Patricia Cornwell: Blow Fly

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.

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.

"It's my bra," she casually says to the startled guard, who is far more unnerved than her suspect. "Damn it, I always forget to wear a bra without wire in it, maybe a sports bra, or no bra. I'm really sorry to inconvenience you, Officer Washington." She's already read her name tag. "Thank you for doing your job so well. What a world we live in. I understand the terrorist alert is orange again."

Lucy leaves the bewildered guard and plucks her watch and coins out of the tray and collects her briefcase, jacket and belt. Sitting on the cold, hard floor, out of the way of traffic, she puts on her running shoes, not bothering to lace them. She gets up, still polite and sweet to any police or British Air employees watching her. Reaching around to her back pocket, she slips out her ticket and passport, both of them issued to one of her many false names. She strolls nonchalantly, laces flopping, deep inside the winding carpeted gate 10, and ducks inside the small doorway of Concorde flight 01. A British Air attendant smiles at her as she checks Lucy's boarding pass.

"Seat one-C." She points the way to the first row, the bulkhead aisle seat, as if Lucy has never traveled on the Concorde before.

Last time she did, it was under yet another name, and she was wearing glasses and green contact lenses, her hair dyed funky blue and purple, easily washed out and matching the photograph on that particular passport. Her occupation was "musician." Although no one could possibly have been familiar with her nonexistent techno band, Yellow Hell, there were plenty of people who said, "Oh yes, I've heard of it! Cool!"

Lucy counts on the dismal observation skills of the general masses. She counts on their fear of showing ignorance, on their accepting lies as familiar truths. She counts on her enemies noticing all that goes on around them, and like them, she notices all that goes on around her, too. For example, when the customs agent studied her passport at great length, she recognized his behavior and understood why security is at a feverish pitch. Interpol has sent a Red Notice screaming over the Internet to approximately 182 countries, alerting them to look out for a fugitive named Rocco Caggiano, wanted in Italy and France for murder. Rocco has no idea he is a fugitive. He has no idea that Lucy sent information to Interpol's Central Bureau in Washington, D.C., her credible tip thoroughly checked out before it was relayed through cyberspace to Interpol's headquarters in Lyon, France, where the Red Notice was issued and rocketed to law enforcement all around the world. All this in a matter of hours.

Rocco does not know Lucy, although he knows who she is. She knows him very well, although they have never met. At this moment, as she straps herself into her seat and the Concorde starts its Rolls Royce engines, she can't wait to see Rocco Caggiano, her anticipation fueled by intense anger that will evolve into a nervous dread by the time she finally gets to Eastern Europe.

"I SURE HOPE YOU'RE NOT FEELING as bad as I am," Nic says to Scarpetta.

They sit inside the living room of Scarpetta's suite at the Marriott, waiting for room service. It is nine a.m., and twice now Nic has inquired about Scarpetta's health, her banality partly due to her flattered disbelief that this woman she admires so intensely invited her to have breakfast.