Four Scarpetta Novels

  “Oh, yeah? How do you know? You an eyewitness? You actually see little Maggie shed her little skin?” the detective with the shaved head persists, winking at her.

  “Nic’s got a tent in the Body Farm, sleeps out there with all her creepy-crawly friends,” someone else says.

  “I would if I needed to.”

  No one argues with that. Nic is well known for her ventures into the two-acre, wooded decay research facility at the University of Tennessee, where the decomposition of donated human bodies is studied to determine many important facts of death, not the least of which is when death occurred. The joke is, she visits the Body Farm as if she’s dropping by the old folks’ home and checking on her relatives.

  “Bet Nic’s got a name for every maggot, fly, beetle and buzzard out there.”

  The quips and gross-out jokes continue until Reba drops her fork with a loud clatter.

  “Not while I’m eating rare steak!” she protests much too loudly.

  “The spinach adds a nice touch of green, girlfriend.”

  “Too bad you didn’t get no rice . . .”

  “Hey, it ain’t too late! Waitress! Bring this lady a nice bowl of rice. With gravy.”

  “And what are these tiny black dots that look like Maggie’s eyes?” Scarpetta lifts the vial to the candlelight again, hoping her students will settle down before they all get kicked out of the restaurant.

  “Eyes,” says the cop with the shaved head. “They’re eyes, right?”

  Reba begins to sway in her chair.

  “No, they’re not eyes,” Scarpetta replies. “Come on. I already gave you a hint a few minutes ago.”

  “Look like eyes to me. Little beady black eyes like Magilla’s.”

  In the past ten weeks, Sergeant Magil from Houston has become “Magilla the Gorilla” because of his hairy, muscle-bound body.

  “Hey!” he protests. “You ask my girlfriend if I got maggot eyes. She looks deep into these eyes of mine”—he points to them—“and faints.”

  “Exactly what we’re saying, Magilla. I looked into those eyes of yours, I’d pass out cold, too.”

  “They gotta be eyes. How the hell else does a maggot see where it’s going?”

  “They’re spiracles, not eyes,” Nic answers. “That’s what the little black dots are. Like little snorkels so the maggot can breathe.”

  “Snorkels?”

  “Wait a minute. Hey, hand that thing over, Dr. Scarpetta. I wanna see if Maggie’s wearing a mask and fins.”

  A skinny state police investigator from Michigan has her head on the table, she is laughing so hard.

  “Next time we find a ripe one, just look for little snorkels sticking up . . .”

  The guffaws turn to fits, Magilla sliding off his chair, prone on the floor. “Oh, shit! I’m gonna throw up,” he shrieks with laughter.

  “Snorkels!”

  Scarpetta surrenders, sitting back in silence, the situation out of her control.

  “Hey, Nic! Didn’t know you were a Navy SEAL!”

  This goes on until the manager of Ye Old Steak House silently appears in the doorway—his way of indicating that the party in his back room is disturbing the other diners.

  “Okay, boys and girls,” Scarpetta says in a tone that is slightly scary. “Enough.”

  The hilarity is gone as quickly as a sonic boom, the maggot jokes end, and then there are other gifts for Scarpetta: a space pen that can supposedly write in “rain, blizzards, and if you accidentally drop it in a chest cavity while you’re doing an autopsy”; a Mini Maglite “to see in those hard-to-reach places”; and a dark blue baseball cap embellished with enough gold braid for a general.

  “General Dr. Scarpetta. Salute!”

  Everybody does as they eagerly look for her response, irreverent remarks flying around again like shotgun pellets. Magilla tops off Scarpetta’s wine glass from a gallon paper carton with a push-button spout. She figures the cheap Chardonnay is probably made from grapes grown at the lowest level of the slopes, where the drainage is terrible. If she’s lucky, the vintage is four months old. She will be sick tomorrow. She is sure of it.

  EARLY THE NEXT MORNING in New York’s Kennedy Airport, a security guard recommends that Lucy Farinelli remove her oversized stainless-steel Breitling watch, empty her pockets of coins and place them in a tray.

  It is not a suggestion but an order when she is asked to remove her running shoes, jacket and belt and place them and her briefcase on the conveyor that will carry them through the X-ray machine, where nothing but a cell phone, a hairbrush and a tube of lipstick will fluoresce. British Air attendants are friendly enough in their dark blazers and navy blue dresses with red and white checks, but airport police are especially tense. Although she doesn’t set off the doorframe-shaped scanner as she walks through in her athletic socks, her jeans hanging loose, she is searched with the hand scanner, and her underwire bra sets it off with a beep-beep-beep.

  “Hold up your arms,” the hefty female officer tells her.

  Lucy smiles and holds out her arms crucifixion-style, and the officer pats her down quickly, her hands fluttering under Lucy’s arms, under her breasts, up and down her thighs, all the way to her crotch—very professionally, of course. Other passengers pass by unmolested, and the men, in particular, find the good-looking young woman with arms and legs spread of keen interest. Lucy could care less. She has lived through too much to waste energy in being modest and is tempted to unbutton her shirt and point out the underwire bra, assuring the officer that no battery and tiny—very tiny—explosive device are attached.

  “It’s my bra,” she casually says to the startled guard, who is far more unnerved than her suspect. “Damn it, I always forget to wear a bra without wire in it, maybe a sports bra, or no bra. I’m really sorry to inconvenience you, Officer Washington.” She’s already read her name tag. “Thank you for doing your job so well. What a world we live in. I understand the terrorist alert is orange again.”

  Lucy leaves the bewildered guard and plucks her watch and coins out of the tray and collects her briefcase, jacket and belt. Sitting on the cold, hard floor, out of the way of traffic, she puts on her running shoes, not bothering to lace them. She gets up, still polite and sweet to any police or British Air employees watching her. Reaching around to her back pocket, she slips out her ticket and passport, both of them issued to one of her many false names. She strolls nonchalantly, laces flopping, deep inside the winding carpeted gate 10, and ducks inside the small doorway of Concorde flight 01. A British Air attendant smiles at her as she checks Lucy’s boarding pass.

  “Seat one-C.” She points the way to the first row, the bulkhead aisle seat, as if Lucy has never traveled on the Concorde before.

  Last time she did, it was under yet another name, and she was wearing glasses and green contact lenses, her hair dyed funky blue and purple, easily washed out and matching the photograph on that particular passport. Her occupation was “musician.” Although no one could possibly have been familiar with her nonexistent techno band, Yellow Hell, there were plenty of people who said, “Oh yes, I’ve heard of it! Cool!”

  Lucy counts on the dismal observation skills of the general masses. She counts on their fear of showing ignorance, on their accepting lies as familiar truths. She counts on her enemies noticing all that goes on around them, and like them, she notices all that goes on around her, too. For example, when the customs agent studied her passport at great length, she recognized his behavior and understood why security is at a feverish pitch. Interpol has sent a Red Notice screaming over the Internet to approximately 182 countries, alerting them to look out for a fugitive named Rocco Caggiano, wanted in Italy and France for murder. Rocco has no idea he is a fugitive. He has no idea that Lucy sent information to Interpol’s Central Bureau in Washington, D.C., her credible tip thoroughly checked out before it was relayed through cyberspace to Interpol’s headquarters in Lyon, France, where the Red Notice was issued and rocketed to law enforcement all around the world
. All this in a matter of hours.

  Rocco does not know Lucy, although he knows who she is. She knows him very well, although they have never met. At this moment, as she straps herself into her seat and the Concorde starts its Rolls Royce engines, she can’t wait to see Rocco Caggiano, her anticipation fueled by intense anger that will evolve into a nervous dread by the time she finally gets to Eastern Europe.

  I SURE HOPE YOU’RE NOT FEELING as bad as I am,” Nic says to Scarpetta.

  They sit inside the living room of Scarpetta’s suite at the Marriott, waiting for room service. It is nine a.m., and twice now Nic has inquired about Scarpetta’s health, her banality partly due to her flattered disbelief that this woman she admires so intensely invited her to have breakfast.

  Why me? The question bounces inside Nic’s head like a bingo ball. Maybe she feels sorry for me.

  “I’ve felt better,” Scarpetta replies with a smile.

  “Popeye and his wine. But he’s brought worse poison than that.”

  “I don’t know how anything could be worse,” Scarpetta says as a knock sounds on the door. “Unless it really is poison. Excuse me.”

  She gets up from the couch. Room service has arrived on a table wheeled inside. Scarpetta signs the check and tips in cash. Nic notes that she is generous.

  “Popeye’s room—room one-oh-six—is the watering hole,” Nic says. “Any night, just go on in with your six-pack and dump it in the bathtub. Starting around eight p.m., he does nothing but haul twenty-pound bags of ice to his room. Good thing he’s on the first floor. I went once.”

  “Only once in ten weeks?” Scarpetta watches her closely, probing.

  When Nic returns to Louisiana, she will face the worst homicide cases she may ever have in her life. So far, she hasn’t said a word about them, and Scarpetta is concerned about her.

  “When I was in medical school at Johns Hopkins,” Scarpetta offers as she pours coffee, “I was one of three women in my class. If there was a bathtub full of beer anywhere, I can assure you I was never told. What do you take?”

  “Lots of cream and sugar. You shouldn’t be serving me. Here I am, just sitting.” She pops up from her wing chair.

  “Sit down, sit down.” Scarpetta sets Nic’s coffee on a table. “There are croissants and rather inedible-looking bagels. I’ll let you help yourself.”

  “But when you were in medical school, you weren’t a small-town . . .” Nic catches herself before saying hick. “Miami’s not exactly some little mud puddle in Louisiana. All these guys in my class are from big cities.”

  She fixes her attention on Scarpetta’s coffee cup, on how perfectly steady it is as she lifts it to her lips. She drinks her coffee black and seems uninterested in food.

  “When my chief told me the department was offered a fully funded slot at the Academy and would I go, I can’t tell you what I felt like,” Nic goes on, worrying that she’s talking too much about herself. “I really couldn’t believe it and had to go to a world of trouble to make it possible for me to leave home for close to three months. Then I got here to Knoxville and found myself with Reba as a roommate.

  “I can’t say it’s been fun, and I feel terrible sitting here and complaining.” She nervously drinks her coffee, setting it down, then picking it up again, clenching her napkin tightly in her lap. “Especially to you.”

  “Why especially to me?”

  “Truth is, I guess I was hoping to impress you.”

  “You have.”

  “And you don’t seem the sort to appreciate whining.” Nic looks up at her. “It’s not like people are always nice to you, either.”

  Scarpetta laughs. “Shall I call that an understatement?”

  “That didn’t come out right. People are jealous out there. You’ve had your battles. What I’m saying is, you don’t complain.”

  “Ask Rose about that.” Scarpetta is quite amused.

  Nic’s mind locks, as if she should know who Rose is but can’t make a connection.

  “My secretary,” Scarpetta explains, sipping her coffee.

  An awkward silence follows, and Nic asks, “What happened to the other two?”

  Scarpetta is confused.

  “The other two women in your medical class.”

  “One dropped out. I think the other got married and never practiced medicine.”

  “I wonder what they’re feeling now. Probably regret.”

  “They probably wonder about me, too,” Scarpetta replies. “They probably think I feel regret.”

  Nic’s lips part in disbelief. “You?”

  “Everything comes with sacrifices. And it’s human nature to have a hard time accepting anyone who’s different. Usually, you don’t figure that out until you get what you asked for in life and are shocked that in some instances your reward is hatred instead of applause.”

  “I don’t see myself as different or hated. Maybe picked on a lot, but not back home,” Nic quickly replies. “Just because I’m with a small department instead of LAPD doesn’t mean I’m stupid.” Her spirit rises, her voice heating up. “I’m not some mudbug swamp-rat redneck . . .”

  “Mudbug.” Scarpetta frowns. “I don’t believe I know what that is.”

  “A crawfish.”

  “Did someone in the class call you a crawfish?”

  Nic can’t help but lighten up. “Oh, hell. None of them have ever even eaten a crawfish. They probably think it’s a fish that crawls along the bottom of the ocean or something.”

  “I see.”

  “I know what you mean, though. Sort of,” Nic says. “In Zachary, only two street cops are women. I’m the only female investigator, and it’s not that the chief dislikes women or anything like that. In fact, the mayor’s a woman. But most times when I’m in the break room, getting coffee or eating or whatever, I’m the only woman in there. Truth is, I rarely think about it. But I have thought about it a lot here at the Academy. I realize I try too hard to prove I’m really not a hick, and then I annoy everyone. Well, I know you need to go. You probably have to pack, and I don’t want you to miss your plane.”

  “Not so fast,” Scarpetta replies. “I don’t think we’re finished talking.”

  Nic relaxes, her attractive face more animated, her slender body less rigid in the chair. When she speaks this time, she doesn’t sound as nervous.

  “I will tell you the nicest thing anybody’s said to me during this entire ten weeks. Reba said I look a little bit like you. ’Course, it was when she was drunk. Hope I didn’t just insult you.”

  “You may have insulted yourself,” Scarpetta modestly replies. “I’m somewhat older than you, if what I read on your application is to be trusted.”

  “Thirty-six in August. It’s amazing what you pick up about people.”

  “I make it my business to know as much about people as I can. It’s important to listen. Most people are too busy making assumptions, too self-absorbed to listen. And in the morgue, my patients speak very quietly and are unforgiving if I don’t listen and find out everything I can about them.”

  “Sometimes I don’t listen to Buddy like I should—when I’m frantic or just too tired.” Sadness crosses her eyes. “I of all people ought to know how that feels, since Ricky hardly ever listened to me, which is one reason we didn’t get along. One of many reasons.”

  Scarpetta has suspected that Nic’s marriage is in trouble or has ended. People who are unhappy in relationships carry about them a distinct air of discontent and isolation. In Nic’s case, the signs are there, especially the anger that she thinks she hides.

  “How bad?” Scarpetta asks her.

  “Separated, well on our way to divorce.” Nic reaches for her coffee cup again but changes her mind. “Thank God my father lives nearby in Baton Rouge or I don’t know what I’d do about Buddy. I know damn well Ricky would take him from me just to pay me back.”

  “Pay you back? For what?” Scarpetta inquires, and she has a reason for all these questions.

  “A long story.
Been going on more than a year, from bad to worse, not that it was ever all that good.”

  “About as long as these women have been disappearing from your area.” Scarpetta finally gets to her point. “I want to know how you’re handling that, because it will get you if you let it. When you least expect it. It’s not escaped my notice that you haven’t brought up the cases once, not once, not while I’ve been here. Ten women in fourteen months. Vanished, from their homes, vehicles, parking lots, all in the Baton Rouge area. Presumed dead. I can assure you they are. I can assure you they were murdered by the same person, who is shrewd—very shrewd. Intelligent and experienced enough to gain trust, then abduct, then dispose of the bodies. He’s killed before, and he’ll kill again. The latest disappearance was just four days ago—in Zachary. That makes two cases in Zachary, the first one several months ago. So you’re going home to that, Nic. Serial murders. Ten of them.”

  “Not ten. Just the two in Zachary. I’m not on the task force,” Nic replies with restrained resentment. “I don’t run with the big boys. They don’t need help from little country cops like me, at least that’s the way the U.S. Attorney looks at it.”

  “What’s the U.S. Attorney got to do with it?” Scarpetta asks. “These cases aren’t the jurisdiction of the feds.”

  “Weldon Winn’s not only an egotistical asshole, but he’s stupid. Nothing worse than someone who’s stupid and arrogant and has power. The cases are high-profile, all over the news. He wants to be part of them, maybe end up a federal judge or senator someday.

  “And you’re right. I know what I’m going home to, but all I can do is work the two disappearances we’ve had in Zachary, even if I know damn well they’re connected to the other eight.”

  “Interesting the abductions are now happening farther north of Baton Rouge,” Scarpetta says. “He may be finding his earlier killing field too risky.”

  “The only thing good I can say about that is Zachary may be in the East Baton Rouge Parish, but at least it isn’t the jurisdiction of the Baton Rouge police. So the high and mighty task force can’t boss me around about my cases.”