Patricia Cornwell - Blow Fly

"As in president of the United States?" Benton's trademark is to take all information seriously.

Marino says, "Yup."

It unnerves him to see gestures and reactions that are the Benton of the past, the Benton he worked with, the Benton who was his friend.

"Who else?" Benton gets up and collects a legal pad and pen from tidy stacks of paperwork and magazines next to the computer on the kitchen table.

He slips on a pair of wire-rim glasses, very small, John Lennon-style, nothing he would have worn in his former life. Sitting back down, he writes the time, date and location on a clean sheet of paper. From where Marino sits, he makes out the word "offender," but beyond that, he can't read Benton's small scrawl, especially upside down.

Marino answers, "His father and mother are on the list. Now that's a real joke, right?"

Benton's pen pauses. He glances up. "What about his lawyer? Rocco Caggiano?"

Marino swills beer in the bottom of the bottle.

"Rocco?" Benton says with more emphasis. "You going to tell me?"

Fury and shame dart across Marino's face. "Just remember, he ain't mine, didn't grow up with me, don't know him, don't want to know him, would blow his fuckin' brains out just as easy as any other dirtbag's."

"Genetically, he's your son, whether you like it or not," Benton replies matter-of-factly.

"I don't even remember when his birthday is." Marino dismisses his only child with a wave of a hand and a last slug of Budweiser.

Rocco Marino, who changed his surname to Caggiano, was born bad. He was Marino's shameful, dirty secret, an abscess he showed to no one until Jean-Baptiste Chandonne loped onto the scene. For most of Marino's life, he believed that Rocco's curdled choices were personal-the harshest punishment he could levy on the father he despises. Oddly, Marino found some comfort in that. A personal vendetta was better than the humiliating and painful truth that Rocco is indifferent to Marino. Rocco's choices have nothing to do with Marino. If anything, Rocco laughs at Marino, his father, and thinks he is a Keystone-Kop loser who dresses like a pig, lives like a pig and is a pig.

Rocco's reappearance in Marino's world was a coincidence-"a funny as hell coincidence," in Rocco's own words-when he stopped long enough to speak to his father outside the courtroom door after Jean-Baptiste Chandonne's arraignment. Rocco has been in deep with organized crime since he was old enough to shave. He was a toady, scumbag lawyer for the Chandonnes long before Marino had ever heard of them. "We know where Rocco's spending his time these days?" Benton asks. Marino's eyes turn as dark and flat as old pennies. "Possibly- very possibly -we will soon enough."

"Meaning?"

Marino leans back against the couch, as if the conversation pleases him and pumps up his ego. "Meaning he's got tin cans tied to his ass this time and don't know it."

"Meaning?" Benton asks again.

"Interpol's flagged him as a fugitive, and he ain't aware of it. Lucy told me. I'm confident we're going to find him and a lot of other assholes."

"We?"

Marino shrugs again, tries to take another swallow of beer and gulps air. He belches, thinks about getting up for a refill.

"We is collectively speaking," he explains. "We as in us good guys. Rocco's going down because he's gonna traipse through an airport and his little Red Notice is gonna pop up on a computer and next thing, he's got a nice pair of shiny handcuffs on and maybe an AR-fifteen pointed at his head."

"For what crimes? He's always gotten away with his dirty work. That's part of his charm."

"All I know is there are warrants on him in Italy."

"Says who?"

"Lucy. I'd give anything to be the one who points that AR-fifteen at his head, only I'd pull the trigger for sure," Marino says, believing he means it, but unable to envision it. The images won't come.

"He's your son," Benton quietly reminds him. "I suggest you get yourself ready for how it will feel if you have anything at all to do with whatever might happen to him. I'm not aware that your pursuit of him or any other Chandonne operatives is your legal jurisdictional right. Or are you now working undercover for the feds?"

A pause. Marino hates the feds. "I won't feel nothing." He tries to keep his demeanor flat, but his nerves have begun to fizz with fury and fear. "Besides, I don't even know where the hell he is. Someone else out there will catch him, and he'll be extradited to Italy if he lives that long. I got no doubt the Chandonnes will take him out before he has a chance to open his mouth."

"Who else?" Benton moves on. "Who else is on the list?"

"A couple reporters. Never heard of 'em, and for all I know, they don't exist. Oh yeah, and here's a good one. Wolfman's pretty-boy brother, Jean-Paul Chandonne, aka Jay Talley. Wish the bastard would drop by the prison for a visit so we could arrest his ass and he could join his ugly-ass twin on death row."

Benton stops writing, a fleeting emotion passing through his eyes at the mention of Jay Talley's name. "You're assuming he's still alive. Do you know that?"

"Got no reason to think otherwise. My guess is his family's protecting him and he's living the good life somewhere while he carries on with the family business."

It occurs to Marino as he says all this that Benton probably knows Talley is a Chandonne who passed himself off as an American, became an ATF agent and managed to get himself assigned as a liaison to Interpol's headquarters in France. Marino mentally scans everything that has been made public about the Jean-Baptiste case. He's not sure if there was any mention of Scarpetta's relationship with Talley when she and half the world believed he was the handsome big-shot agent who spoke dozens of languages and had gone to Harvard. Benton doesn't need to know what went on between Scarpetta and Talley. Marino hopes like hell Benton never finds out.

"I've read about Jay Talley," Benton says. "He's very smart, very smooth, extremely sadistic and dangerous. I seriously doubt he's dead." "Uhhhh…" Marino's thoughts scatter like startled birds. "Like what have you read?"

"It's no secret that he's Jean-Baptiste's twin brother. Fraternal twin." Benton's face is impassive.

"Weirdest thing I ever heard of." Marino shakes his head. "Imagine.

He and Wolfman born a few minutes apart. Talk about one brother getting the bad luck of the draw, while the other, Talley, gets dealt all aces."

"He is a violent psychopath," Benton replies. "I wouldn't exactly call that aces."

"Their DNA's so much alike," Marino goes on, "you've got to use a lot of probes to figure out you're looking at the DNA of two different people." Marino pauses, slightly exasperated, as he continues picking at his beer label. "Don't ask me to explain probes and DNA shit. The Doc figured it all…"

"Who else is on the list?" Benton interrupts him.

Marino's face goes blank.

"The visitors list."

"The list is garbage. I'm sure no one on it has ever come to see John the Baptist except his lawyer."

"Your son, Rocco Caggiano." He won't let Marino evade that fact. "Anyone else?" Benton persists, taking notes.

"Turns out I am. Isn't that sweet? And then my new pen pal Wolfman sends me mail. A letter for me, and the one for the Doc that I didn't give to her."

Marino gets up to help himself to another beer.

"Need one?"

Benton tells him, "No."

Retrieving his jacket, Marino digs in one pocket, then another, finding folded pieces of paper.

"I just happen to have them with me. Photocopies, including the envelopes."

"The list." Benton won't stray from that subject. "Certainly you brought a copy of the list with you."

"I don't need a copy of that goddamn list." Marino's annoyance shows. "What is it about you and that fucking list? I can tell you exactly who's on it. The people I've already mentioned, plus two reporters. Carlos Guarino and Emmanuelle La Fleur."