Blow Fly (Kay Scarpetta #12)(46)

"I wasn't trying to rape you! For Christ's sake, don't use a word like that! I thought you were turned on, too. Shit, Lucy. What do you want me to do?"

"Never try a stunt like that again. Or next time I'll break more than your nose."

"Fine. I won't ever do anything again unless you start it. Or change your mind."

He resigned from the Bureau and eventually came to work for her at The Last Precinct. Rudy is a perplexing mix. In some ways, he is the big, handsome dope incapable of making a commitment to any woman he has ever claimed to desperately love (and his choices, as far as Lucy knows, demonstrate appallingly bad judgment). But as a crime fighter, he is as meticulous and skillful as he is as a helicopter pilot. Rudy isn't selfish or narcissistic. He rarely drinks and never touches drugs, not even aspirin.

"One good thing about it." Rudy looked up at Lucy as they sat on her bed. "When the plastic surgeon was fixing my nose, he went ahead and shaved that little bump off it." He gently touched the splint on the bridge of his nose. "He says I'll have a perfect Roman nose. That's what he called it, a Roman nose."

He paused, slightly perplexed. "What exactly is a Roman nose?"

37

LUCY KNOCKS ON the door of room 511. It has a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the knob, and the TV is loud inside, hoofs pounding, guns firing. It sounds like Rudy is watching a Western. But what he's watching is Rocco.

"Yeah." After a pause, Rudy's voice sounds from inside.

"Down and secure," she uses helicopter talk and scans the hallway as she pulls latex gloves out of a pocket and works her hands into them.

The door opens wide enough for her to slip through, and she closes it behind her. Rudy is also wearing surgical gloves, and turns the lock and dead bolt. Lucy takes off her windbreaker and stares hard at Rocco Caggiano, at his flabby, fat body and his bloodshot eyes. She takes in every detail of the room. Draped over a chair is his black cashmere overcoat, and in a corner on the carpet are a plastic tray and an empty bottle of champagne next to a stainless-steel ice bucket filled with water. It would have taken hours for the ice to completely melt. The bed is king-size, and directly across from it in front of a window with the drapes drawn are a small glass table and two chairs. On the carpet are several British newspapers. He's recently been in England, maybe. But Rocco has never bothered to learn a second language. The papers could have come from anywhere along his route here.

Parked between the table and the bed is a room-service cart with nothing on it but four stainless-steel plate covers. Lucy can't help but think of Rocco's estranged father, Pete Marino, as she eyes a gnawed T-bone, the shredded skin of a baked potato, a plate with one pat of butter left (melted), an empty bread basket and a glass goblet filled with wilted lettuce, cocktail sauce, wedges of lemon and shrimp tails. He so completely devoured a slice of chocolate cake, nothing is left but smears made with Rocco's fingers.

"I gotta go."

"Be my guest."

She hurries into the bathroom. The stench is horrible.

"He sober?" Lucy asks Rudy when she returns.

"Sober enough."

"Must be in the genes."

"What?"

"The way father and son take care of themselves," she says. "But that's all he and Marino have in common." This to Rocco: "Drop by Szczecin to check on a few spare firearms? Maybe some ammunition, explosives, electronics, perfumes and designer clothing? How many phony bills of lading are in your briefcase?"

Rocco glares at her, his attention dropping to her cleavage.

"Keep your goddamn eyes to yourself," Lucy snaps, having forgotten about her appearance. She buttons up and resumes her interrogation. "Probably thousands of them floating around somewhere, right, Rocco?"

He says nothing. Lucy notices vomit on the carpet between his black crocodile loafers.

" 'Bout time you gagged on your own shit, Rocco." She sits on the edge of the bed.

"That a pickle up your sleeve, or you just happy to see me," Rudy says to Lucy without a smile, without taking his eyes off Rocco.

Lucy remembers the tactical baton up the sleeve of her linen blouse, slips it out and sets it on the bedside table. It is warm in the room. She glances at the thermostat, verifying that Rudy turned up the heat to seventy-four degrees. Any higher than that could arouse suspicion. Blowing heat moves the drapes drawn across the window on the other side of the room. The window is large and faces the front of the hotel. Rocco stares at the pistol, his eyes filling with tears.

"My, my," Lucy remarks, "you're quite a crybaby for someone so mean and tough. And by the way, your father doesn't cry." She looks at Rudy. "You ever seen Marino cry?"

"Nope."

"You ever seen him shit in his pants?"

"Nope. Did'cha know that Rocco here had plans to put a bullet in Marino's head on his fishing trip? You know, the one he always takes to Buggs Lake."

Lucy doesn't comment. A flush creeps up her neck. Hopefully, Marino will never know that she and Rudy came here and probably saved his life. Rocco won't be shooting anyone ever again.

"You could have killed your father years ago. Why this August?" Lucy asks him.

She knows when Marino takes his annual fishing trip.

Rocco shrugs. "Instructions."