David Baldacci - True Blue

Cassell continued, “Then there is the amplification of the DNA and instrumentation. Next comes interpretation of the results. That’s where mistakes are made. I don’t want to blow up your case because of an error.”

“You won’t make a mistake, Doc, you’re too good.”

“Everyone’s human. Normally, the protocols I just described take a full week.”

“On TV the forensics team does it every episode in like ten minutes.”

“Don’t get me started on that .”

“So give me the bottom line time-wise.”

“I’ve put all other work aside and you’ll have it by tomorrow. The next day tops.”

“I’ll take it tomorrow, thanks, Doc.”

She clicked off and leaned back in her seat. A moment later they passed a corner that she instantly recognized. She’d been a rookie beat cop riding solo for only two weeks when a bandit had come tearing out of an alley with a TEC-9 and opened fire at a group of people in front of a shoe shop. To this day no one knew why.

Instantly, Beth had gotten her cruiser between the bandit and the crowd. Using her engine block as cover she’d pulled her sidearm and given him two taps in the head. She hadn’t bothered with a torso shot because she’d spotted the edges of body armor poking out of his shirt. It wasn’t until thirty seconds later, after she’d run over and confirmed the kill, that she discovered that the last TEC-9 round had killed a ten-year-old boy who’d been holding tight to a box containing his new pair of basketball shoes.

The other eight people in the crowd, including the boy’s mother, had been saved by Beth’s swift actions. The city hailed her as a hero. Yet she went home that night and cried until the sun rose. She was the only one who knew the truth. She had hesitated before firing. To this day she didn’t really know why. Civilians could never understand what went through a cop’s mind before they pulled the trigger.

Am I going to die today? Will I be sued? Will I lose my job? Can I get a clean shot off? Am I going to die today?

No more than two seconds went by before she’d ended the nightmare scenario. Yet it was enough time for the bandit to get off one last round. The killing round, as it turned out.

Her most vivid image was the box with the new shoes lying in a pool of ten-year-old blood. After calling in the ambulance she did everything she could to bring the little boy back. Tried to stanch the bleeding using her jacket. Breathed hard into his mouth. Pumped his small chest until her arms felt like they would fall off. But she knew he was dead. The eyes were flat, hard. The mother was screaming. Everything was happening in slow motion. Waiting for help to come; the paramedics pronouncing the boy dead; then the gauntlet of stars and bars, the captain, the district commander, and then, finally, the chief himself. It was the longest wait of her life, and all of it, from beginning to end, barely took ten minutes.

She still could feel the heavy, comforting hand of the chief on her trembling shoulder. He said all the right things and yet all Beth could see were those hard, flat eyes. Ten years old. Dead. Two seconds’ hesitation. That’s all it took. A deuce of seconds. A pair of eye blinks. That was apparently the difference between going home and playing hoops in your new shoes or heading to the morgue to get your chest cavity emptied.

One more crime stat for the books. And yet it wasn’t just a stat. His name was Rodney Hawks. Beth had a photo of him from his fourth-grade class in her office on her shelf. She looked at it every day. It pushed her to work harder, try harder, to never leave anything to chance. To never again hesitate when her gun was cocked and locked on a target that required killing.

The shoe shop was no longer there. It was now a liquor store. But for her it would always be the place where she’d allowed Rodney Hawks to die. Where Beth Perry, who had never failed at anything, had failed. And a little boy had lost his life because of it.

Beth took a deep breath and pushed these images from her mind. She looked down at her notes and focused on the present situation. Had the homeless vet raped the power lawyer and then stomped on her neck hard enough to crack her brain stem? And then stuffed her in the fridge and gone about his business? The soiling on her clothes and the bits of fabric found at the crime scene also matched what was found on Dockery’s clothing. But that didn’t really matter. DNA was better than a print. And DNA from sperm was the gold card, particularly when it was found inside the woman. Taken together with the bruising in her genitals, there was no defense lawyer on earth who could spin that one into a positive.

She put the file down and picked up the phone and called her sister. There was no answer so she left a message letting Mace know that they would have the DNA results back soon. If it matched, Lou Dockery would spend the rest of his life in prison. Beth’s mind turned to how Dockery’s conviction might get Mace her old job back. Despite Mona putting obstacles in their way, if they could convince… Beth suddenly dropped this train of thought.

There was one loose end.

She flipped open the Tolliver file once more and looked at two evidentiary items.

A key. And an e-mail.

We need to focus in on A-

There was more here obviously than a homeless vet on a rampage. Yet the real question was, were they connected?

And then there was a shooter in a Town Car with tinted windows, no plates, and a can on the rifle muzzle aiming right at Mace. Was that from Mace’s past or tied to this case?

A deuce of seconds. That’s all it took.

She was not going to lose her sister again.

THERE WAS NOTHING in the mailbox. Nothing, that is, until Mace felt around the top of the inside of the box and her gloved hand closed around a piece of paper taped there. She unfolded it and read the brief contents.

“A name, Andre Watkins. And there’s an address in Rosslyn. I guess for him.” She looked up at Roy. “Ever heard of this guy?”

“No, and Diane never mentioned him.”

“Did she go out a lot?”

“She liked to go to the Kennedy Center; she liked to eat out.”

“Well, she probably didn’t go alone.”

Mace put the paper back inside the box and closed the door.

“Leaving it here?”

“So the police can follow it up if they figure it out.”

“Or we could go and tell them about the letter right now.”

“We could,” Mace said slowly.

“But you want to solve this yourself?”

“It’s a long story, Roy. Don’t rag me about it. I’m not sure my answers will make any sense anyway.”

Twenty minutes later, Mace had parked her bike in an underground garage and she and Roy were zipping to the tenth floor of the apartment building. A man answered the door on the second knock after looking at them through the peephole. This wasn’t a guess, because Mace knew that he had. He was as tall as Roy, though about thirty years older, with a trim white beard to match his thinning hair. He was handsome and his skin was tanned a deep brown. He wore jeans that looked like they’d been ironed and a tuxedo shirt with the tail out. His bare feet were in a pair of black leather Bruno Magli shoes. He looked to Mace like the perfect image of the carefree and elegant aristocrat.

“Andre Watkins?” Mace said.

“Can I help you?”

“I sure hope so. Diane Tolliver?”

“What about her?”

“She’s dead.”

“I know that. Who are you? The police?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then I have no reason to talk to you.”

He started to close the door, but Mace jabbed her foot in the way. “She had a P.O. box that had a piece of paper with your name and address on it.”