Grueman suddenly glanced toward the door. “Unless my ears deceive me, I believe lunch has arrived.”

I heard rapid footsteps and paper crinkle, then a voice called out, “Yo, Nick. You in here?”

“Come on in, Joe,” Grueman said without getting up from his desk.

An energetic young black man in blue jeans and tennis shoes appeared and placed two bags in front of Grueman.

“This one’s got the drinks, and in here we got two sailor sandwiches, potato salad, and pickles. That’s fifteen-forty.”

“Keep the change. And look, Joe, I appreciate it. Don’t they ever give you a vacation?”

“People don’t quit eating, man. Gotta run.”

Grueman distributed the food and napkins while I desperately tried to figure out what to do. I was finding myself increasingly swayed by his demeanor and words, for there was nothing shifty about him, nothing that struck me as condescending or insincere.

“What political motivation?” I asked him again as I unwrapped my sandwich.

He popped open a ginger ale and removed the top from his container of potato salad.

“Several weeks ago I thought I might just get an answer to that question,” he said. “But then the person who could have helped me was suddenly found dead inside her car. And I’m quite certain you know who I’m talking about, Dr. Scarpetta. Jennifer Deighton is one of your cases, and although it has yet to be publicly stated that her death is a suicide, that is what one has been led to believe. I find the timing of her death rather remarkable, if not chilling.”

“Am I to understand that you knew Jennifer Deighton?” I asked as blandly as possible.

“Yes and no. I’d never met her, and our telephone conversations, what few we had, were very brief. You see, I never contacted her until after Ronnie was dead.”

“From which I am also to understand that she knew Waddell.”

Grueman took a bite of his sandwich and reached for his ginger ale. “She and Ronnie definitely knew each other,” he said. “As you must know, Miss Deighton had a horoscope service, was into parapsychology and that sort of thing. Well, eight years ago, when Ronnie was on death row in Mecklenburg, he happened to see an advertisement for her services in some magazine. He wrote to her, initially in hopes that she could look into her crystal ball, so to speak, and tell him his future. Specifically, I think he wanted to know if he was going to die in the electric chair, and this is not an uncommon phenomenon - inmates writing psychics, palm readers, and asking about their futures, or contacting the clergy and asking for prayers. What was a little more unusual in Ronnie’s case was that he and Miss Deighton apparently began an intimate correspondence that lasted until several months before his death. Then her letters to him suddenly stopped.”