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.