“Two important things,” she said. “First is how Terri hooked up with whoever Scarpetta six-twelve is. The John Jay website. This past October ninth, about a month after Benton and Kay became visiting lecturers, Terri—or whoever was signed on as Lunasee—posted a notice on a John Jay website bulletin board asking if anybody knew how she might get in touch with Aunt Kay.”

Berger was putting on her coat, and Lucy caught the subtle scent of spices and bamboo, and the oil of bitter orange blossoms—Berger’s fragrance, from a perfume house in London. Lucy had asked about it earlier, hoping it wasn’t one more lovely thing about Berger that was left over from Greg.

“The posting is archived, obviously,” Lucy said.

“How’d you find it?” Marino turned around, his face almost indistinguishable in the dark.

“Looks like you’ve lost a lot of weight,” Lucy said to him.

“I quit eating,” he said. “Don’t know why other people haven’t thought of it. I could write a book, make a lot of money.”

“You should. A book with blank pages in it.”

“That’s what I’m thinking. No food and nothing in the book. It works.”

Lucy could feel his scrutiny of her, of Berger, of the two of them sitting close. Marino had sensors that told him where people were in relation to each other, and where they were in relation to him. It was all connected, in his way of thinking.

Lucy watched Berger read what was on the MacBook’s screen:

Hi Everyone,

My name’s Terri Bridges, and I’m a forensic psych grad student trying to get hold of Dr. Kay Scarpetta. If anybody has any connection with her, could you please pass on my e-mail address? I’ve been trying to track her down since last spring to interview her for my thesis. Thanks.

—TB

Lucy read it out loud to Marino.

She opened another file, and the photograph of Scarpetta from this morning’s column in Gotham Gotcha filled the display.

“This was on the same bulletin board?” Berger asked.

Lucy held up the laptop so Marino could see the off-putting photograph of Scarpetta in a morgue, pointing a scalpel at someone.

“The original image,” Lucy said. “So the background’s not been Photoshopped out. As you recall, in the photo on Gotham Gotcha, it’s just my aunt and you got no idea about the context, except you assume she’s in a morgue. But when we get the background back, we see a countertop with a monitor for security cameras, and beyond is a cinder-block wall with cabinets. But when I did some image enhancement of my own”—she touched the trackpad and opened another file—“I got this.”

She showed them an enlargement of the transparent plastic shield covering Scarpetta’s face. Reflected in it was the vague image of another person.