Blow Fly (Kay Scarpetta #12)(78)

"It's like hair color, eye color or anything else. An offender has a fetish about whatever triggers sexual arousal that in some cases gives rise to a sadistic need to destroy that fetish. Which, in this instance, is the woman with the size and shape of breasts that are a fetish to Jean-Baptiste Chandonne."

Officer Duck understands in a limited way. He likes breasts, too. He is perversely, shamefully aroused by images, even violent ones.

74

THE 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 ? 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 f*ck don't they let me smoke!"

"Bad for your health, man."

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

75

THE 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?"