“Try telling Sparacino that. He’s claiming it was turned in to you, that it came in with Beryl’s body.
And now it’s missing. He’s holding your office responsible.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Is it?”
Mark looked speculatively at me. I felt as if I were being cross-examined when he said, “Isn’t it true some evidence comes in with the body and you personally receipt it to the labs or store it in your evidence room?”
Of course it was true.
“Are you part of the chain of evidence in Beryl’s case?” he asked.
“Not in terms of what was found at the scene, such as in the instance of any personal papers,” I said tensely. “Those were receipted to the labs by the cops, not by me. In fact, most of the items collected from her house would be in the P.D.’s property room.”
Again he said, “Try telling Sparacino that.”
“I never saw the manuscript,” I said flatly. “My office doesn’t have it, never had it. And as far as I know, it hasn’t turned up, period.”
“It hasn’t turned up? You mean it wasn’t in her house? The cops didn’t find it?”
“No. The manuscript they found isn’t the one you’re talking about. It’s an old one, possibly from a book published years ago, and it’s incomplete, just a couple hundred pages at most. It was in her bedroom on the dresser. Marino took it in, had Fingerprints check in the event the killer might have touched it.”
He leaned back in his chair.
“If you didn’t find it,” he asked quietly, “then where is it?”
“I have no idea,” I answered. “I suppose it could be anywhere. Perhaps she mailed it to someone.”
“She have a computer?”
“Yes.”
“You check out her hard disk?”
“Her computer doesn’t have a hard disk, just two floppy drives,” I said. Marino’s checking the floppies. I don’t know what’s on them.”
“Doesn’t make sense,” he went on. “Even if she did mail the manuscript to someone, it doesn’t make sense she wouldn’t have made a copy first, that there wasn’t a copy somewhere inside her house.”
“It doesn’t make sense her godfather Sparacino wouldn’t have a copy,” I said pointedly. “I can’t believe he hasn’t seen the book. In fact, I can’t believe he doesn’t have a draft somewhere, maybe even the latest version.”
“He says he doesn’t, and I’m inclined to believe him for one good reason. From what I’ve gathered about Beryl, she was very private when it came to her writing, didn’t let anybody–including Sparacino–see what she was doing until it was finished. She’d kept him posted on her progress through telephone conversations, letters. According to him, the last time he heard from her was about a month ago. She supposedly told him she was busy revising and should have the book ready to submit for publication by the first of the year.”
“A month ago?” I asked warily. “She wrote to him?”
“Called him.”
“From where?”
“Hell, I don’t know. Richmond, I guess.”
“Is that what he told you?”
Mark thought for a moment. “No, he didn’t mention where she was calling from.”
He paused. “Why?”
“She’d been out of town for a while,” I replied as if it didn’t matter. “I’m just wondering if Sparacino knew where she was.”
“The cops don’t know where she was?”
“There’s a lot the cops don’t know,” I said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“A better answer is we really shouldn’t be discussing her case, Mark. I’ve already said too much, and I’m not sure why you’re so interested.”
“And you’re not sure my motives are pure,” he said. “You’re not sure that I’m not trying to wine you and dine you because I want information.”
“Yes, to be honest,” I answered as our eyes met.
“I’m worried, Kay.”
I could tell by the tension in his face–a face that still had power over me–that he was. I could scarcely take my eyes off him.
“Sparacino’s up to something,” he said. “I don’t want you squeezed.” He drained the last of the wine into our glasses.
“What’s he going to do, Mark?” I asked. “Call me and demand a manuscript I don’t have? So what?”