“Who in God’s name designed your lobby?” I whispered.
“The person we’re going to see,” Mark said.
Sparacino’s office was twice the size of the others I had passed, his desk a beautiful block of ebony scattered with polished gemstone paperweights and surrounded by walls of books. No less intimidating than he had seemed last night, this lawyer to luminaries and the literati was dressed in what looked like an expensive John Gotti suit, the handkerchief in his breast pocket offering a
contrasting touch of bloodred. He did not budge from his casual repose when we walked in and helped ourselves to chairs. For a chilly moment he did not even look at us.
“Understand you’re on your way to lunch,” he finally said as cool blue eyes lifted up and thick fingers shut a file folder. “I promise not to hold you up long, Dr. Scar-petta. Mark and 1 have been reviewing a few details pertaining to the case of my client, Beryl Madison. As her attorney and the executor of her estate, I have some fairly clear needs, and I’m confident you can assist me in complying with her wishes.”
I said nothing, my search for an ashtray fruitless.
“Robert needs her papers,” Mark said un-emphatically. “Specifically the manuscript of the book she was writing, Kay. I was explaining to him before you got here that the medical examiner’s office is not the custodian of these personal effects, at least not in this instance.”
We had rehearsed this meeting over breakfast. Mark was supposed to “handle” Sparacino before I arrived. Already I was getting the feeling that I was the one being handled.
I looked straight at Sparacino and said, “The items receipted to my office are of an evidentiary nature and do not include any papers you might need.”
“You’re telling me you don’t have the manuscript,” he said.
“That’s correct.”
“You don’t know where it is, either,” he said.
“I have no idea.”
“Well, now, I’ve got a few problems with what you’re saying.”
His face was expressionless as he opened the file folder and produced a photocopy I recognized as Beryl’s police report.
“According to the police, a manuscript was recovered at the scene,” he said. “Now I’m being told there isn’t a manuscript. Can you help me make sense of that?”
“Pages of a manuscript were recovered,” I answered. “But I don’t think they’re what you’re interested in, Mr. Sparacino. They do not appear to be part of a current work and, more to the point, they were never receipted to me.”
“How many pages?” he asked.
“I’ve not actually seen them,” I said.
“Who has?”
“Lieutenant Marino. He’s the one you really need to talk to,” I said.
“I already have, and he tells me he hand delivered this manuscript to you.”
I did not believe Marino had actually said such a thing. “A miscommumcation,” I replied. “I think Marino must have been referring to his receipting a partial manuscript to the forensic labs, pages of which may be an earlier work. The Bureau of Forensic Science is a separate division. It happens to be located in my building.”
I glanced at Mark. His face was hard and he was perspiring.
Leather creaked as Sparacino shifted in the chair.
“I’m going to shoot straight with you, Dr. Scarpetta,” he said. “I don’t believe you.”
“I have no control over what you believe or don’t believe,” I replied very calmly.
“I’ve been giving the matter a lot of thought,” he said, just as calmly. “The fact is, the manuscript’s a lot of worthless paper unless you realize its value to certain parties. I know of at least two people, not including publishers, who would pay a high price for the book she was working on when she died.”
“All of this is of no concern to me,” I answered. “My office does not have the manuscript you’ve mentioned. Furthermore, we never had it.”
“Someone has it.”
He stared out the window. “I knew Beryl better than anyone did, knew her habits, Dr. Scarpetta.
She’d been out of town for quite a while, had been home only a few hours before she was murdered. I find it impossible to think she didn’t have her manuscript close by. In her office, in her briefcase, in a suitcase.”