Blow Fly

113

SWAMP MAMA'S IS A BAR that smells like beer, with old vinyl booths and a stained, unvarnished wooden floor.

While an LSU student waiter takes drink orders, Eric and Dr. Lanier disappear into the men's room.

"I tell you," Eric says as they push through the restroom's door. "I'd take her home with me any time. What about tonight?"

"She's not interested in you," Dr. Lanier says in a cadence that rises in pitch at the end of each sentence, causing his comments to sound like questions when they aren't. "Come on now."

"She's not married."

"Don't be messing with my consultants, especially this one. She'll eat you alive."

"Oh, please, God. Let her."

"Every time you get dumped by your latest girlfriend, you turn into a mental case."

They are conducting this conversation at the urinals, one of the few places on the planet where they don't mind having their backs to the door.

"I'm trying to figure out how to describe her," Eric says. "Not pretty like your wife. Stronger-featured than that, and to me there's nothing sexier than a really great body in a suit or maybe a uniform."

"You're goofy as a shit-eating fly. Don't go buzzing around her geography, Eric."

"I like those little glasses she wears, too. I wonder if she's dating anybody. That suit doesn't hide what's important, you notice?"

"No, I didn't notice." Dr. Lanier vigorously scrubs his hands in the sink, as if he's about to perform a heart transplant. "I'm blind. Don't forget to wash up."

Eric laughs as he moves to the sink, blasts on the hot water and pumps globs of pink soap into his palms. "No kidding, what if I ask her out, Boss? What harm could there be in that?"

"Maybe you should try her niece. She's closer to your age. Very attractive and smart as hell. She might be too much of a handful for you. She's also with a guy. But they didn't sleep in the same room."

"When do I meet her? Maybe tonight? You cook? Maybe we can go to Boutin's?"

"What's the matter with you?"

"I ate oysters last night."

Dr. Lanier snatches paper towels out of a metal dispenser on the wall. He places a short stack of them on the edge of Eric's sink. Walking out of the men's room, he watches Scarpetta, noticing that every detail of her is unusual, even the way she reaches for her coffee, slowly, with deliberation, exuding confidence and power that has absolutely nothing to do with drinking coffee. She is scanning notes in a diary that has a black leather slipcover so she can refill it as often as needed. He suspects she is constantly refilling that diary. She's the sort who would record any detail or conversation that in her mind might prove important. Her meticulousness goes beyond her training. He slides in next to her.

"I recommend the gumbo," he says as his cell phone plays a thin, mechanical version of Beethoven's Fifth.

"Wish you'd set your ringer on something else," Eric comments. "Lanier," he answers. He listens for a minute, frowning, his eyes fixing on Eric. "I'm leaving right now."

He gets up from the booth and tosses his napkin on the table. "Come on," he says "We got a bad one."