Greetings Monsieur Lanier,

Of course you remember Madame Charlotte Dard, whose untimely, sad death occurred on 14 September 1995. You witnessed her autopsy, and I do envy you for that delicious experience, having never seen one myself, not in person. I will be executed soon and am relieving myself of secrets.

Madame Dard was murdered very cleverly.

Mais non! Not by me.

A person of interest, as they stupidly refer to possible suspects these days, fled to Palm Desert shortly after Madame Dard's death. This person is not there now. This persons location and identity you must discover for yourself. I very much encourage you to seek assistance. Might I suggest the great skills of Detective Pete Marino? He knows me very well from my joyous Richmond days. Surely you must have heard of the great Marino?

Your surname, mon cher monsieur, implies you are of French descent. Perhaps we are related.

Аbientфt, Jean-Baptiste Chandonne

Dr. Lanier has heard of Jean-Baptiste Chandonne. He has not heard of Pete Marino but is introduced to him easily enough by sending out a few search engines to chug through cyberspace and find him. It is true.

Marino led the investigation when Chandonne was murdering women in Richmond. What interests Dr. Lanier more, however, is that Marino is best known for his close professional relationship with Dr. Kay Scarpetta, a gifted forensic pathologist. Dr. Lanier has always respected her and was more than a little impressed when he heard her lecture at a regional meeting of coroners. Most forensic pathologists, particularly ones with her status, look down on coroners, think they're all funeral home directors who got voted into office. Of course, some of them are.

Trouble stuck out its big foot and tripped Dr. Scarpetta, hurting her badly, several years back. For that she has Dr. Lanier's sympathy. Not a day goes by when trouble doesn't stomp around looking for him, too.

Now some notorious serial killer seems to think Dr. Lanier needs the help of her colleague Marino. Maybe he does. Maybe he's being set up. With the election not even six months away, Dr. Lanier is suspicious of any deviation from routine, and a letter from Jean-Baptiste Chandonne makes him as leery as hell. The only reason he can't dismiss it is simple: Jean-Baptiste Chandonne, if the letter is really from him, knows about Charlotte Dard. Her case has been forgotten by the public and was never all that newsworthy outside of Baton Rouge. Her cause of death was undetermined. Dr. Lanier has always entertained the possibility that she was murdered.

He's always believed that the best way to identify a cottonmouth is to poke at it. If the inside of its mouth is white, whack off its head. Otherwise, the critter's nothing more than a harmless water snake.

He may as well poke at the truth and see what he finds. While sitting at his desk, he picks up the phone and discovers Marino doesn't care who finds him-he has what Dr. Lanier calls a bring-'em-on attitude. He envisions Marino as the type who would ride a Fat Boy Harley, probably without a helmet. The cop's answering machine doesn't say he can't answer the phone because he's not in or is on the other line, which is what most professional, polite people record as greetings. The recorded gruff male voice says, "Don't call me at home," and offers another number for the person to try.

Dr. Lanier tries the other number. The voice that answers sounds like the recorded one.

"Detective Marino?"

"Who wants to know?"

He's from New Jersey and doesn't trust anyone, probably doesn't like hardly anyone, either.

Dr. Lanier introduces himself, and he's careful about what he says, too. In the trust and like department, Marino's met his match.

"We had a death down here about eight years ago. You ever heard of a woman named Charlotte Dard?"

"Nope."

Dr. Lanier gives him a few details of the case.

"Nope."

Dr. Lanier gives him a few more.

"Let me ask you something. Why the hell would I know anything about some drug overdose in Baton Rouge?" Marino's not at all nice about it.

"Same question I have."

"Huh? What is this? Are you some asshole bullshitting me?"

"A lot of people think I'm an asshole," Dr. Lanier replies. "But I'm not bullshitting you."

He debates whether he should tell Marino about the letter from Jean-Baptiste Chandonne. He decides that no useful purpose would be served. He's already found out what he needed to know: Marino is clueless about Charlotte Dard and annoyed at being bothered by some coroner.

"One other quick question, and then I won't take up any more of your time," Dr. Lanier says. "You have a long history with Dr. Kay Scarpetta…"

"What's she got to do with this?" Marino's entire demeanor changes. Now he's just plain hostile.

"I understand she's doing private consulting." Dr. Lanier had read a brief mention of it on the Internet.

Marino doesn't respond.

"What do you think of her?" Dr. Lanier asks the question that he feels sure will trigger a volcanic temper.

"Tell you what, asshole. I think enough of her not to talk about her with some shitbag stranger!"

The call ends with a dial tone.

In Sam Lanier's mind, he couldn't have gotten a stronger validation of Dr. Kay Scarpetta's character. She's welcome down here.

9

SCARPETTA WAITS IN LINE at the Marriott's front desk, her head throbbing, her central nervous system shorted out by wine so terrible it ought to have a skull and crossbones on the label.

Her malady, her malaise, is far more serious than she ever let on to Nic, and with each passing minute, her physical condition and mood worsen. She refuses to diagnose her illness as a hangover (after all, she barely had two glasses of that goddamn wine), and she refuses to forgive herself for even considering an alcoholic beverage sold in a cardboard box.

Painful experience has proven for years that when she suffers such merry misadventures, the more coffee she drinks, the more awful she's going to feel, but this never stops her from ordering a large pot in her room and flying by the seat of her pants instead of trusting her instruments, as Lucy likes to say when her aunt ignores what she knows and does what she feels and crash-lands.

When she finally reaches the front desk, she asks for her bill and is handed an envelope.

"This just came in for you, ma'am," the harried receptionist says as he tears off the printout of her room charges and hands it to her.

Inside the envelope is a fax. Scarpetta walks behind the bellman pushing her cart. It is loaded with bags and three very large hard cases containing carousels of slides that she has not bothered to convert to PowerPoint presentations because she can't stand them. Showing a picture of a man who has blown off the top of his head with a shotgun or a child scalded to death does not require a computer and special effects. Slide presentations and handouts serve her purposes just as well now as they did when she started her career.

The fax is from her secretary, Rose, who must have called about the same time Scarpetta was miserably making her way from the elevator to the lobby. All Rose says is that Dr. Sam Lanier, the coroner of East Baton Rouge Parish, very much needs to speak to her. Rose includes his home, office and cell telephone numbers. Immediately, Scarpetta thinks of Nic Robillard, of their conversation not even an hour ago.

She waits until she is inside her taxi before calling Dr. Lanier's office number. He answers himself.

"How did you know who my secretary is and where to reach her?" she asks right off.

"Your former office in Richmond was kind enough to give me your number in Florida. Rose is quite charming, by the way."