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driveway separated Pete’s residence from the one beside it, sloping down toward the back of the house and the basement garage underneath. Nick cupped his hands and peered through the cloudy garage-door windows; there was Pete’s car, parked where it always was. An uneasy thought crossed Nick’s mind; he pressed his face tighter against the glass and stared harder, searching for the silhouette of a figure slumped behind the wheel—but there was no sign of Pete.
    Thank God .
    Nick continued around the house, hoping to find an open window that might allow him a view of the home’s interior, but every window seemed to be draped and covered—and then, on the left side of the house, he spotted them.
    Blowflies .
    Dozens of them, clinging to the glass and sash of a large double window that opened into the living room. Nick squeezed through the hedge and adjusted his glasses for a better look . . . Holarctic blue blowflies, Calliphora vomitoria , easy to recognize by their dark eyes and dull metallic-blue thoraxes. There were common bluebottles too, most likely Calliphora vicina , similar in appearance to the vomitoria but larger in size with stout bristly bodies.
    Nick felt his stomach begin to sink. He knew there could be only one reason for blowflies to collect in those numbers .  . . They were gravid females, searching for a protein-rich environment where they could lay their eggs—and they had found one.
    Something inside the house was dead.
    ***
    Nick stood on the stoop of the house and stared impatiently at the street. He looked at his watch for the third time, then turned to the patrol officer standing placidly beside him. “How long does it take to get a detective over here?” Nick asked. “I mean, this is Philadelphia—people have died here before, right? What about Betsy Ross? I haven’t seen her around lately.”
    “I told you,” the officer said. “Roxborough’s in the Fifth District, and the Fifth is a patrol district. We’re first responders; we assess the situation and then we call it in.”
    “So you’re basically just a flunky.”
    The patrol officer gave him a look. “I put in a call to Northwest Detective, but that’s over on Broad and Champlost. It takes a few minutes to get over here—okay?”
    “Why don’t we wait for him inside?” Nick suggested.
    “Why don’t we wait right here—and shut up?”
    It was another three minutes before an unmarked Crown Victoria Police Interceptor rolled up to the curb and a plainclothes detective stepped out.
    “Took you long enough,” Nick called to the street.
    The detective smiled thinly and took a moment to straighten his tie before starting up the short sidewalk toward the house. He gave a cursory nod to the patrol officer, then turned to Nick. “You must be the bug guy.”
    “And you must be the detective,” Nick said. “So now that the icebreaker’s over, can we all go inside?”
    “Explain it to me.”
    “Explain what?”
    “How you can tell there’s a dead guy inside just because of some flies on a window.”
    “I already told him ,” Nick said, jabbing his thumb at the officer.
    “Tell me.”
    “Look, Detective—”
    “The name is Misco,” he said. “Danny Misco—‘Detective’ to you.”
    “Dr. Nick Polchak,” Nick replied. “ ‘Doctor’ to you. Sorry if I seem like I’m in a hurry, but the guy inside happens to be a friend of mine—a very old friend—and I’m pretty sure something’s happened to him.”
    “How? Explain it to me.”
    Nick let out an impatient sigh. “When a body decomposes it releases specific chemical compounds into the air, okay? Certain species of insects are attracted to that scent, and they’re very good at finding it.”
    “Are we talking about human bodies?”
    “Any body—any kind of decaying flesh.”
    “Then how do you know it’s not a cat or a dog?”
    “Because Pete had no pets—he had allergies. And because it takes a significant amount of decaying tissue to attract