Unknown - The Genius

Samantha looked at me. “You know what this means.”

“What.”

“It means your hair is falling out.”

The old pair of jeans yielded two DNA profiles, one from the bloodstain and the other from the semen, the latter presumably belonging to the perpetrator. Although the state crime lab still hadn’t gotten back to Samantha about her request to check the profile against CODIS (see how fast I was learning?), Annie had been able to scrounge up dead skin cells from the sweater found in Victor’s apartment. That profile did not match the profile taken from the jeans. Although we had been assuming that the sweater belonged to Victor, we had no proof; and we furthermore could not rule out the possibility that the wearer of the sweater (if it was in fact Victor) had been present at the crime scene but failed to leave DNA.

The most promising lead was the partial fingerprint taken from the inside of the weather journal. At my request, Annie had tried to be as nonin-vasive as possible when handling the art; and, going slowly, she had page by page examined the journals for usable evidence. The print had also been sent to the FBI, request still pending. As Samantha and Annie talked it once again became clear to me how much of what they did was paperwork, how much time got wasted in leaving messages and sending follow-up e-mails. In that sense, our jobs had a lot in common.

When Annie left, Samantha and I turned our attention to the group of comparison cases. She had whittled it down to three, one of which left a surviving victim. The two other murders were cold, their evidence in storage, and we planned to get those boxes out of storage once the holiday had passed. The survivor was a boy—a man now, assuming he was still alive— named James Jarvis. At age eleven he had been sexually assaulted, beaten, and choked, and left for dead in a park four miles from Muller Courts; this happened in 1973, six years after the presumed final murder. So far, Samantha had been unable to locate Jarvis, but she was determined to keep trying. When she told me that, she got the little familiar bulge in her jaw.

It was December 21. We were in a booth at the Chinese restaurant, tired of talking about homicide, content to watch the traffic. It was dark out, the sidewalk slush painted red and green by the stringlights in the window. I never found Queens beautiful, but at that moment it seemed realer than any place I had ever been.

” ‘You will endure a great trial,’ ” she read.

“In bed.”

“In bed.” She chewed loudly. “Your turn.”

” ‘You have many friends.’ “

“In bed.”

“In bed. Please,” I said, holding up a hand, “don’t even bother.”

She grinned and reached for her wallet.

“On me,” I said.

She studied me. “Is this a ruse?”

“Consider it a gift to the working class.”

She gave me the finger. But she let me pay.

Outside we stood shivering and talking about the upcoming holiday. Samantha was headed to Wilmington with her mother and sister and their respective spouses. “I’ll be back on the second,” she said. “Try not to miss me.”

“I will.”

“Miss me, or try not to.”

I shrugged. “You decide.”

She smiled. “And what are your big plans?”

“Marilyn’s having a party this Thursday. Yearly thing she does.”

“That’s the twenty-third,” she said. “I meant Christmas itself.” “What about it.”

“Are you going to be somewhere?” “Yes,” I said. “At home.” “Oh,” she said.

“You can hang on to your condescension just a little longer, if you don’t mind.”

“Why don’t you call your father?” she asked. “And do what, exactly.” “You could start by saying hello.” “That’s it? Say hi?”

“Well, if that goes okay, you could ask how he’s doing.”

“I don’t see this scenario playing out in a way that leaves anyone happy.”

She shrugged.

“We never celebrated Christmas,” I said. “We never even had a tree. My mother used to give me presents but that was the extent of it.”

She nodded, although I sensed something vaguely accusatory. I said, “If I called him up and said hi, he’d expect more. He’d start asking why I hadn’t called before. Trust me, you don’t know him.” “You’re right, I don’t.” “No thank you,” I said. “Whatever you say.” “Why are you doing that.” “Doing what.”

“You’re making me feel guilty for something I haven’t done.”

“I’m agreeing with you.”

“You’re disagreeing with me by agreeing.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” she said.

I walked her to the subway.

“Enjoy the canapes,” she said. “I’ll see you next year.” Then she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I remained standing there long after she’d gone.

TO CALL MARILYN’S ANNUAL WINTER BASH a “holiday party” verges on sacrilege, insofar as that term implies drunken co-workers standing round the punchbowl, fondling one another to the strains of Bing Crosby. The event that takes place at the Wooten Gallery the week before Christmas is more like an opening par excellence. Everyone comes out for it, even when weather makes getting there a misery. Whatever the theme—”Underwater Cowboys” or “Warhol’s Shopping List” or “Yuppies Strike Back”—Marilyn always hires the same band, a thirteen-piece ensemble made up entirely of transvestites whose songbook never deviates from note-perfect Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald covers. They’re called Big and Swingin’.

Busy as I’d been with the case, I’d forgotten to get my costume. For the life of me I couldn’t find my invitation, which meant that I didn’t know the theme. (I couldn’t very well ask anyone without making it scandalously clear that Marilyn and I weren’t talking, which at that point I still believed was a matter between the two of us.)

When I arrived at the gallery in a suit, however, I found myself improbably appropriate, wading through a sea of revelers all dressed like members of the newly reelected Bush cabinet. Without a mask, I attracted a lot of attention, as people tried to guess my identity. It’s a real test of one’s patience to listen to someone insist that you look exactly like Donald Rumsfeld.

“I’m sure he meant that in the nicest way possible,” said Ruby.

“What way would that be?”

“He has nice cheekbones,” Nat offered.

I mingled. Some people asked if I was feeling well; I touched the one remaining Band-Aid on my temple and said, “Minor brain damage.” Other people tried to involve me in conversations about artists and shows that I hadn’t heard of. The pace of the contemporary market is such that you can be away for a little more than a month and find yourself completely out of the loop. I didn’t know what people were talking about and I didn’t care. After two or three minutes of group banter I would find myself drifting, my attention drawn by the surreal spectacle of a kickline consisting of Dick

Cheney, Dick Cheney, Condoleezza Rice, and Dick Cheney. When I did try to follow along, I could not help but get annoyed. Regardless of who or what was under discussion, the true subject was money.

“I hear your murderer’s developed a strong following.”

“How much of that stuff do you have in a vault, Ethan?”

“More than he’s telling.”

“Have you sold any more?”

“Have you sold any more to Hollister?”

“I heard he unloaded his.”

“Is that true? Ethan?”

“You went to the house, didn’t you? I know someone who’s been there, he said the place is too tacky. He hired Jaime Acosta-Blanca to paint all these tacky copies but he gave him seventy percent up front and Jaime ran off with the money to Moscow where’s he defrauding neo-oligarchs.”