," Albert glumly replies as they park.

They get out and climb steep brick steps. Albert unlocks the door and deactivates the burglar alarm, and they enter a restored antebellum home with hand-carved molding, dark mahogany, painted panels and antique Oriental rugs that are threadbare and dreary. Wan light filters through windows flanked by heavy damask draperies held back with tasseled cords, and a staircase winds up to a second floor, where someone's quick footsteps sound against a wooden floor.

"That's my aunt," Albert says as a woman with bones like a bird's and unsmiling dark eyes descends the stairs, her hand gliding along the smooth, gleaming wooden banister.

"I am Mrs. Guidon." She walks with light, quick steps to the entrance hallway.

With her sensuous mouth and delicate nostrils, Mrs. Guidon would be pretty, were her face not hard and her dress so severe. A high collar is fastened with a gold brooch, and she wears a long black skirt and clumsy lace-up black shoes, and her black hair is tightly pinned back. She appears to be in her forties, but her age is hard to determine. Her skin is unlined and so pale it is almost translucent, as if she has never seen the sun.

"May I offer you a cup of tea?" Mrs. Guidon's smile is as chilly as the stale, still air.

"Yes!" Albert grabs Scarpetta's hand. "Please come have tea. And cookies, too. You're my new friend!"

"There will be no tea for you," Mrs. Guidon tells him. "Go up to your room right this minute. Take your suitcase with you. I will let you know when you can come down."

"Don't leave," Albert begs Scarpetta. "I hate you," he says to Mrs. Guidon.

She ignores him, obviously having heard this before. "Such a funny little boy who is very tired and cranky because it is very late. Now say good-bye. I'm afraid you won't see this nice lady again."

Scarpetta is kind to him as she says good-bye.

He trudges angrily up the stairs, looking back at her several times, his face painfully touching her heart. When she hears his footsteps on the wooden floor upstairs, she looks hard at her unpleasant and peculiar hostess.

"How cold you are to a little boy, Mrs. Guidon," she says. "What kind of people are you and his father, that you would hope a stranger would bring him home?"

"I am disappointed." Her imperious demeanor doesn't waver. "I thought a scientist of your renown would investigate before making assumptions."