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 a mug out of a cabinet.

“How do you take it?”

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

“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.