"She told us never to let anybody have it should something happen to her. I promised."
"Thank you, Peter. God bless you," I said, and then I asked of him one last thing.
"Did Beryl ever mention anyone she referred to as 'M'?"
He stood very still and stared at his beer.
"Do you know who this person is?" I asked.
"Myself," he said.
"I don't understand."
" 'M' for 'Myself.' She wrote letters to herself," he said.
'The two letters we found," I said to him. "The ones we found on the floor of her bedroom after she was murdered, the ones that mentioned you and Walt, were addressed to 'M.'"
"I know," he said, shutting his eyes.
"How do you know?"
"I knew it when you mentioned Zulu and the cats. I knew you'd read those letters. That's when I decided you were all right, that you were who you said you were."
"Then you've read the letters, too?" I asked, stunned.
He nodded.
"We never found the originals," I muttered. "The two we found are photocopies."
"That's because she burned everything," he said, taking a deep breath, steadying himself.
"But she didn't bum her book."
"No. She told me she didn't know where she'd go next or what she'd do if he was still there, still after her. That she'd call me later on and tell me where to mail the book. And if I didn't hear from her, to hold on to it, never give it up to anyone. She never called, you know. She never fucking called."
He wiped his eyes, averting his face from me. "The book was her hope, you know. Her hope of being alive."
His voice caught when he added, "She never stopped hoping things would turn out all right."
"What exactly was it that she burned, PJ?"
"Her diary," he replied. "I guess you could call it that. Letters she'd been writing to herself. She said it was her therapy and that she didn't want anyone to see them. They were very private, her most private thoughts. The day before she left, she burned all her letters except two."
"The two I saw," I almost whispered. "Why? Why didn't she burn those two letters?"
"Because she wanted me and Walt to have them."
"As a remembrance?"
"Yeah," he said, reaching for his beer and roughly rubbing tears from his eyes. "A piece of herself, a record of thoughts she had while she was here. The day before she left, the day she burned the stuff, she went out and photocopied just those two. She kept the copies and gave us the originals, said it sort of made us indentured to each other-that was the word she used. The three of us would always be together in our thoughts as long as we had the letters."
When he walked me out, I turned around, throwing my arms around him in a hug of thanks.
I headed back to my hotel as the sun settled, palms etched against a spreading band of fire. Throngs of people clambered noisily toward the bars along Duval, and the enchanted air was alive with music, laughter, and lights. I walked with a spring in my step, the army knapsack slung over my shoulder. For the first time in weeks I was happy, almost euphoric. I was completely unprepared for what awaited me in my room.
16
I did not recall leaving any lamps on and just assumed the housekeeping staff must have neglected to switch them off after changing the linen and emptying the ashtrays. I had already locked the door and was humming to myself as I passed the bath when I realized I was not alone.
Mark was sitting near the window, an open briefcase on the carpet beside his chair. In that moment's hesitation when my feet didn't know which way to move, his eyes met mine in speechless communication, thrilling my heart and seizing it with terror.
Pale and dressed in a winter gray suit, he looked as if he had just arrived from the airport, his suit bag propped against the bed. If he had a mental geiger counter, I was sure my knapsack was making it click like mad. Sparacino had sent him. I thought of the Ruger in my handbag, but I knew I could never turn a gun on Mark James and squeeze the trigger if it came to that.
"How did you get in?" I asked dully, standing very still.
"I'm your husband," he said, and reaching in his pocket, he displayed a hotel key to my room.
"You bastard," I whispered, my heart pounding harder.
His face blanched. He averted his eyes. "Kay-"
"Oh, God. You bastard!"
"Kay. I'm here because Benton Wesley sent me. Please." Then he got up from the chair.
I watched him in stunned silence as he produced a fifth of whiskey from his suit bag. Walking past me to the bar, he began filling glasses with ice. His motions were slow and deliberate, as if he was doing his best not to further unnerve me. He also seemed very tired.
"Have you eaten?" he asked, handing me a drink.
Moving past him, I unceremoniously dropped the knapsack and my pocketbook on top of the dresser.
"I'm starved," he said, loosening his shirt collar and yanking off his tie. "Damn, I must have changed planes four times. Don't think I've had anything to eat but peanuts since breakfast."
I said nothing.
"I've already ordered for us," he went on quietly. "You'll be ready to eat by the time it gets here."
Moving to the window, I gazed out at the purple-gray clouds over the lights of Key West's Old Town streets. Mark pulled up a chair, slipped off his shoes, and propped his feet up on the edge of the bed.
"Let me know when you're ready for me to explain," he said, swirling ice in his glass.
"I wouldn't believe anything you said, Mark," I answered coldly.
"Fair enough. I'm paid to live a lie. I've gotten unbelievably good at it."
"Yes," I echoed, "you've gotten unbelievably good at it. How did you find me? I don't believe Benton told you. He doesn't know where I'm staying, and there must be fifty hotels on this island and just as many guesthouses."
"You're right. I'm sure there are, and it took me exactly one phone call to find you," he said.
Defeated, I sat down on the bed.
Reaching inside his suit jacket, he pulled out a folded brochure and handed it to me. "Look familiar?"
It was the same visitor's information guide Marino had found inside Beryl Madison's bedroom, a photocopy of which was included in her case file. It was the same guide I had studied countless times and then recalled two nights before when I had decided to flee to Key West. One side of it listed restaurants and places to sightsee and shop, the other was a street map bordered by advertisements, including one for this hotel, which was where I had gotten the idea to stay here.
"Benton finally got hold of me yesterday after repeated attempts," he went on. "He was pretty upset, said you'd taken off, headed here, and then we went about the business of trying to track you down. Apparently there's a photocopy of Beryl's brochure in the file he has. He assumed you would have seen it, too, and possibly even made a copy for your own record. We decided it might occur to you to use it as a guide."
"Where did you get this?" I returned the brochure to him.
"At the airport. It just so happens this hotel is the only one listed. It was the first place I called. They had a reservation in your name."
"All right. So I wouldn't make a very good fugitive."
"A damn poor one."
"It is where I got the idea, if you must know," I admitted angrily. "I've been through Beryl's paperwork so many times, I remembered the brochure, remembered seeing the ad for a Holiday Inn on Duval. I suppose it stood out to me because I wondered if she might have stayed here when she first arrived in Key West."
"Had she?" He lifted his glass.
"No."
As he got up to refresh our drinks, there was a knock on the door and my heart jumped as Mark casually reached around and withdrew a 9-millimeter pistol from under the back of his suit jacket. Holding it up, he looked through the peephole and returned the gun to the back of his trousers as he opened the door. Our dinner had arrived, and when Mark paid the young woman in cash, she smiled br
ightly and said, "Thank you, Mr. Scarpetta. I hope you enjoy your steaks."
"Why did you check in as my husband?" I demanded.
"I'll sleep on the floor. But you're not staying alone," he answered, setting covered dishes on the table near the window and uncorking the bottle of wine. Slipping out of his suit jacket and tossing it on the bed, he set the pistol on top of the dresser not far from my knapsack and within easy reach.
I waited until he had sat down to eat before asking him about the gun.
"An ugly little monster, but maybe my only friend," he replied, cutting into his steak. "And for that matter, I presume you have your thirty-eight with you, probably in your knapsack."
He glanced at the knapsack on the dresser.
"It's in my pocketbook, for your information," I blurted out ridiculously. "And how in God's name did you know I have a thirty-eight?"
"Benton told me. He also said you'd recently gotten a license to carry it concealed, and he figured you weren't going many places without your piece these days."
He sipped his wine, adding, "Not bad."
"Has Benton told you my dress size, too?" I asked, forcing myself to eat as my stomach begged me not to. "Now, that he doesn't need to tell me. You still wear an eight, look just as good as you did when we were in Georgetown. Better, in fact."
"I'd greatly appreciate it if you'd stop acting like a cavalier son of a bitch and tell me how the hell you even know Benton Wesley's name, much less merit the privilege of enjoying so many little tete-a-tetes with him about me."
"Kay."
He set down his fork as he met my angry gaze. "I've known Benton longer than you have. Haven't you figured it out yet? Do I have to spell it in neon lights?"
"Yes. Write it in big letters across the sky, Mark. Because I don't know what to believe. I have no idea who you are anymore. I don't trust you. In fact, at this moment I'm scared to death of you."
Leaning back in the chair, his face as serious as I had ever seen it, he said, "Kay, I'm sorry you're afraid of me. I'm sorry you don't trust me. And it makes perfect sense because very few people in this world have any idea who I am, and there are times when I'm not so sure myself. I couldn't tell you this before, but it's over."
He paused. "Benton taught me in the Academy long before you got to know him."
"You're an agent?" I asked in disbelief.
"Yes."
"No," I said, my mind reeling. "No! I'm not going to believe you this time, goddammit!"
Getting up without a word, he went to the phone by the bed and dialed.
"Come here," he said, glancing over at me.
Then he handed me the receiver.
"Hello?" I recognized the voice immediately.
"Benton?" I said.
"Kay? Are you all right?"
"Mark's here," I replied. "He found me. Yes, Benton. I'm all right."
"Thank God. You're in good hands. I'm sure he'll explain."
"I'm sure he will. Thank you, Benton. Good-bye."
Mark took the receiver from me and hung up. When we returned to the table he looked at me for a long time before he spoke again.
"I left my law practice after Janet was killed. I'm still not sure why, Kay, but it doesn't matter. I worked in the field, in Detroit for a while, then went under deep cover. The bit about my working for Orndorff amp;. Berger was all a ruse."
"You're not going to tell me Sparacino's working for the Feds, too," I said, and I was trembling.
"Hell, no," he replied, looking away from me.
"What's he involved in, Mark?"
"His minor infractions included his cheating Beryl Madison, tampering with her royalty statements like he's done with a number of his clients. And as I've already told you, he was manipulating her, playing her against Gary Harper and cooking up a big publicity scam-again, like he's done a number of times before."
"Then what you told me in New York is true."
"Certainly not everything. I couldn't tell you everything."
"Did Sparacino know I was coming to New York?" It was a question that had been tormenting me for weeks.
"Yes. I set it up, ostensibly so I could get more information from you and manipulate you into talking to him. He knew you would never agree to a discussion. So I volunteered to bring you to him."
"Jesus," I muttered.
"I thought everything was under control. I thought he wasn't on to me until we got to the restaurant. That's when I realized everything was going to hell," Mark went on.
"Why?"
"Because he had me tailed. I've known for a long time that the Partin brat's one of his snitches. It's how he pays the rent while he's waiting for bit parts in soaps, TV commercials, and underwear ads. Obviously, Sparacino was getting suspicious of me."
"Why would he send Partin? Wouldn't he realize you'd recognize him?"
"Sparacino isn't aware that I know about Partin," he said. "Point is, when I saw Partin in the restaurant, I knew Sparacino had sent him to make sure I was really meeting with you, to see what I was up to, just like he sent the so-called Jeb Price to ransack your office."
"Are you going to tell me Jeb Price is a starving actor, too?"
"No. We arrested him in New Jersey last week. He won't be bothering anybody for a while."
"And I suppose your knowing Diesner in Chicago was also a lie," I said.
"He lives in legend. But I've never met the man."
"And I suppose your coming to see me in Richmond was a setup, too, wasn't it?"
I fought back tears.
Refilling our wineglasses, he replied, "I wasn't really driving in from D.C. I'd just flown in from New York. Sparacino sent me to pick your brain, find out everything he could about Beryl's murder."
I sipped my wine, silent for a moment as I tried to regain my composure.
Then I asked, "Is he somehow involved in her murder, Mark?"
"At first that worried me," he answered. "If nothing else, I wondered if Sparacino's games with Harper had gone too far, if Harper had gone haywire and murdered Beryl. But then Harper was murdered, and as time went by, I failed to pick up on anything that would make me think Sparacino was connected with their deaths. I think he wanted me to find out everything I could about Beryl's murder because he was paranoid."
"Was he worried the police would have gone through her office, that maybe it would come out that her royalty statements were fraudulent?" I asked.
"Maybe. I do know he wants her manuscript. No question of its value. But beyond that, I'm not sure."
"What about his lawsuit, his vendetta against the attorney general?"
"It's generated a lot of publicity," Mark replied. "And Sparacino despises Ethridge, would be delighted if he could humiliate him or even run him out of office."
"Scott Partin has been down here," I informed him. "He was down here not long ago asking questions about Beryl."
"Interesting" was all he said, taking another bite of steak.
"How long have you been connected with Sparacino?"
"More than two years."
"Lord," I said.
"The Bureau set it up very carefully. I was sent in as a lawyer named Paul Barker looking for work, looking to get rich quick. I went through the moves necessary to make him hook into me. Of course he checked me out, and when certain details didn't add up, he finally confronted me. I admitted I was living under an assumed name, that I was part of the Federal Protected Witness Program. It's convoluted and difficult to explain, but Sparacino believed I had been involved in illegal activities in a former life in Tallahassee, had gotten nailed, and that the Feds had rewarded me for my testimony by fictionalizing my identity and my past."
"Had you been involved in illegal activities?" I asked.
"No."
"Ethridge is of the opinion that you have been," I said. "That you've also served time in prison."
"I'm not surprised, Kay. The federal marshals tend to be very cooperative with the Bureau. On paper, the Mark James you once knew look
s pretty bad. A lawyer who crossed over, was disbarred, and spent two years in the pen."
"Am I to assume that Sparacino's connection with Orndorff amp; Berger is a front?"
I asked.
"Yes."
"For what, Mark? There must be more to it than his publicity scams."
"We are convinced he has been laundering money for the mob, Kay. Money from narcotics trafficking. We also believed he is tied in with organized crime in the casinos. Politicians are involved, judges, other attorneys. The network is unbelievable. We've known it for quite a while, but it's dangerous business when one part of the criminal justice system attacks another. We had to have admissible evidence of guilt. That's why I was sent in. The more I uncovered, the more there was. Three months turned into six, and then it became years."
"I don't understand. His firm is legitimate, Mark."
"New York is Sparacino's own little country. He has power. Orndorff amp;. Berger knows very little about what he does. I've never worked for the firm. They don't even know my name."
"But Sparacino does," I pressed him. "I heard him refer to you as Mark."
"Yes, he knows my real name. As I've said, the Bureau was very careful. They did quite a good job of rewriting my life, of creating a paper trail that makes the Mark James you once knew someone you wouldn't recognize, much less like."
He paused, his face grim. "Sparacino and I agreed that he would refer to me as Mark in your presence. The rest of the time I was Paul. I worked for him. For a while I lived with his family. I was his loyal son, or at least this is what he thought."
"I know Orndorff amp; Berger never heard of you," I confessed. "I tried to call you in New York and Chicago, and they didn't know who I was talking about. I called Diesner. He didn't know who you were, either. I may not make a good fugitive, but you make an equally poor spy."
He was silent for a moment.
Then he said, "The Bureau had to bring me in, Kay. You came on the scene, and I took a lot of chances. I got emotionally involved because you were involved. I was stupid."
"I don't know how I'm suppose to respond to that."
"Drink your wine and watch the moon rise over Key West. That's the best way to respond."
Body of Evidence ks-2 Page 28
