Blow Fly by Patricia Cornwell

chance is his middle initial E?” Benton wryly comments. “Any correspondence between Jean-Baptiste and this Robert Lee, on the outside chance Mr. Lee didn’t die a hundred-some years ago?”
    â€œAll I can tell you is he’s on the visitors list. Any mail that’s privileged, the prison won’t talk about, so I got no idea who else Wolfman writes to or gets love notes from.”

M ARINO SMOOTHS OPEN his letter from Jean-Baptiste and begins to read: “ ‘Bonjour, mon cher ami, Pete . . .’ ”
    He interrupts himself and looks up, scowling. “Can you believe he calls me Pete? Now that really pisses me off.”
    â€œMore than being called mon cher ami ?” Benton asks dryly.
    â€œI don’t like dirtbags calling me by my first name. It’s just one of my things.”
    â€œPlease read,” Benton says with a touch of impatience, “and I hope there is nothing more in French for you to mangle. What’s the date of this letter?”
    â€œNot even a week ago. I arranged things to get here as quick as I could. To see you . . . oh, for shit’s sake, I’m gonna call you Benton. ”
    â€œActually, you’re not. Please read.”
    Marino lights another cigarette, inhales deeply and continues:
Just a note to tell you I am growing my hair. Why? But of course it is because they have given me my date to die. It is May seventh at ten p.m. Not a minute later, so I hope you will be there as my special guest. Before then, mon ami, I have business to conclude, so I make you an offer you can’t refuse (as they say in the movies).
    You will never catch them without me, Jean-Baptiste. It would be like catching a thousand fish without a very big net. I am the net. There are two conditions. They are simple.
    I will admit nothing except to Madame Scarpetta, who has asked my permission to see her and tell her what I know.
    No one else can be present.
    I have yet another condition that she does not know. She must be the doctor who administers my lethal cocktail, as they say. Madame Scarpetta must kill me. I fully trust if she agrees, she will not break her promise to me. You see how well I know her.
    Â 
    Ã bientôt,
Jean-Baptiste Chandonne
    â€œAnd the letter to her?” Benton abruptly asks, unwilling to say Scarpetta’s name.
    â€œThe same thing. More or less.” Marino does not want to read it to him.
    â€œYou have it in your hand. Read it.”
    Marino taps an ash into the water glass, squinting an eye as he blows out smoke. “I’ll give you the upshot.”
    â€œDon’t protect me, Pete,” Benton softly says.
    â€œSure. If you want to hear it, I’ll read it. But I don’t think it’s necessary, and maybe you ought . . .”
    â€œPlease read it.” Now Benton sounds weary. His eyes are not as intense, and he leans back in the chair.
    Marino clears his throat as he unfolds another plain white sheet of paper. He begins:
Mon chéri amour, Kay . . .
    He glances up at Benton’s expressionless face. The color has drained from it, his complexion sallow beneath his tan.
My heart is in great pain because you have not made an appointment to come to see me yet. I do not understand. Of course, you feel as I do. I am your thief in the night, the great lover who came to steal you away, yet you refused. You shunned me and wounded me. Now you must be empty, so bored, languishing for me, Madame Scarpetta.
    As for me? I am not bored. You are here with me in my cell, without a will, completely under my spell. You must know it. You must feel it. Let me see, can I count? Is it four, five or fifteen times a day I rip open those very nice suits you wear—the haute couture of Madame Scarpetta, the doctor, the lawyer, the Chief. I tear off everything with my bare hands and bite into those big tits while you shiver and die with delight . . .
    â€œIs there a