Blow Fly (39 page)

T
HE LEARJET 35 BELONGS TO
Homeland Security, and Benton is the only passenger on it.

Landing at Louisiana Air in Baton Rouge, he hurries down the steps, carrying a soft-sided bag, not looking at all like the Benton his people once knew: facial hair, a black Super Bowl baseball cap and tinted glasses. His black suit is off the rack from Saks, where he blitzed through the men's department yesterday. Shoes are Prada, black, rubber soles. His belt is also Prada, and he wears a black T-shirt. None of the clothes, except the shoes and T-shirt, are a perfect fit. But he hasn't owned a suit in years, and it did cross his mind in the dressing room that he missed the soft new wools, cashmere and polished cotton of the past, when tailors made chalk marks on sleeves and cuffs that needed to be hemmed.

He wonders who Scarpetta gave his expensive clothes to after his alleged death. Knowing her as well as he does, aware of her great powers of denial, he suspects that either she didn't clean out his closets at all and had someone else do it, or she was assisted, possibly by Lucy, who would have had an easier time disposing of his personal effects since she knew he wasn't dead. Then again, it depends on how much of an actress Lucy felt she should or could be at the time. Pain crushes him as for an instant
he feels Scarpetta's pain, imagines the unimaginable, her grief and how poorly she probably handled it.

Stop! A waste of time and mental energy to speculate. Idle thoughts. Focus.

As he walks briskly across the tarmac, he notices a Bell 407 helicopter, dark blue or black with pop-out floats, a wire strike, and bold, bright stripes. He notes the tail number: 407TLP.

The Last Precinct.

A flight from New York to Baton Rouge is about a thousand miles. Depending on the winds and fuel stops, she could have made it here in ten hours if she was unlucky with a headwind, and much less time than that with a tailwind. In either scenario, if she left early this morning, she should have gotten here by late afternoon. He contemplates what she's been doing since and wonders whether Marino is with her.

Benton's car is a dark red Jaguar, rented in New Orleans and delivered here to the parking lot, one of the privileges for those who fly private. At the front desk of the FBO, or fixed base operation, as small private airports with only a unicom are called, he speaks to a young lady. Behind her is a monitor showing the status of other incoming flights. There are few, his listed with the update that it has just landed. Lucy's helicopter isn't on the screen, indicating she arrived some time ago.

“I have a rental car that should be here.” Benton knows it will be.

The senator will have made sure that all details have been handled.

The clerk looks through rental car folders. Benton catches the news and turns around to observe pilots watching CNN in a small corner lounge. On the screen is an old photograph of Jean-Baptiste Chandonne. Benton isn't surprised. Chandonne escaped early this afternoon after disguising himself as one of the two corrections officers he killed.

“God, talk about an ugly bastard,” one of the pilots comments.

“You gotta be kidding me! No human being looks like that.”

The photograph is a mug shot taken in Richmond, Virginia, where Chandonne was arrested three years ago. He was not clean-shaven at the time, and his face, even his forehead, was horrifically covered with
baby-fine hair. Showing the old photograph is a shame. Chandonne could not have escaped from prison unless he is clean-shaven. When he is hairy, he is a conspicuous freak. For the public to see this old mug shot isn't helpful, especially if he wears caps or sunglasses, or employs other means of disguising his grotesquely deformed face.

The clerk is frozen behind the desk, staring with her mouth open at the TV across the room.

“If I saw him, I'd die of a heart attack!” she exclaims. “Is he for real, or is that weirdo hair fake and everything?”

Benton glances at his watch, the successful businessman in a hurry. His protective law-enforcement instincts, however, are impossible to suppress.

“He's real, I'm afraid,” he tells the clerk. “I remember hearing about his murders a few years back. I guess we'd better be on the lookout with him on the loose.”

“You can say that again!” She hands him the rental envelope. “I guess I need to run your charge card.”

He pulls a platinum American Express card out of his wallet, which also holds two thousand dollars, mostly in hundred-dollar bills. More cash is tucked into various pockets. Not knowing how long he'll be here, he has come prepared. He initials the rental car form and signs it.

“Thank you, Mr. Andrews. Drive carefully,” the clerk says with a bright smile that goes with the job. “And I hope you enjoy your stay in Baton Rouge.”

S
CARPETTA'S TENSION MOUNTS AS SHE
and Albert watch baggage go by on the carousel inside Baton Rouge's main terminal.

The time is almost seven p.m., and she is beginning to entertain real worries that no one has come to meet him. He collects one suitcase and clings to Scarpetta's side as she reclaims her own bag.

“Looks like you found yourself a new friend.” Weldon Winn is suddenly behind her.

“Come on,” she says to Albert. They walk through automatic glass doors. “I'm sure your aunt will drive up any minute. She's probably having to circle because cars aren't allowed to park at the curb.”

Armed soldiers in camouflage patrol inside the baggage area and outside on the sidewalk. Albert seems oblivious to the unsmiling military presence, to their fingers resting on the trigger guards of assault rifles. His face is bright red.

“You and me are going to talk, Dr. Scarpetta,” U.S. Attorney Winn finally says her name and dares to wrap an arm around her shoulder.

“I think it would be a very good idea for you to keep your hands off me,” she quietly warns him.

He removes his arm. “And I think it might be a good idea for you to
learn how things are done down here.” He watches cars pull up to the curb. “We're going to meet, all right. Any information about ongoing investigations is important. And if someone's an informant . . .”

“I am no informant,” she interrupts his outrageous intimation that if she doesn't fully cooperate with him, he'll subpoena her for deposition. “Who told you I was coming to Baton Rouge?”

Albert begins to cry.

“Let me let you in on a little secret, pretty lady. Nothing much happens around here that I don't know about.”

“Mr. Winn,” she says, “if you have a legitimate need to talk to me at some point, I'll be happy to do so. But in an appropriate venue—which a sidewalk outside an airport clearly isn't.”

“And I'll certainly look forward to that.” He holds up a hand and snaps his fingers, signaling his driver.

She slings her bag over her shoulder and takes Albert's hand. “Don't worry. It's all right,” she tells him. “I'm sure your aunt's on her way. But if she's been delayed for some reason, I'm not going to leave you all by yourself, okay?”

“But I don't know you. I'm not supposed to go anywhere with strangers,” he whines.

“We sat together on the plane, didn't we?” she replies as Weldon Winn's white stretch limousine pulls up to the curb. “So you know me a little bit, and I promise you're safe, perfectly safe.”

Winn climbs into the backseat and shuts the door, disappearing behind dark tinted glass. Cars and taxis stop for pickups, trunks popping open. People hug loved ones. Albert's wide, runny eyes dart around furtively, his fears quickly broaching hysteria. Scarpetta senses Winn looking out at her as the limousine drives off, and her thoughts are scattered like marbles dashed to the floor. It is hard for her to sort through what she should do next, but she starts with dialing directory assistance on her cell phone and finds out in short order that there is no listing for a Weldon Winn or anyone with the last name of Winn in New Orleans, where
he claims to have a place in the French Quarter. His number in Baton Rouge is unlisted.

“Why am I not surprised,” she mutters, and all she can suppose is that someone told the U.S. Attorney she was arriving here in the early evening, and he flew to Houston and made sure he was on her connecting flight and seated next to her.

Added to that disturbing and enigmatic development is her responsibility for a child she doesn't know, whose family seems to have abandoned him.

“You have your aunt's phone number, don't you?” she says to Albert. “Come on, let's call her. And by the way,” it occurs to her, “you haven't told me your last name.”

“Dard,” Albert says. “I have my own cell phone, but the battery's dead.”

“I beg your pardon? What did you say your last name is?”

“Dard.” He hunches a shoulder to wipe his face.

A
LBERT DARD STARES DOWN AT
the dirty sidewalk, focusing on dried gum, gray and shaped like a small cookie.

“Why were you in Houston?” Scarpetta asks him.

“To change planes.” He begins to sob.

“But where were you first, where did you leave from?”

“Miami,” he replies, increasingly distraught. “I was with my uncle for spring break, and then my aunt said I had to come home right away.”

“When did she say that?” Having given up on his aunt, Scarpetta takes Albert's hand, and they walk back inside the baggage area, headed for the Hertz rental car desk.

“This morning,” he replies. “I think I did something bad. Uncle Walt walked into my bedroom and woke me up. He said I was going home. I was supposed to be with him another three days.”

Scarpetta squats and looks him in the eyes, gently holding his shoulders. “Albert, where's your mother?”

He bites his bottom lip. “With the angels,” he says. “My aunt says they're around us all the time. I've never seen even one.”

“And your father?”

“Away. He's very important.”

“Tell me your home phone number, and let's find out what's going on,” she says. “Or maybe you have your aunt's cell number? And what is her name?”

Albert tells her his aunt's name and his home number. Scarpetta calls. After several rings, a woman answers.

“Is Mrs. Guidon in, please?” Scarpetta asks as Albert holds her hand tightly.

“May I ask who's calling?” The woman is polite, her accent French.

“I'm not someone she knows, but I'm with her nephew, Albert. At the airport. It appears there is no one to pick him up.” She hands the phone to Albert. “Here,” she says to him.

“Who is it?” he asks, oddly. After a pause, he says, “Because you're not here, that's why. I don't know her name.” He scowls, his tone snippy.

Scarpetta does not volunteer her name to him. Albert lets go of her hand and balls up his fist. He begins smacking it against his thigh, punching himself.

The woman talks fast, her voice audible but unintelligible. She and Albert are speaking French, and Scarpetta stares at Albert with renewed bewilderment as he angrily ends the call and returns the cell phone to her.

“Where did you learn French?” she asks him.

“My mom,” he gloomily says. “Aunt Eveline makes me talk it a lot.” Tears fill his eyes again.

“I tell you what, let's get my rental car, and I'll take you home. You can show me where you live, can't you?”

He wipes his eyes and nods his head.

B
ATON 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.”

L
UCY AND MARINO
connect by cell phone.

“Where's she staying?” she asks from her parked black Lincoln Navigator SUV.

She and Rudy figured out that the best way to be inconspicuous was to pull into the Radisson parking lot and sit with the engine and lights off.

“The coroner. I'm glad she ain't by herself in no hotel.”

“None of us need to be in a hotel,” Lucy says. “Damn, could you drive a louder truck?”

“If I had one.”

“How does he check out? What's his name?”

“Sam Lanier. His background's clean as a whistle. When he called to check out the Doc, I got the impression he's an okay guy.”

“Well, if he isn't, she'll be all right. Because he's about to have three other houseguests,” Lucy says.

A
FRAGILE WEDGEWOOD TEACUP
lightly clinks against a saucer.

Mrs. Guidon and Scarpetta sit at a kitchen table made of a centuries-old butcher block that Scarpetta finds repulsive. She can't help but imagine how many chickens and other animals were slaughtered and chopped up on the worn, sloping wood with its hack marks, cracks and discoloration. It is an unpleasant by-product of her profession that she knows too much, and it is almost impossible to kill bacteria on porous materials such as wood.

“How many times must I demand to know why I'm here and how you managed to get me here?” Scarpetta's eyes are intense.

“I find it charming that Albert seems to have decided you are his friend,” Mrs. Guidon remarks. “I try very hard to encourage him. He wants nothing to do with school sports or any other activities that might expose him to children his own age. He thinks he belongs right here at this table”—she taps the butcher block with her small, milky white knuckles—“talking to you and me as if he is our peer.”

After years of dealing with people who refuse to answer questions or can't or are in denial, Scarpetta is skilled at catching truths as they
subtly show themselves. “Why doesn't he associate with children his own age?” she inquires.

“Who knows? It is a mystery. He has always been odd, really, preferring to stay home and do homework, entertaining himself with those peculiar games children play these days. Cards with those awful creatures on them. Cards and computers, cards and more cards.” Her gestures are dramatic, her French accent heavy, her English stilted and faltering. “He has been more this way as he gets older. Isolated and playing the card games. Often, he is home, stays in his room with the door shut and will not come out.” Suddenly, she softens and seems caring.

Every detail Scarpetta observes is conflicting and disturbing, the kitchen an argument of anachronisms that seem a metaphor for this house and the people who live in it. Behind her is a cavernous fireplace, with formidable hand-forged andirons capable of bearing a load of wood large enough to heat up a room three times this size. A door leads outside, and next to it is a complicated alarm system keypad and an Aiphone with a video screen for the cameras that no doubt guard every entrance. Another keypad, this one much larger, indicates the old mansion is a smart house with multiple modems that allow the occupants to remotely control heating, cooling, lights, entertainment centers and gas fireplaces, and even turn appliances off and on. Yet the appliances and thermostats Scarpetta has seen so far have not been upgraded for what she estimates is at least thirty years.