as blue as they were lacking in warmth. Flushed, he was breathing hard, as if the exertion of merely carrying his formidable weight strained every cell in his body.
"On a whim, I decided to wander by and offer you a drink, old boy."
Unbuttoning his cashmere coat, he turned to me, offering his hand and a smile. "I don't believe we've met. Robert Sparacino."
"Kay Scarpetta," I said with surprising poise.
Somehow we had managed to drink liqueur with Sparacino for an hour. It was awful. He acted as if I were a stranger. But he knew who I was, and I was sure the encounter hadn't been accidental. In a city the size of New York, how could it have been accidental?
"You sure there's no way he knew I was coming?" I asked.
"I don't see how," Mark said.
I could feel the urgency in his fingertips as he steered me right on to Fifty-fifth Street. Carnegie Hall was empty, a few people strolling past on the sidewalk. It was getting close to one A. M., and my thoughts were floating in alcohol, nerves taut.
Sparacino had gotten more animated and obsequious with each Grand Marnier until he was finally slurring his words.
"He doesn't miss a trick. You think he's soused and won't remember a thing in the morning. Hell, he's on red alert even when he's sound asleep."
"You're not making me feel any better," I said.
We headed straight for the elevator, where we rode up in self-conscious silence, watching the floor light blink from number to number. Our feet were quiet on the carpeted hallway. Hoping my bag was there, I was relieved to see it on the bed when I stepped inside my room.
"Are you nearby?" I asked.
"A couple doors down." His eyes were darting around. "You going to offer me a nightcap?"
"I didn't bring anything ..."
"There's a bar fully stocked. Take my word for it," he said.
We needed another drink like a hole in the head.
"What's Sparacino going to do?" I asked.
The "bar" was a small refrigerator filled with beer, wine, and jigger-sized bottles.
"He sees us together," I added. "What's going to happen?"
"Depends on what I tell him," Mark said.
I handed him a plastic cup of Scotch. "Let me ask it this way. What are you planning to tell him, Mark?"
"A lie."
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
He pulled a chair close and began slowly swirling the amber liquor. Our knees were almost touching.
"I'll tell him I was trying to find out what I could from you," he said, "trying to help him out."
"That you were using me," I said, my thoughts breaking apart like a bad radio transmission. "That you were able to do that. Because of our past."
"Yes."
"And that's a lie?" I demanded.
He laughed, and I had forgotten how much I loved the sound of his laugh.
"I fail to see the humor," I protested. It was hot inside the room. I felt flushed from the Scotch. "If that's a lie, Mark, then what's the truth?"
"Kay," he said, still smiling, and his eyes wouldn't let me go. "I've already told you the truth."
He was silent for a moment. Then he leaned over and touched my cheek, and I was frightened by how much I wanted him to kiss me.
He leaned back in his chair. "Why don't you stay, at least until tomorrow afternoon? Maybe we should both go talk to Sparacino in the morning."
"No," I said. "That's exactly what he'd like me to do."
"Whatever you say."
Hours later, after Mark left, I lay awake staring up into the darkness, aware of the cool emptiness of the other side of the bed. In the old days Mark never stayed the night, and the next morning I would go around the apartment collecting various articles of clothing, dirty glasses, dishes, and wine bottles, and emptying the ashtrays. Both of us smoked then. We would sit up until one, two, three A. M., talking, laughing, touching, drinking, smoking. We also argued. I hated the debates, which all too often turned into vicious exchanges, blow for blow, tit for tat, Code section this for philosophical that. I was always waiting to hear him say he was in love with me. He never did. In the
"On a whim, I decided to wander by and offer you a drink, old boy."
Unbuttoning his cashmere coat, he turned to me, offering his hand and a smile. "I don't believe we've met. Robert Sparacino."
"Kay Scarpetta," I said with surprising poise.
Somehow we had managed to drink liqueur with Sparacino for an hour. It was awful. He acted as if I were a stranger. But he knew who I was, and I was sure the encounter hadn't been accidental. In a city the size of New York, how could it have been accidental?
"You sure there's no way he knew I was coming?" I asked.
"I don't see how," Mark said.
I could feel the urgency in his fingertips as he steered me right on to Fifty-fifth Street. Carnegie Hall was empty, a few people strolling past on the sidewalk. It was getting close to one A. M., and my thoughts were floating in alcohol, nerves taut.
Sparacino had gotten more animated and obsequious with each Grand Marnier until he was finally slurring his words.
"He doesn't miss a trick. You think he's soused and won't remember a thing in the morning. Hell, he's on red alert even when he's sound asleep."
"You're not making me feel any better," I said.
We headed straight for the elevator, where we rode up in self-conscious silence, watching the floor light blink from number to number. Our feet were quiet on the carpeted hallway. Hoping my bag was there, I was relieved to see it on the bed when I stepped inside my room.
"Are you nearby?" I asked.
"A couple doors down." His eyes were darting around. "You going to offer me a nightcap?"
"I didn't bring anything ..."
"There's a bar fully stocked. Take my word for it," he said.
We needed another drink like a hole in the head.
"What's Sparacino going to do?" I asked.
The "bar" was a small refrigerator filled with beer, wine, and jigger-sized bottles.
"He sees us together," I added. "What's going to happen?"
"Depends on what I tell him," Mark said.
I handed him a plastic cup of Scotch. "Let me ask it this way. What are you planning to tell him, Mark?"
"A lie."
I sat down on the edge of the bed.
He pulled a chair close and began slowly swirling the amber liquor. Our knees were almost touching.
"I'll tell him I was trying to find out what I could from you," he said, "trying to help him out."
"That you were using me," I said, my thoughts breaking apart like a bad radio transmission. "That you were able to do that. Because of our past."
"Yes."
"And that's a lie?" I demanded.
He laughed, and I had forgotten how much I loved the sound of his laugh.
"I fail to see the humor," I protested. It was hot inside the room. I felt flushed from the Scotch. "If that's a lie, Mark, then what's the truth?"
"Kay," he said, still smiling, and his eyes wouldn't let me go. "I've already told you the truth."
He was silent for a moment. Then he leaned over and touched my cheek, and I was frightened by how much I wanted him to kiss me.
He leaned back in his chair. "Why don't you stay, at least until tomorrow afternoon? Maybe we should both go talk to Sparacino in the morning."
"No," I said. "That's exactly what he'd like me to do."
"Whatever you say."
Hours later, after Mark left, I lay awake staring up into the darkness, aware of the cool emptiness of the other side of the bed. In the old days Mark never stayed the night, and the next morning I would go around the apartment collecting various articles of clothing, dirty glasses, dishes, and wine bottles, and emptying the ashtrays. Both of us smoked then. We would sit up until one, two, three A. M., talking, laughing, touching, drinking, smoking. We also argued. I hated the debates, which all too often turned into vicious exchanges, blow for blow, tit for tat, Code section this for philosophical that. I was always waiting to hear him say he was in love with me. He never did. In the
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