“Where are you?” I managed to ask, and I knew I sounded unnerved.
“On Ninety-five, about fifty miles north of Richmond.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
“At a phone booth,” he went on to explain. “I need directions to your house.”
After another gust of traffic, he added, “I want to see you, Kay. I’ve been in D.C. all week, been trying to get you since late afternoon, finally took a chance and rented a car. Is it all right?”
I didn’t know what to say.
“Thought we could have a drink, catch up,” said this man who had once broken my heart. “I’ve got reservations at the Radisson downtown. Tomorrow morning, early, there’s a flight out of Richmond back to Chicago. I just thought … Actually, there’s something I want to discuss with you.”
I couldn’t imagine what Mark and I could have to discuss.
“Is it all right?” he asked again.
No, it wasn’t all right! What I said was “Of course, Mark. It will be wonderful to see you.”
After giving him directions, I went into the bathroom to freshen up, pausing long enough to take inventory. More than fifteen years had come and gone since our days together in law school. My hair was more ash than blond, and it had been long when Mark and I had last seen each other. My eyes were hazier, not as blue as they used to be. The unbiased mirror went on to remind me rather coldly that I would never see thirty-nine again and there was such a thing as face-lifts. In my memory Mark had remained barely twenty-four, when he became an object of passion and dependency that ultimately led to abject despair. After it was over, I did nothing but work.
He still drove fast and liked fine automobiles. Less than forty-five minutes later, I opened the front door and watched him get out of his rental Sterling. He was still the Mark I remembered, the same trim body and long-legged confident walk. Briskly mounting the steps, he smiled a little. After a quick hug, we stood awkwardly in the foyer for a moment and couldn’t think of a significant thing to say.
“Still drinking Scotch?” I finally asked.
“That hasn’t changed,” he said, following me to the kitchen.
Retrieving the Glenfiddich from the bar, I automatically fixed his drink exactly as I had so long ago: two jiggers, ice, and a splash of seltzer water. His eyes followed me as I moved about the kitchen and set our drinks on the table. Taking a sip, he stared into his glass and began slowly swirling ice the way he used to when he was tense. I took a good, long look at him, at his refined features, high cheekbones, and clear gray eyes. His dark hair had begun to turn a little at the temples.
I shifted my attention to the ice slowly spinning inside his glass. “You’re with a firm in Chicago, I assume?”
Leaning back in his chair, he looked up and said, “Doing strictly appeals, trial work only now and then. I run into Diesner occasionally. That’s how I found out you’re here in Richmond.”
Diesner was the chief medical examiner in Chicago. I saw him at meetings and we were on several committees together. He had never mentioned he was acquainted
with Mark James, and how he even knew I was once acquainted with Mark was a mystery.
“I made the mistake of telling him I’d known you in law school, think he brings you up from time to time to needle me/’ Mark explained, reading my thoughts.
That I could believe. Diesner was as gruff as a billy goat, and he was none too fond of defense attorneys. Some of his battles and theatrics in court had become the stuff of legends.
Mark was saying, “Like most forensic pathologists, he’s pro prosecution. I represent a convicted murderer and I’m the bad guy. Diesner will make a point of looking for me and as a by-the-way telling me about the latest journal article you published or some gruesome case you worked. Dr.
Scarpetta. The famous Chief Scarpetta.”
He laughed, but his eyes didn’t.