The clock on the wall above the bookcase readshalf past noon, and the attorney representing a kid who probably murdered his baby brother is taking his time going through paperwork on the other side of Kay Scarpetta’s desk.

Dave is young, dark, nicely built, one of those men whose irregular features somehow fit together in a very appealing way. He is known for his flamboyance in the malpractice arena, and whenever he comes to the Academy, the secretaries and female students suddenly find reasons to walk past Scarpetta’s door, except Rose, of course. She has been Scarpetta’s secretary for fifteen years, is well past retirement age and isn’t particularly vulnerable to male charm unless it is Marino’s. He is probably the only man whose flirtations she welcomes, and Scarpetta picks up the phone to ask her where he is. He is supposed to be here for this meeting.

“I tried him last night,” Scarpetta says over the phone to Rose. “Several times.”

“Let me see if I can find him,” Rose says. “He’s been acting rather odd lately.”

“Not just lately.”

Dave studies an autopsy report, his head tilted back as he reads through the horn-rimmed glasses low on his nose.

“The last few weeks have been worse. I have a funny feeling it’s about a woman.”

“See if you can find him.”

She hangs up and looks across her desk to see if Dave is ready to get on with his prejudicial questions about another difficult death that he is convinced can be resolved for a substantial fee. Unlike most police departments that invite the assistance of the Academy’s scientific and medical experts, lawyers usually pay, and, as a rule, most clients who can pay are representing people who are as guilty as hell.

“Marino not coming?” he asks.

“We’re trying to find him.”

“I’ve got a deposition in less than an hour.” He turns a page of the report. “Seems to me when all is said and done, the findings are in favor of an impact and nothing more.”

“I’m not going to say that in court,” she replies, looking at the report, at the details of an autopsy she didn’t perform. “What I can say is that while a subdural hematoma can be caused by an impact-in this case, the alleged fall off the couch onto the tile floor-it is highly unlikely, was more likely caused by violent shaking that causes shearing forces in the cranial cavity and subdural bleeding and injury to the spinal cord.”

“As for the retinal hemorrhages, aren’t we in agreement those can also be caused by trauma, such as his head striking the tile floor, resulting in a subdural?”

“Not at all in a short fall like this. Again, was more likely caused by the head whipping back and forth. Just as the report makes clear.”

“I don’t think you’re helping me out much here, Kay.”

“If you don’t want an unbiased opinion, you should find another expert.”

“There is no other expert. You’re unrivaled.” He smiles. “What about a vitamin K deficiency?”

“If you have antemortem blood that revealed protein-induced vitamin K deficiency,” she replies. “If you’re looking for leprechauns.”

“Problem is, we don’t have antemortem blood. He didn’t survive long enough to get to the hospital.”

“That’s a problem.”

“Well, shaken baby syndrome can’t be proved. It’s definitely unclear and improbable. You can at least say that.”

“What’s clear is you don’t have mama’s fourteen-year-old son babysit his newborn brother when the son has already been to juvenile court twice for assault on other children and is legendary for his explosive temper.”

“And you won’t say that.”

“No.”

“Look, all I ask is you point out there’s no definitive evidence that this baby was shaken.”

“I will also point out there’s no definitive evidence that he wasn’t, that I can find no fault with the autopsy report in question.”

“The Academy’s great,” Dave says, getting up from his chair. “But you guys are roughing me up. Marino’s a no-show. Now you’re leaving me hanging out to dry.”

“I’m sorry about Marino,” she says.

“Maybe you need to control him better.”

“That’s not exactly possible.”

Dave tucks in his bold striped shirt, straightens his bold silk tie, puts on his tailored silk jacket. He arranges his paperwork inside his crocodile briefcase.

“Rumor has it you’re looking into the Johnny Swift case,” he then says, snapping shut the silver clasps.

Scarpetta is caught for a minute. She can’t imagine how Dave could know this.

What she says is, “It’s been my practice to pay little attention to rumors, Dave.”

“His brother owns one of my favorite restaurants inSouthBeach. Called Rumors, ironically,” he says. “You know,Laurel’s had some problems.”

“I don’t know anything about him.”

“Someone who works there is passing around the story thatLaurelkilled Johnny for money, for whatever Johnny might have left him in his will. SaysLaurel’s got habits he can’t afford.”

“Sounds like hearsay. Or maybe someone who has a grudge.”

Dave walks to the door.

“I haven’t talked to her. Every time I try, she’s not there. I personally thinkLaurel’s a really nice guy, by the way. I just find it a bit coincidental that I start hearing stories and then Johnny’s case is reopened.”

“I’m not aware it was ever closed,” Scarpetta says.

Snow flakes are icy and sharp, the sidewalks and streets frosted white. Few people are out.

Lucy walks briskly, sipping from a steaming hot latte, heading to the Anchor Inn, where she checked in several days ago under a fictitious name so she could hide her rented Hummer. She hasn’t parked it at the cottage once, never interested in strangers knowing what she drives. She veers off on a narrow drive that winds around to the small parking lot on the water where the Hummer is covered with snow. She unlocks the doors, starts the engine and turns on the defrost, and the white-blanketed windows give her the cool, shady sensation of being inside an igloo.

She is calling one of her pilots when a gloved hand suddenly begins wiping snow off her side window and a black-hooded face fills the glass. Lucy aborts the call and drops the phone on the seat.

She stares at Stevie for a long moment, then lowers the window as her mind races through possibilities. It isn’t a good thing that she was followed here. It is a very bad thing that she didn’t notice she was being followed.

“What are you doing?” Lucy asks.

“I just wanted to tell you something.”

Stevie’s face has an expression that is hard to read. Maybe she is near tears and extremely upset and hurt, or it could be the cold, sharp wind blowing in from the bay that is making her eyes so bright.

“You’re the most awesome person I’ve ever met,” Stevie says. “I think you’re my hero. My new hero.”

Lucy isn’t sure if Stevie is mocking her. Maybe she isn’t.

“Stevie, I’ve got to get to the airport.”

“They haven’t started canceling flights yet. But it’s supposed to be terrible the rest of the week.”

“Thanks for the weather update,” Lucy says, and the look in Stevie’s eyes is fierce and unnerving. “Look, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt your feelings.”

“You didn’t,” Stevie says, as if this is the first she’s heard of it. “Not at all. I didn’t think I’d like you so much. I wanted to find you to tell you that. Tuck it away in some part of that clever head of yours, maybe remember it on a rainy day. I just never thought I would like you so much.”

“You keep saying that.”

“It’s intriguing. You come across so sure of yourself, arrogant really. Hard and distant. But I realize it’s not who you are inside. Funny how things turn out so differently from what you expect.”

Snow is blowing inside the Hummer, dusting the interior.

“How did you find me?” Lucy asks.

“I went back to your place but you were gone. I followed your footprints in the snow. They led right here. You wear what? Size eight? It wasn’t hard.”

“Well, I’m sorry for…”

“Please,” Stevie says intensely, strongly. “I know I’m not just another notch on your belt, as they say.”

“I’m not into that,” Lucy says, but she is.

She knows it, even if she would never describe it like that. She feels bad for Stevie. She feels bad for her aunt, for Johnny, for everyone she has failed.

“Some might argue you’re a notch on mine,” Stevie says playfully, seductively, and Lucy doesn’t want to have the feeling again.

Stevie is sure of herself again, full of secrets again, amazingly attractive again.

Lucy shoves the Hummer into reverse as snow blows in and her face stings from the snow and the wind blowing off the water.

Stevie digs in her coat pocket, pulls out a slip of paper, hands it to her through the open window.

“My phone number,” she says.

The area code is 617, theBostonarea. She never told Lucy where she lived. Lucy never asked.

“That’s all I wanted to say to you,” Stevie says. “And happy Valentine’s Day.”

They look at each other through the open window, the engine rumbling, snow coming down and clinging to Stevie’s black coat. She’s beautiful and Lucy feels what she felt atLorraine’s. She thought it was gone. She is feeling it.

“I’m not like all the rest,” Stevie says, looking into Lucy’s eyes.

“You’re not.”

“My cell phone number,” Stevie says. “I actually live inFlorida. After I left Harvard, I never bothered to change my cell phone number. It doesn’t matter. Free minutes, you know.”

“You went to Harvard?”

“I usually don’t mention it. It can be rather off-putting.”

“Where inFlorida?”

“Gainesville,” she says. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she says again. “I hope it turns out to be the most special one you’ve ever had.”