"Now, don't tell all my secrets." Dr. Lanier slowly creeps out of his spot. "Besides, it was my wife who did that bit of damage. She's a worse driver than I am, for the record."

"She's a death investigator, too." Eric turns around again. "Works for nothing, which is pretty much what the rest of us do."

"Shit." Dr. Lanier accelerates his high-speed-chase unit more than necessary inside a parking deck. "You get paid a hell of a lot more than you deserve."

"Can we talk now?" Scarpetta asks.

"I'm pretty sure we can. Maybe people get into my office, hell if I know. But nobody touches my car, or my Harley," Dr. Lanier replies.

In a firm, even voice, Scarpetta confronts him. "I happened to fly here with the Dards' young son sitting on one side of me and your U.S. Attorney, Weldon Winn, on the other. In fact, I ended up having to drive Albert Dard home. You want to tell me what that's about?"

"Scares the hell out of me."

"The boy just happens to be in Miami, is suddenly whisked to the airport yesterday morning and routed through Houston and just happens to be on my flight to Baton Rouge. Just as Winn happens to be on my flight. And by the way, you don't strike me as the sort who gets scared."

"Two things. One, you don't know me. Two, you don't know here."

"Where was Albert eight years ago when his mother died in that motel room?" Scarpetta asks. "Where was his father, and why is this mysterious father, quote, gone all the time, as the boy put it?"

"That I don't know. What I can tell you is I'm familiar with Albert. Last year, I had to examine the kid in the ER, was given a heads-up, in other words, especially in light of his wealthy family and the mysterious death of his mother. He was committed to a private psychiatric hospital in New Orleans."

"What on Earth for?" Scarpetta asks, adding, "A psychiatric history, and his family lets him travel alone?"

"But then he wasn't alone, according to what you've told me. His uncle put him in the hands of airline attendants, who also, no doubt, saw to it that he got to his proper gate in Houston. Then, best of all, you took care of him the rest of the time. He's not psychotic.

"The story is, three years ago last October, his aunt called nine-one-one and said her nephew-he was seven at the time, I believe-was bleeding badly and claimed to have been assaulted when he was out riding his bicycle. Story is, he was hysterical, scared out of his mind. Well, nobody assaulted that poor little kid, Kay. You said I could call you that. There was no evidence whatsoever of that. In fact, he's a cutter. Into self-mutilation. Apparently, that started up again with him not long before I examined him in the ER. Which was a pretty damn awful experience."

Scarpetta recalls the absence of knives in the Dard kitchen.

"You're absolutely certain his injuries were self-inflicted?" she asks.

"I try not to be absolutely certain of anything. I don't know of much that's an absolute certainty except death," Dr. Lanier replies. "But I found a lot of hesitation cuts. Just scratches, really. That's significant for someone getting started in this unfortunate pattern of self-destruction. His cuts were minor, all in places within reach but not readily visible to others. Stomach. Thighs. Buttocks."

"That would explain why I saw no scars when I was sitting next to him on the plane," Scarpetta remarks. "I would have noticed."

"What really disturbs me is the obvious," he says. "Somebody wants you here in Baton Rouge. Why?"

"You tell me. You tell me who leaked my travel plans, because it seems the most likely suspect is you-or whoever else in your office knew I was coming."

"I can see why you'd think that. No question about it. I knew enough to arrange the whole damn scenario, assuming I'm on friendly terms with Weldon Winn. And I'm not, can't stand the son of a bitch. He's dirtier than a landfill and got a lot of money. His explanation is he grew up with money. Well, guess what, he's from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. His father managed a golf course, and his mother worked like a dog as a nurses aid. The son of a bitch isn't from shit."

"How do you know all this?"

"Ask Eric."

The death investigator turns around and smiles. "I started out with the FBI. Now and then, I can find my way out of a paper bag and look for things."

"Point is, Weldon Winn is involved, deeply involved, with illegal activities," Dr. Lanier continues. "Now, how anyone will ever prove that, or even care, is another matter. What is a fact is that a number of people arrested here over the years have somehow managed to escape Project Exile, didn't get the automatic five years in federal prison added to their sentences for possession of a firearm while committing a crime. Our U.S. Attorney somehow overlooked those cases, as did the committee that's supposed to track them.

"One of the reasons I'm given so much grief in my lovely city is because I won't kowtow to the politicians. I'm up for reelection next year, and I've got a whole Noah's ark full of assholes who would love for me not to be coroner anymore. I'm not appreciated by any of the bad guys, don't socialize with them. I consider that a compliment."

Scarpetta says, "You and I talked on the phone. Your office arranged my rental car."

"A mistake. Damn stupid as hell of me. I should have done it myself, away from the office. My secretary is trustworthy. That certain clerk you just met may have overheard, snooped, I don't know."

They drive through a rather unremarkable area of Baton Rouge, at the edge of the university that dominates the town. Swamp Mama's on 3rd Street is a popular hangout for students. Dr. Lanier parks in a tow-away zone and tosses an Officer of the Coroners red metal plate on the dash, as if lunch has suddenly turned into a crime scene.

112

MARINO TURNS INTO THE LOUISIANA AIR parking lot and stops cop-style, drivers window to driver's window, with Lucy's SUV.

"Good man. You got rid of the truck," Lucy commends him without saying hello. "Don't need a monster-garage truck with Virginia plates around here."

"Hey. I'm not stupid. Even if this is a piece of shit."

His rental truck is a six-cylinder Toyota. It doesn't even have mud flaps.

"Where'd you ditch it?" Lucy asks.

"The regular airport, long-term parking. Hope nobody breaks in to it. Everything I owns in there. Even if it ain't much."

"Lets go."

They park, but not near each other.

"Where's your boyfriend?" Marino asks as they walk toward the FBO.

"Prowling. Seeing if he can find Rocco s place in Spanish Town, the historic district where Rocco kept a place."

She stops briefly at the desk. "The Bell four-oh-seven," she says, not giving the tail number.

It isn't necessary. Her helicopter is the only one on the tarmac at the moment. The woman at the desk pushes a button that unlocks the door. A Gulf Stream is starting its engines, the roar painfully loud, and Lucy and Marino cover their ears, making sure they don't walk around the back of the plane and get blasted with exhaust, a good way to smell like jet fuel, which is sure to give one a headache when confined to a small cockpit. They hurry to the helipad, which is at the outer edge of the tarmac, far away from planes, because people ignorant of helicopters assume their rotor wash will kick up rocks and sand and scour the paint right off fixed-wing aircraft.

Marino is ignorant of helicopters and doesn't like them. He can barely force his massive body into the left seat, which doesn't adjust. He can't slide it back.

"Goddamn son of a bitch," is all he says, loosening his harness as far as it will go.

Lucy has already done her usual thorough prefiight, checks breakers and switches and throttle one last time and turns on the battery. She waits for automatic checks to go through their routines and she goes through hers, flipping on the generator. Headset on, she eases the throttle up to 100 RPMs. This is a time when the GPS will be of no value, nor will any other navigational instruments. A flight chart isn't going to be of much use, either, so she spreads open a Baton Rouge map on her lap and runs her finger southeast, along Route 408, also known as Hooper Road.