Blow Fly (Kay Scarpetta #12)(5)

"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 Magillas."

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.

6

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.