Blow Fly (Kay Scarpetta #12)(81)

"Who told you that? Rocco or Marino?"

"Rocco," Lucy barely says.

She's in too deep. It's too late. She desperately needs to purge herself.

"Inside his hotel room," she adds.

"God," Berger mutters.

"We had to, Jaime. It's no different than, than what the soldiers did in Iraq, you get it?"

"No, I don't get it." Berger is shaking her head again. "How the hell you could do something like this."

"He wanted to die."

79

LUCY STANDS ON THE MOST beautiful Persian rug she has ever seen, one she has stood on many, many times during better moments with Jaime Berger.

They are far apart from each other in the living room.

"It's hard for me to imagine you dressed as a prostitute and getting into an altercation with a drunk," Berger goes on. "That was sloppy work on your part."

"I made a mistake."

"I'll say you did."

"I had to go back. For my tactical baton," Lucy tells her.

"Which one of you pulled the trigger?"

The question shocks Lucy. She doesn't want to remember.

"Rocco was planning on killing Marino, his own father," Lucy says again. "Next time Marino went on one of his fishing trips, Rocco was going to take him out. Rocco wanted to die. He did kill himself, sort of."

Berger looks out at the city, her hands tightly clasped. "He sort of killed himself. You sort of murdered him. Sort of dead. Sort of being pregnant. Sort of committing perjury."

"We had to."

Berger doesn't want to hear this. She has no choice.

"We did, I swear."

Berger remains silent.

"He was a Red Notice. He was going to die. The Chandonnes would have taken him out, and not in a nice way."

"Now the defense is mercy killing," Berger finally speaks.

"How is it different from what our soldiers did in Iraq?"

"Now the defense is world peace."

"Rocco's life was over, anyway."

"Now the defense is he was already dead."

"Please don't make fun of me, Jaime!"

"I'm supposed to congratulate you?" Berger goes on. "And now you've f*cked me, too, because I know about it. I know about it." Berger repeats each word slowly. "Am I stupid or what? Jesus! I sat right there"-she whirls around and jabs a finger at Lucy-"and translated those goddamn reports for you.

"You may as well have walked into my office and confessed to a murder, and had me say, Don't worry about it, Lucy. We all make mistakes. Or It happened in Poland, so it's not my jurisdiction. It doesn't count. Or Tell me all about it if it will make you feel better. See, I'm not a real district attorney when I'm with you. When we're alone, when we're inside my apartment, it's not professional."

80

"THE FLUID WHITE as light and brilliant with sparks. Page forty-seven! Who's there!"

"Jesus Christ!" Eyes flash in the barred window, different eyes this time.

Jean-Baptiste feels the heat of the eyes. They are nothing more than small, weak embers.

"Chandonne, shut up, goddamn it! Shut up with this page-number shit. Goddamn, I'm sick and tired of this page-number shit. You hiding some book in there?" The eyes dart around the cell like sparks scattered by the wind. "And get your filthy hand out of your pants, Mini-Me Dick!"

That familiar hateful laughter. "Mini-Dick, Mini-Dick! Mini-Dick, Mini-Dick... !" Beast's is a voice from hell.

Jean-Baptiste has been within twenty feet of Beast. That's how far away the barred window in Jean-Baptiste's door is from the indoor recreation area one floor below him.

There is nothing to do during the one hour a death row inmate with privileges is allowed to spend on the rectangular wooden floor that is securely enclosed by thick wire mesh, like a cage at the zoo. Shooting hoops is popular, or simply walking a mile, which by Jean-Baptiste's calculations requires approximately seventy laps that no one but he is motivated to do. If Jean-Baptiste runs the laps, which is his habit during the one hour per week he is allowed recreation, he doesn't mind the other men on his cell block who leer out at him, their eyes small hot spots from sun shining through a magnifying glass. They make their usual insolent remarks. The recreation hour is the only opportunity inmates have to chat with and see one another from a distance. Many of these conversations are friendly and even funny. Jean-Baptiste is beyond caring that no one is friendly with him, and that all fun is at his expense.

He is familiar with every detail about Beast, who is not considered a model prisoner but, unlike Jean-Baptiste, has privileges, including daily recreation and, of course, his radio. The first time Jean-Baptiste experienced every detail of Beasts presence was when two guards escorted Beast to the indoor recreation area, where he directed his diseased energy up to Jean-Baptiste's cell door.

Jean-Baptiste's hairy face looked out the bars of his window. It was time to see. One day, Beast might be useful.

"Watch this, No Nuts!" Beast yelled at him, pulling off his shirt and flexing bulging muscles that, like his thick forearms, are almost black with tattoos. He dropped to the concrete floor and fell into one-arm push-ups. Jean-Baptiste's face disappeared from the barred window, but not before he studied Beast carefully. He is smooth-skinned with a blaze of light brown hair that runs from his muscular chest down his belly and disappears into his groin. He is handsome, cruelly so, rather much like a swashbuckler, with a strong jaw, large, bright teeth, a straight nose and intensely cold hazel eyes.