Our eyes met and I read his pain. Tiny beads of sweat followed the line of his hair, and he talked as if his mouth were dry.

“Let’s get back to the photos,” I said. “Exactly why were these photos taken? Modeling for whom? Do you know?”

“Something local, as I vaguely recall it,” he said, staring past me out the window. “I think she told me it might have been a Chamber of Commerce thing, something to help advertise the beach.”

“And she gave you all these for what reason?”

I continued slowly going through the pictures.

“Just because she liked you? Perhaps she wanted to impress you?”

He laughed ruefully.

“I wish those were the only reasons,” he replied. “She knows I have influence, that I know people in the film industry and so on. And I’d like you to hang on to these photos, please.”

“So she was hoping you might help her career,” I said, looking up at him.

“Of course.”

“And did you?”

“Dr. Scarpetta, it’s a simple fact of life that I have to be careful of who and what I promote,” he candidly stated. “And it would not have looked especially appropriate if I were handing around photos of my beautiful, young white lover in hopes that I might help her career. I tend to keep my relationships as private as possible.”

Indignation shone in his eyes as he fingered his coffee mug.

“It isn’t me who broadcasts my personal life. Never has been. And I might add that you shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

“I never do,” I said. “I of all people know better than that, Kenneth. To be honest, I’m not as interested in your personal life as I am in knowing why you have chosen to give these photos to me instead of to Fauquier County investigators or ATF.”

He looked steadily at me, and then replied, “For identification reasons I’ve already stated. But I also trust you, and that’s the more important element in the equation. No matter our differences, I know you would not railroad anyone or falsely accuse.”

“I see.”

I was feeling more uncomfortable by the moment and frankly wished he would decide to leave so I didn’t have to do it for him.

“You see, it would be far more convenient to blame everything on me. And there are plenty of people out there who have been after me for years, people who would love to see me ruined or locked up or dead.”

“None of the investigators I’m working with feel that way,” I said.

“It’s not you or Marino or ATF I’m worried about,” he quickly replied. “It’s factions who have political power. White supremacists, militia types who are secretly in bed with people whose names you know. Trust me.”

He stared off, his jaw muscles knotting.