Blow Fly (30 page)

T
HE RINGING OF
the officer's feet on the catwalk fades.

Jean-Baptiste resettles on his bunk, a stack of clean white paper on his lap. He taps his pen and composes another poetic phrase, unfurling it from his unique mind like a brilliant red flag that waves in rhythm with his pen. His soul brims with poetry. Molding words into images and profundities that roll together in perfect rhythm is effortless, so effortless.

Roll together in perfect rhythm.
He traces his graceful calligraphy again and again, bearing down hard with the ballpoint pen.

Roiling
together in perfect rhythm.

That is better, he thinks, tapping the pen on the paper again, in rhythm with his inner rhythm.

Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap.

He can slow it down or make it faster or faint or strong, depending on the music of blood he remembers from each kill.

“Rolling,”
he starts again.
“Mais non.”

It all roils together in perfect rhythm.

“Mais non.”

Tap, tap of the pen.

“Dear Rocco,” Jean-Baptiste decides to write. “You did not dare to
mention Poland to the wrong person, of this I can be sure. You are too much of a coward.”

Tap, tap, tap.

“But who? Maybe Jean-Paul,” he writes to his dead lawyer.

Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap . . .

“Hey, Hair Ball! I got my radio tuned in,” Beast yells. “Ohhhh, too bad you can't hear it. Guess what? They're talking about your lawyer again. Another itty-bitty little news flash. He left a note, see? It said having you for a client
just killed him.
Get it?”

“Shut up, Beast.”

“Get a life, Beast.”

“Your jokes suck, man.”

“I wanna smoke! Why the fuck don't they let me smoke!”

“Bad for your health, man.”

“Smokin' will kill ya, dumb shit. Says so right on the pack.”

T
HE ATKINS DIET WORKS FINE
for Lucy because she has never been keen on sweets and doesn't mind forgoing pasta and bread. Her most dangerous indulgence is beer and wine, and she abstains from both at Jaime Berger's penthouse apartment on Central Park West.

“I won't force you,” Berger says, returning the bottle of Pinot Grigio to the top shelf of the refrigerator inside her beautiful kitchen of wormy chestnut cupboards and granite countertops. “I'm better off without it myself. I can hardly remember anything anymore, as it is.”

“I'd be better off if you would forget things now and then,” Lucy says. “I'd be a lot better off if I would, too.”

The last time she visited Berger's penthouse was at least three months ago. Berger's husband got drunk, and soon enough he and Lucy went at each other until Berger asked Lucy to please leave.

“It's forgotten,” Berger says with a smile.

“He's not here, right?” Lucy makes sure. “You promised it was okay for me to come over.”

“Would I lie to you?

“Well . . .” Lucy kids her.

For the moment, their light exchange belies the horror of that event.
Never has Berger witnessed such a display in what was supposed to be civilized socializing. She truly worried that Lucy and her husband would resort to blows. Lucy would win.

“He hates me,” Lucy says, pulling a packet of folded paper out of the back pocket of her cutoff jeans.

Berger doesn't reply as she pours sparkling water into two tall beer glasses and goes back into the refrigerator for a bowl of freshly cut wedges of lime. Even when she is casual in a soft white cotton warm-up suit and socks, as she is now, she is anything but easygoing.

Lucy begins to fidget, stuffs the papers back into her pocket. “Do you think we can ever relax around each other, Jaime? It hasn't been the same . . . .”

“It really can't be the same, now can it?”

Berger makes pennies as a prosecutor. Her husband is a real estate thief, maybe one notch more highly evolved than Rocco Caggiano, in Lucy's opinion.

“Seriously. When will he be home? Because if it's soon, I'm leaving,” Lucy says, staring at her.

“You wouldn't be here right now if he was coming home soon. He's attending a meeting in Scottsdale. Scottsdale, Arizona. In the desert.”

“With reptiles and cactus. Where he belongs.”

“Stop it, Lucy,” Berger says. “My bad marriage is not somehow related to all the awful men your mother chose over you when you were growing up. We've been through this before.”

“I just don't understand why . . .”

“Please don't go there. The past is past.” Berger sighs, returning the bottle of San Pellegrino to the refrigerator. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Yes, the past is past. So let's get on to what
does
matter.”

“I never said it didn't—doesn't matter.” Berger carries their drinks into the living room. “Come on now. You're here. I'm glad you're here. So let's make it all right, shall we?”

The view overlooks the Hudson, a side of the building considered less attractive than the front of it, which has the view of the park. But Berger loves water. She loves to watch the cruise ships docking. If she wanted trees, she has told Lucy many times, she wouldn't bother living in New York. If she wanted water, Lucy usually replies, she shouldn't have bothered living in New York.

“Nice view. Not bad for the cheap side of the building,” Lucy says.

“You're impossible.”

“That I know,” Lucy replies.

“How does poor Rudy put up with you?”

“That I don't know. I guess he loves his job.”

Lucy sprawls on an ostrich-skin couch, her bare legs crossed, her muscles speaking their own language, responding to movements and nerves while she lives on with little awareness of how she looks. Her workouts are an addictive release from demons.

J
EAN-BAPTISTE STRETCHES OUT
on the thin wool blanket he soaks with sweat each night.

He leans against the hard, cold wall. He has decided that Rocco isn't dead. Jean-Baptiste does not fall for yet another manipulation, although he is not certain what the purpose of this manipulation might be. Ah, of course,
fear.
His father must lurk behind this lie. He is warning Jean-Baptiste that suffering and death are the reward for betrayal, even if the traitor is the mighty Monsieur Chandonne's son.

A warning.

Jean-Baptiste had better not talk now that he is about to die.

Ha.

Every hour of every day, the enemy attempts to make Jean-Baptiste suffer and die.

Don't talk.

I will if I want. Ha! It is me, Jean-Baptiste, who rules death.

He could kill himself easily. In minutes he could twist a sheet and tie it around his neck and a leg of the steel bed. People are misinformed about
hangings. No height is necessary, only a position—such as sitting cross-legged on the floor and leaning forward with all his weight, thus putting pressure on the blood vessels. Unconsciousness happens in seconds, then death. Fear would not touch him, and were he to end his biological life, he would transcend it first, and his soul would direct all that he would do from that point on.

Jean-Baptiste would not end his biological life in this manner. He has too much to look forward to, and he joyfully leaves his small death row cell and transports his soul into the future, where he sits behind Plexiglas and stares at the lady doctor Scarpetta, hungrily takes in her entire being, relives his brilliance at tricking his way into her lovely château and raising his hammer to crush her head. She denied herself the ecstasy. She denied Jean-Baptiste by depriving him of her blood. Now she will come to him in humility and love, realizing what she did, the foolishness of it, the joy she denied herself when she further maimed him and burned his eyes with formalin, the chemical of the dead. Scarpetta dashed it into Jean-Baptiste's face. The evil fluid demagnitized him briefly, and ever so briefly, pain forced him to suffer the hell of living only in his body.

Madame Scarpetta will spend eternity worshipping his higher state. His higher being will direct its superiority over other humans throughout the universe, as Poe wrote under the guise of a Philadelphia Gentleman. Of course, the anonymous author is Poe. The invisible agent that is the transcendent Poe came to Jean-Baptiste in a delirium as he was restrained in the Richmond Hospital. Richmond was where Poe grew up. His soul remains there.

Poe told Jean-Baptiste, “Read my inspired words and you will be independent of an intellect you will no longer need, my friend. You will be animated by the force and no longer distracted by pain and internal sensations.”

Pages 56 and 57. The end of Jean-Baptiste's
limited march of
reasoning powers.
No more diseases or peculiar complaints. The internal voice and glorious luminosity.

Who's there?

Jean-Baptiste's hairy hand moves faster beneath the blanket. A stronger stench rises from his profuse perspiration, and he screams in furious frustration.

L
UCY SLIPS THE FOLDED PAPERS
out of her back pocket as Berger sits next to her on the couch.

“Police reports, autopsy reports,” Lucy tells her.

Berger takes the computer printouts from her and goes through them carefully but quickly. “Wealthy American lawyer, frequently in Szczecin on business, frequently stayed at the Radisson. Apparently shot himself in the right temple with a small-caliber pistol. Clothed, had defecated on himself, a STAT alcohol of point-two-six.” She glances up at Lucy.

“For a boozer like him,” Lucy says, “that was probably nothing.”

Berger reads some more. The reports are detailed, noting the feces-stained cashmere pants, briefs and towels, the empty champagne bottle, the half-empty bottle of vodka.

“It appears he was sick. Let's see,” Berger continues, “twenty-four hundred dollars in American cash inside a sock in the bottom drawer of a dresser. A gold watch, gold ring, a gold chain. No evidence of robbery. No one heard a gunshot, or at least never reported hearing one.

“Evidence of a meal. Steak, a baked potato, shrimp cocktail, chocolate cake, vodka. Someone—can't pronounce the name—working in the kitchen seems to think, but isn't sure, that Rocco had room service around
eight p.m., the night of the twenty-sixth. Origin of a champagne bottle is unknown but is a brand the hotel carries. No fingerprints on the bottle except Rocco Caggiano's . . . Room was checked for prints, one cartridge case recovered—it and the pistol checked for prints. Again, Rocco's. His hands checked positive for gunshot residue, yada yada yada. They were thorough.” She looks up at Lucy. “We're not even halfway through the police report.”

“What about witnesses?” Lucy asks. “Anybody suspicious . . .”

“No.” Berger slides one page behind another. “Autopsy stuff . . . uh . . . heart and liver disease, why am I not surprised? Atherosclerosis, et cetera, et cetera. Gunshot wound, contact with charred lacerated margins and no stippling. Instantly fatal—that would make your aunt crazy. You know how she hates it when someone says that a person died instantly. Nobody dies instantly, right Lucy?” Berger peers over the top of her reading glasses and meets Lucy's eyes. “You think Rocco died in seconds, minutes, maybe an hour?”

Lucy doesn't answer her.

“His body was found at nine-fifteen a.m., April twenty-eighth . . .” Berger looks quizzically at her. “By then he'd been dead less than forty hours. Not even two days.” She frowns. “Body found by . . . I can't pronounce his name, a maintenance guy. Body badly decomposed.” She pauses. “Infested with maggots.” She glances up. “That's a very advanced stage of decomposition for someone who's been dead such a short time in what sounds to me like a relatively cool room.”

“Cool? The room temperature's in there?” Lucy cranes her neck to look at a printout she can't translate.

“Says the window was slightly opened, temperature in the room sixty-eight degrees, even though thermostat set on seventy-four degrees, but the weather was cool, temperature low sixties during the day, mid-fifties at night. Rain . . .” She is frowning. “My French is getting rusty. Ummm. No suspicion of foul play. Nothing unusual happened inside the hotel the night Rocco Caggiano ordered room service, the
alleged
night, if the
room service guy has the date right. Ummm.” She scans. “A prostitute made a scene in the lobby. There's a description. That's interesting. I'd love to depose her.”

Berger looks up. Her eyes linger on Lucy's.

“Well,” she says in a way that unsettles Lucy, “we all know how confusing time of death can be. And it appears that the police aren't sure of the time and date of Rocco's last meal, so to speak. Apparently, the hotel doesn't log room service orders on a computer.”

She leans forward in her chair, a look on her face Lucy has seen before. It terrifies her.

“Shall I call your aunt about time of death? Want me to call our good detective friend Marino and ask his opinion about the disruptive
prostitute
in the lobby? The description in this report sounds a little bit like you. Only she was foreign. Maybe Russian.”

Berger gets up from the couch and moves close to the windows, looking out. She starts shaking her head and running her fingers through her hair. When she turns around, her eyes are veiled with the protective curtain she keeps drawn virtually every hour of her every day.

The prosecutorial interview has begun.