“What? That the missing manuscript is all a ruse and he knows it? That he’s causing a stink in the Commonwealth to indirectly give me a black eye and a lot of headaches?”
He smiled grimly. “I think it’s unlikely this would be the whole of his motivation.”
“But it might be added incentive,” I commented. “He would know that any legal snafus, any potential litigation involving my office would be handled by the state’s attorney. What I hear you telling me is he’s a vindictive man.”
Ethridge began slowly tapping his fingertips together as he stared off and said, “Let me tell you something I heard about Robert Sparacino when we were at Columbia. He’s from a broken home and lived with his mother while his estranged father made a lot of money on Wall Street.
Apparently, the kid visited his father in New York several times a year, was precocious, a prolific reader quite taken with the literary world. On one such visit he managed to persuade his father to take him to lunch at the Algonquin on a day that Dorothy Parker and her Round Table were supposed to be there. Robert, no more than nine or ten at the time, had it all planned, according to the story, which he apparently told to several drinking buddies at Columbia. He would approach Dorothy Parker’s table, offer his hand, and introduce himself by saying, ‘Miss Parker, it’s such a pleasure to meet you/ and so on. When he got to her table, what emerged instead was ‘Miss Parker, it’s such a meet to pleasure you.’ Whereupon she quipped, as only she could, ‘So many men have said, though none quite as young as you.’ The laughter that followed mortified Sparacino, humiliated him. He never forgot it.”
The image of the little fatso offering his sweaty hand and saying such a thing was so pathetic I didn’t laugh. Had I been that embarrassed by a childhood hero, I never would have forgotten it, either.
“I tell you this,” Ethridge said, “to demonstrate a point that has been corroborated by now, Kay.
When Sparacino told this story at Columbia, he was drunk and bitter and loudly promising he would get his revenge, show Dorothy Parker and the rest of the elitist world he’s not to be laughed at. And what’s happened?”
He looked appraisingly at me. “He’s one of the most powerful book lawyers in the country, mingles freely with editors, agents, writers, all of whom may privately hate him but find it unwise not to fear him. Supposedly he regularly lunches at the Algonquin, and insists on signing all movie and book contracts there while he no doubt inwardly smirks at Dorothy Parker’s ghost.”
He paused. “Sound farfetched?”
“No. One doesn’t need to be a psychologist to figure it out,” I said.
“Here’s what I’m going to suggest,” Ethridge said, his eyes fixed on mine. “Let me handle Sparacino. I want you to have no contact with him at all, if possible. You mustn’t underestimate him, Kay. Even when you think you’ve told him very little, he’s reading between the lines, is a master at making inferences that can be uncannily on the mark. I’m not sure what his involvement with Beryl Madison, the Harpers, really was or what his real agenda is. Perhaps a mixture of unsavory things. But I don’t want him knowing any more details about these deaths than he already knows.”
“He’s already gotten a lot,” I said. “Beryl Madison’s police report, for example. Don’t ask me how–
”
“He’s very resourceful,” Ethridge interrupted. “I advise you to keep all reports out of circulation, send them only where you must. Tighten the lid on your office, beef up security, every file under lock and key. Make sure your staff releases no information about these cases to anyone unless you’re absolutely certain the person calling in the request is who he says he is. Every crumb Sparacino will use to his advantage. It’s a game to him. Many people could be hurt–including you.
Not to mention what could happen to the cases come court time. After one of his typical publicity blitzes we’d have to change the damn venue to Antarctica.”