Point of Origin

'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.'

'I probably would have.'

I got two mugs out of a cabinet.

'How do you take it?'

'The way it comes out of the pot,' said he.

'Would you like some toast or anything?'

'Oh no. But thank you.'

We sat at the table before the window, and I opened the door leading outside because my house suddenly seemed warm and stuffy. Misgivings raced through my mind as I was reminded that Sparkes was a suspect in a homicide, and that I was deeply involved in the case, and here I was alone with him in my house on a Saturday morning. He set the portfolio on the table and unzipped it.

'I suppose you know everything about what goes on in an investigation,' he said.

'I never know everything about anything, really.' I sipped my coffee.

'I'm not naive, Kenneth,' I said. 'For example, if you didn't have clout, you wouldn't have gotten inside my neighborhood, and you wouldn't be sitting here now.'

He withdrew a manila envelope from the portfolio and slid it across the table to me.

'Photographs,' he said quietly. 'Of Claire.'

I hesitated.

'I spent the last few nights in my beach house,' he went on to explain.

'In Wrightsville Beach?' I said.

'Yes. And I remembered these were in a filing cabinet drawer. I hadn't looked at them or even thought of them since we broke up. They were from some photo shoot. I don't recall the details, but she gave me copies when we first started seeing each other. I guess I told you she did some photographic modeling.'

I slid what must have been about twenty eight-by-ten color prints from the envelope, and the one on top was startling. It was true what the governor had said to me at Hootowl Farm. Claire Rawley was physically magnificent. Her hair was to the middle of her back, perfectly straight, and seemed spun of gold as she stood on the beach in running shorts and a skimpy tank top that barely covered her breasts. On her right wrist she wore what appeared to be a large diving watch with a black plastic band and an orange face. Claire Rawley looked like a Nordic goddess, her features striking and sharp, her tan body athletic and sensual. Behind her on the sand was a yellow surfboard, and in the distance a sparkling ocean.

Other photographs had been taken in other dramatic settings. In some she was sitting on the porch of a decaying Gothic southern mansion, or on a stone bench in an overgrown cemetery or garden, or playing the part of hardworking mate surrounded by weathered fishermen on one of Wilmington's trawlers. Some of the poses were rather slick and contrived, but it made no difference. In all, Claire Rawley was a masterpiece of human flesh, a work of art whose eyes revealed fathomless sadness.

'I didn't know if these might be of any use to you,' Sparkes said after a long silence. 'After all, I don't know what you saw, I mean what was… Well.'

He tapped the table nervously with his index finger.

'In cases such as these,' I told him calmly, 'a visual identification simply isn't possible. But you never know when something like this might help. At the very least, there's nothing in these photos that might tell me the body isn't Claire Rawley.'

I scanned the photographs again, to see if I noted any jewelry.

'She's wearing an interesting watch,' I said, shuffling through the photographs again.

He smiled and stared. Then he sighed.

'I gave that to her. One of these trendy sports watches that's very popular with surfers. It had an off-the-wall name. Animal? Does that sound right?'

'My niece may have had one of those once,' I recalled. 'Relatively inexpensive? Eighty, ninety dollars?'

'I don't remember what I paid. But I bought it at the surf shop where she liked to hang out. Sweetwater Surf Shop on South Lumina, where Vito's, Reddog's, and Buddy's Crab are. She lived near there with several other women. An old not-so-nice condo on Stone Street.'

I was writing this down.

'But it was on the water. And that's where she wanted to be.'

'And what about jewelry? Do you remember her wearing anything unusual?'

He had to think.

'Maybe a bracelet?'

'I don't recall.'

'Her keychain?'

He shook his head.

'What about a ring?' I then asked.

'She wore funky ones now and then. You know, silver ones that didn't cost much.'

'What about a platinum band?'

He hesitated, knocked off balance.

'You said platinum?' he asked.

'Yes. And a fairly large size, too.'

I stared at his hands.

'In fact, it might fit you.'

He leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling.

'My God,' he said. 'She must have taken it. I have a simple platinum band I used to wear when Claire and I were together. She used to joke that it meant I was married to myself.'

'So she took it from your bedroom?'

'From a leather box. She must have.'

'Are you aware of anything else missing from the house?' I then asked.

'One gun from my collection is unaccounted for. ATF recovered all the rest. Of course, they're ruined.'

He was getting more depressed.

'What kind of gun?'

'A Calico.'

'I hope that's not out on the street somewhere,' I said with feeling.

A Calico was an especially nasty submachine gun that looked rather much like an Uzi with a large cylinder attached to the top of it. It was nine-millimeter and capable of firing as many as a hundred rounds.

'You need to report all this to the police, to ATF,' I told him.

'Some of it I already have.'

'Not some. All of it, Kenneth.'

'I understand,' he said. 'And I will. But I want to know if it's her, Dr Scarpetta. Please understand that I don't care about much else at the moment. I will confess to you that I have called her condo. Neither of her roommates have seen her for over a week. Last she spent the night in her place was the Friday night before the fire, the day before it, in other words. The young lady I talked to said Claire seemed distracted and depressed when they ran into each other in the kitchen. She made no mention of going out of town.'