Linda Fairstein - Bad blood

She sucked in her hollow cheeks and wet her lips. Then she opened her mouth ever so slightly and spit at Mike, missing the sleeve of his jacket by only inches.

“There’s your sample, Detective. Catch me if you can.”

Mike was on his knees, using a second Q-tip to swab the saliva that Trish Quillian had deposited on the floor of the small room.

“That’s quite a smooth interview technique you’ve developed, Mr. Chapman. Every day I’m on the job with you is a learning experience.”

“I’ve picked up samples from worse places than this, Coop. Where’s Mercer?”

“On the phone. He’ll be right over.”

“I’m whipped. Going home to get some sleep. I’m supposed to start again at midnight. Teddy O’Malley’s got a whole underground route mapped out again.”

“If your ankle is still bothering you so much, why don’t you get it checked out?”

“I’ll put it up when I get home. I’m too tired to wait in an ER just to find out that all I need is the Ace bandage and Tylenol I’ve got in the medicine cabinet.”

Mike wasn’t the type to complain about minor physical pain. “Maybe it’s worse than you think. I’ll go with you.”

“Another time.” I followed Mike as he limped to the lieutenant’s office, where Mercer met us. Mike held out the envelope. “Mind taking this to forensic biology? Have them work it up? Coop’ll explain.”

“No problem. Just made one more check on Duke Quillian. Asked Sloan-Kettering to pull the records on him to get confirmation about what Trish originally told you,” Mercer said, dropping his pad on the desk. “Duke was out of play, too. He was a patient there for close to two months-still in the hospital for more than a week after Bex was killed.”

“Sounds bad. What kind of cancer?” I asked.

“Acute leukemia.”

“Thanks for making the call,” Mike said. “I’ve been up and down on these Quillian brothers like a yo-yo. I’m ready for some sleep.”

“I think I’ll take the rest of the afternoon off,” I said.

“C’mon. Let me drop you at the apartment and get this down to the lab,” Mercer said.

It was three o’clock by the time I reached home, greeted the cops who were sitting in the lobby for the afternoon shift, and went upstairs. I was looking forward to being alone for several hours-for the first time in days-until Ignacia arrived for the overnight detail.

I put on some soft music, called a few close friends-and my mother-to reassure them that I was okay, and left a message for Luc on his voice mail. It was unlikely that I could keep our Saturday-night dinner date with Brendan Quillian still on the loose.

I spread out on the floor of the den with every map and guide to the city of New York that I could find on my bookshelves, trying to figure out if any place connected to Brendan’s sandhog heritage might be a safe haven for my fugitive.

Ignacia arrived with soup and salad, and we had a quiet dinner together in front of the television. Fatigue and anxiety from the week’s events had overtaken me, and I excused myself to go to my bedroom and read a few magazine articles.

I couldn’t even concentrate on those, so I closed my eyes. I thought of Luc again-the chiseled features, the sexy accent, the kisses that had aroused me as we walked along the cove a short week ago. I wondered if I would ever have the chance to re-create the electricity of those first hours. And I wondered what it would be like if he were beside me now.

I slept late, and after Ignacia left at 8 a.m., soaked in my bathtub and dressed casually in jeans and a sweater. I wasn’t going to court or meeting with any witnesses today, and I didn’t expect to be in the office for long. I carried a small bag with my ballet shoes and clothes in it, optimistic that I could sneak away early for a few hours of exercise at the barre.

The patrol car was waiting for me in the driveway when I got downstairs at nine thirty on a cool June morning. I was grateful for the week’s end after days scarred by such tragic events.

My cell phone rang just as we pulled onto the southbound FDR Drive at Seventy-third Street.

“Where are you?” Mike asked.

“On my way to the office. And you?”

“Spent half the night again in a warren of subway tunnels filled with homeless men and the other half in something that vaguely resembles a sewer. What does Mattie Prinzer drink?”

“Scotch,” I said. “Some kind of fancy single malt. One of those two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle jobs, if I remember correctly. Why?”

“Well, buy her a six-pack of ’em. She stayed up till dawn with my Q-tip.”

“And the good news is?”

“She’s matched the saliva on the cotton to the blood on Bex Hassett’s zipper.”

I sat bolt upright. “The same DNA? Trish Quillian’s blood is on the sweater her best friend was wearing the night she was killed?”

“Don’t get too excited, Coop. It may not be what you think.”

I was usually the one curbing Mike’s enthusiasm. I’d urge him not to jump the gun, so I thought immediately of the contrary arguments that had to be considered. “I know, I know. The girls were best friends. Trish’s blood could have been left on that sweater some other day or time.”

“It’s not just that-”

“But after more than a decade?” I said. “Don’t you think it’s fantastic just to get the match? Whatever the issue is about when and how the blood got there, the fact is that Trish Quillian is the only person in the universe with that genetic profile.”

“Tell the boys in blue to get you over here to Mattie’s office as soon as possible. There were actually two people in the universe with Trish Quillian’s DNA. That’s the first problem we’ve got to deal with. I’ll tell you the other one when you get here.”

Mattie’s small office was tucked away at the end of the hall, past the lab in which forensic biologists sat elbow to elbow at their tables, interpreting data that cooked overnight in the robots-the giant machines capable of running dozens of DNA samples at a time.

“I wanted you to see this for yourself, Alex,” Mattie said.

Mike was pacing behind her; three steps in each direction was all that the space allowed. He looked up as I entered, but didn’t bother to greet me. “The bastard would never have had the chance to escape.”

“What have you got now? I hear you did a brilliant job on Trish Quillian’s gob of spit,” I said to Mattie. Mike was talking to her about Brendan Quillian, and I didn’t understand why.

“That’s old news already, Coop. Get with it.”

“Last week, the night of the blast in the water tunnel,” Mattie said, “we were so proud of ourselves for showing off the mobile lab. Getting the crew up there and having results in less than ten hours.”

“The guys did a great job.”

“I think so, too. From bits and pieces of flesh, they matched the two sandhogs from Tobago to items they found in their lockers and their home.”

“Sorry. I never even focused on those men,” I said. “We’ve all been assuming they were caught in the wrong place at a very wrong time, not that they were the targets of the killer.”

“That’s quite possible. Yes, one had tissues in a jacket pocket in the shed. Cut himself on a piece of metal a day or two before the explosion. The other one was identified from his toothbrush.”

“And then there was Duke Quillian,” Mike said, locking his thumbs in the rear pockets of his jeans.

I frowned and looked at Mike for an explanation. “Don’t tell me he wasn’t down there in the tunnel? He was certainly identified, too. Wasn’t he?”

It was Mattie who spoke. “Yes. Duke Quillian is dead. But the day he was identified, it wasn’t actually done by a DNA analysis of his blood.”