Blow Fly

9

SCARPETTA WAITS IN LINE at the Marriott's front desk, her head throbbing, her central nervous system shorted out by wine so terrible it ought to have a skull and crossbones on the label.

Her malady, her malaise, is far more serious than she ever let on to Nic, and with each passing minute, her physical condition and mood worsen. She refuses to diagnose her illness as a hangover (after all, she barely had two glasses of that goddamn wine), and she refuses to forgive herself for even considering an alcoholic beverage sold in a cardboard box.

Painful experience has proven for years that when she suffers such merry misadventures, the more coffee she drinks, the more awful she's going to feel, but this never stops her from ordering a large pot in her room and flying by the seat of her pants instead of trusting her instruments, as Lucy likes to say when her aunt ignores what she knows and does what she feels and crash-lands.

When she finally reaches the front desk, she asks for her bill and is handed an envelope.

"This just came in for you, ma'am," the harried receptionist says as he tears off the printout of her room charges and hands it to her.

Inside the envelope is a fax. Scarpetta walks behind the bellman pushing her cart. It is loaded with bags and three very large hard cases containing carousels of slides that she has not bothered to convert to PowerPoint presentations because she can't stand them. Showing a picture of a man who has blown off the top of his head with a shotgun or a child scalded to death does not require a computer and special effects. Slide presentations and handouts serve her purposes just as well now as they did when she started her career.

The fax is from her secretary, Rose, who must have called about the same time Scarpetta was miserably making her way from the elevator to the lobby. All Rose says is that Dr. Sam Lanier, the coroner of East Baton Rouge Parish, very much needs to speak to her. Rose includes his home, office and cell telephone numbers. Immediately, Scarpetta thinks of Nic Robillard, of their conversation not even an hour ago.

She waits until she is inside her taxi before calling Dr. Lanier's office number. He answers himself.

"How did you know who my secretary is and where to reach her?" she asks right off.

"Your former office in Richmond was kind enough to give me your number in Florida. Rose is quite charming, by the way."

"I see," she replies as the taxi drives away from the hotel. "I'm in a taxi on the way to the airport. Can we make this quick?"

Her abruptness is more about her annoyance with her former office than with him. Giving out her unlisted phone number is blatant harassment-not that it hasn't happened before. Some people who still work at the Chief Medical Examiners Office remain loyal to their boss. Others are traitors and bend in the direction that power pulls.

"Quick it will be," Dr. Lanier says. "I'm wondering if you would review a case for me, Dr. Scarpetta-an eight-year-old case that was never successfully resolved. A woman died under suspicious circumstances, apparently from a drug overdose. You ever heard of Charlotte Dard?"

"No."

"I've just gotten information-don't know if it's good or not-but I don't want to discuss it while you're on a cell phone."

"This is a Baton Rouge case?" Scarpetta digs in her handbag for a notepad and pen.

"Another story for another day. But yes, it's a Baton Rouge case."

"Your case?"

"It was. I'd like to send you the reports, slides and all the rest. Looks like I'd better dig back into this thing." He hesitates. "And as you might suspect, I don't have much of a budget…"

"Nobody who calls me has consultants built into the budget," she interrupts him. "I didn't either when I was in Virginia."

She tells him to FedEx her the case and gives him her address.

She adds, "Do you happen to know an investigator in Zachary named Nic Robillard?"

A pause, then, "Believe I talked to her on the phone a few months back. I'm sure you know what's going on down here."

"I can't help but know. It's all over the news," Scarpetta cautiously replies over the noise of the taxi and rush-hour traffic.

Neither her tone nor her words betray that she has any personal information about the cases, and her trust of Nic slips several notches as she frets that perhaps Nic called Dr. Lanier and talked about her. Why she might have done that is hard to say, unless she simply volunteered that Scarpetta could be a very useful resource for him, should he ever need her. Maybe he really does need her for this cold case he's just told her about. Maybe he's trying to develop a relationship with her because he's not equipped to handle these serial murders by himself.

"How many forensic pathologists work for you?" Scarpetta asks him. One.

"Did Nic Robillard call you about me?" She doesn't have time for subtlety.

"Why would she?" 1 hat s no answer.

"Hell no," he says.