He laughed.
‘Take me seriously, goddamn it.’
‘I promise I’ll stay away from white whales.’
‘You’re already chasing the hell out of one.’
‘I love you, Kay.’
As I followed the hallway to my office, I wondered why I bothered saying the same old words to him. I knew his behavior almost as well as I knew my own, and the idea that he wouldn’t be doing exactly what he was right now was about as unthinkable as my letting another forensic pathologist take over the Warrenton case because it was my right to take it easy at this stage in my life.
I turned on the light in my spacious paneled office, and opened the blinds to let the morning in. My work space adjoined my bedroom, and not even my housekeeper knew that all of the windows in my private quarters, like those in my downtown office, were bulletproof glass. It wasn’t just the Carries of the world who worried me. Unfortunately, there were the countless convicted killers who blamed me for their convictions, and most of them did not stay locked up forever. I had gotten my share of letters from violent offenders who promised to come see me when they got out. They liked the way I looked or talked or dressed. They would do something about it.
The depressing truth, though, was that one did not have to be a detective or profiler or chief medical examiner to be a potential target of predators. Most victims were vulnerable. They were in their cars or carrying groceries into their homes or walking through a parking lot, simply, as the saying goes, in the wrong place at the wrong time. I logged onto America Online and found Lucy’s ATF repository research files in my mailbox. I executed a print command and returned to the kitchen for more coffee.
Marino walked in as I was contemplating something to eat. He was dressed, his shirttail hanging out, his face dirty with stubble.
‘I’m outta here,’ he said, yawning.
‘Would you like coffee?’
‘Nope. Something on the road. Probably stop at Liberty Valance,’ he said as if we’d never had our discussion about his eating habits.
‘Thanks for staying over,’ I said.
‘No problem.’
He waved at me as he walked out, and I set the alarm after him. I returned to my study, and the growing stack of paper was rather disheartening. After five hundred pages, I had to refill the paper tray, and the printer ran another thirty minutes. The information included the expected names, dates, and locations, and narratives from investigators. In addition, there were scene drawings and laboratory results, and in some instances, photographs that had been scanned in. I knew it would take me the rest of the day, at the very least, to get through the stack. I was already feeling that this had probably been a Pollyanna idea that would prove a waste of time.
I had gone through no more than a dozen cases when I was startled by my doorbell. I was not expecting anyone, and I almost never had unannounced visitors in my private, gated neighborhood. I suspected it might be one of the local children selling raffle tickets or magazine subscriptions or candy, but when I looked into the video screen of my camera system, I was stunned to see Kenneth Sparkes standing outside my door.
‘Kenneth?’ I said into the Aiphone, and I could not keep the surprise out of my voice.
‘Dr Scarpetta, I apologize,’ he said into the camera. ‘But I really need to speak to you.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
I hurried across the house, and opened the front door. Sparkes looked weary in wrinkled khaki slacks and a green polo shirt spotted with sweat. He wore a portable phone and a pager on his belt, and carried a zip-up alligator portfolio.
‘Please come in,’ I said.
‘I know most of your neighbors,’ he said. ‘In case you’re wondering how I got past the guard booth.’
‘I’ve got coffee made.’
I caught the scent of his cologne as we entered the kitchen.
‘Again, I hope you’ll forgive me for just showing up like this,’ he said, and his concern seemed genuine. ‘I just don’t know who else to talk to, Dr Scarpetta, and I was afraid if I asked you first, you would say no.’