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?"
"I have a feeling he knows you don't have it," he said. "Problem is, it doesn't matter. Yes, he wants it. And he'll get it eventually, has to unless it's lost. He's the executor of her estate."
"That's cozy," I said.
"I just know he's up to something." He seemed to be talking to himself.
"Another one of his publicity schemes?" I offered a bit too breezily.
He sipped his wine.
"I can't imagine what," I went on. "Not anything involving me."
"I can imagine it," he said seriously.
"Then please spell it out," I said.
He did. "Headline: 'Chief Medical Examiner Refuses to Release Controversial Manuscript.' "
I laughed. "That's ridiculous!"
He didn't smile. "Think about it. A controversial autobiography written by a reclusive woman who ends up brutally murdered. Then the manuscript disappears and the medical examiner is accused of stealing it. The damn thing's disappeared from the morgue. Christ. When the book finally comes out, it will be a runaway bestseller and Hollywood will be fighting over the movie rights."
"I'm not worried," I said unconvincingly. "It's all so farfetched, I can't imagine it."
"Sparacino's a whiz at making something out of nothing, Kay," he warned. "I just don't want you ending up like Leon Jones."
He looked around for the waiter, his eyes freezing in the direction of the front door. Quickly looking down at his half-eaten prime rib, he mumbled, "Oh, shit."
It took every bit of my self-restraint not to turn around. I didn't look up or act the least bit aware until the big man was at our table.
"Well, hello, Mark. Thought I might find you here."
He was a soft-spoken man in his late fifties or early sixties, with a fleshy face made hard by small eyes
"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?"
"I have a feeling he knows you don't have it," he said. "Problem is, it doesn't matter. Yes, he wants it. And he'll get it eventually, has to unless it's lost. He's the executor of her estate."
"That's cozy," I said.
"I just know he's up to something." He seemed to be talking to himself.
"Another one of his publicity schemes?" I offered a bit too breezily.
He sipped his wine.
"I can't imagine what," I went on. "Not anything involving me."
"I can imagine it," he said seriously.
"Then please spell it out," I said.
He did. "Headline: 'Chief Medical Examiner Refuses to Release Controversial Manuscript.' "
I laughed. "That's ridiculous!"
He didn't smile. "Think about it. A controversial autobiography written by a reclusive woman who ends up brutally murdered. Then the manuscript disappears and the medical examiner is accused of stealing it. The damn thing's disappeared from the morgue. Christ. When the book finally comes out, it will be a runaway bestseller and Hollywood will be fighting over the movie rights."
"I'm not worried," I said unconvincingly. "It's all so farfetched, I can't imagine it."
"Sparacino's a whiz at making something out of nothing, Kay," he warned. "I just don't want you ending up like Leon Jones."
He looked around for the waiter, his eyes freezing in the direction of the front door. Quickly looking down at his half-eaten prime rib, he mumbled, "Oh, shit."
It took every bit of my self-restraint not to turn around. I didn't look up or act the least bit aware until the big man was at our table.
"Well, hello, Mark. Thought I might find you here."
He was a soft-spoken man in his late fifties or early sixties, with a fleshy face made hard by small eyes
Similar Books
