Blow Fly (Kay Scarpetta #12)(101)

He has lost interest in his trading cards, which are neatly stacked next to a blue cell phone. "Do you know what time it is?" he says.

"Almost six," Scarpetta says. "If you're sleepy, take a little nap and I'll let you know when we're about to land."

"I'm not sleepy."

She recalls noticing him at the gate in Houston, playing with his cards. Because he was sitting next to other adults, she assumed he was accompanied and that his family or whoever he is traveling with were seated elsewhere on the plane. It never occurred to her that any parent or relative would allow a young child to travel alone, especially these days.

"Now isn't that something. Not too many people are experts on bulletholes," the U.S. Attorney comments as the flight attendant serves him another drink.

"No, I don't suppose too many people are." Scarpetta's attention is focused on the lost little boy next to her. "You aren't by yourself, are you?" she asks him. "And why aren't you in school?"

"It's spring break. Uncle Walt dropped me off, and a lady at the airport met me. I'm not tired. Sometimes I get to stay up really late, watching movies. We get a thousand channels." He pauses and shrugs. "Well, maybe not that many, but a lot. Do you have any pets? I used to have a dog named Nestle because it was brown like chocolate chips."

"Let's see," Scarpetta says. "I don't have a dog the color of chocolate, but I have an English bulldog who's white and brown with very big lower teeth. His name is Billy. Do you know what an English bulldog is?"

"Like a pit bull?"

"Not anything like a pit bull."

Weldon Winn butts into the conversation. "Might I ask where you're staying while you're in town?"

"Nestl? used to miss me when I wasn't home," Albert wistfully says.

"I'm sure he did," Scarpetta replies. "I think Billy misses me, too. But my secretary takes good care of him."

"Nestl? was a girl."

"What happened to her?"

"I don't know."

"My, my, if you aren't a mysterious little lady," the U.S. Attorney says, staring at her.

Scarpetta turns to him, catching a cold glint in his eyes.

She leans close to him and whispers in his ear, "I've had enough of your bullshit."

104

THE 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 unicorn 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.