had even noticed patterns in connection with a particular detective’s work.
Frank called Tory Randolph and made arrangements to pick up her son’s computer.
“It isn’t working, you know,” she said. “They told me everything was erased off it. And the battery is dead. It’s one big blank. Really outdated now. People probably have watches with more memory in them.”
“I understand. But we might be able to find something on it anyway.”
“I guess those lab types come up with new stuff all the time. That’s why I married Dale. Never a dull day.”
He pulled into the department garage, noticed how damned many white Chevy vans were parked in it, and found a space. He sat in his car for a moment, thinking about watches. Why would the killer go to the trouble of switching a new watch for an old one? Even for someone inside the department, and despite the lax property room procedures in effect until recently, it would have involved risk. Why?
The old watch could not have had any damning bits of evidence on it — bloodstains or the like — Britton’s examination would have discovered them ten years ago.
What had happened seven years ago to trigger that change? Some event?
He got out of the car hastily, abrading his knuckle on the edge of the door as he did. He glanced at it. A little sting — it didn’t even bleed, just scraped the skin up a little.
Skin. No blood.
Suddenly he recalled Tory’s comments about labs coming up with new stuff all the time and saw what he had missed.
The sort of DNA evidence the Las Piernas Police Department lab could not have handled ten years ago, but could handle now. DNA testing that had evolved from the earliest versions — now capable of detecting DNA patterns from the skin cells that might have rubbed off the wearer of a watch and onto a watchband.
He hurried upstairs, not noticing the man who waited in the dark interior of one of the many white vans.
37
Thursday, July 13, 12:55 P.M.
The Cliffside Hotel
Robert Hitchcock left enough cash on the table to cover the bill and a fifteen percent tip. He dabbed his forehead with his cloth napkin, then added a few more dollars to bring the tip up to twenty percent. Hitch worried that in a swanky place like the Cliffside, fifteen percent wouldn’t do. He didn’t want to tip too little or too much. His concern had nothing to do with the excellent service he had received. Hitch didn’t want to be remembered — not for generosity, not for stinginess.
He was distracted for a moment by the sight of the money on the mirror finish of the salver that had held the tab. He knew that there was at least a trace of cocaine on almost every piece of American currency. Cash and drug dealing. During Prohibition, he wondered, had every dollar reeked of gin?
At this thought, he held his hand up as if he were about to sneeze, in front of his nose and mouth. He exhaled softly through his mouth, then inhaled through his nose. No, he didn’t reek of gin. At least he didn’t think he did.
If someone had been watching him, they might have seen that he rose from the table a little carefully. He had enjoyed the martinis. The Cliffside was famous for serving a good martini. It also boasted one of the best restaurants in the city. Today, the first time he had dined here, he discovered that its good reputation was well deserved.
Hitch had been eating lunches in fine restaurants all week. The Cliffside hadn’t been able to give him a reservation until today, and he was almost tempted to see if they could give him another reservation for next week. But what use would that be?
Harriman. That stubborn asshole.
Hitch had been around long enough to read a guy like Frank Harriman. They could fire Harriman and Harriman would work the case on his own. He had seen that on Sunday. Vince Adams was wasting his time trying to pressure Harriman. Why couldn’t Vince see that?
Hitch left the restaurant, stood awhile in the hotel’s grand lobby, then walked outside. It was terribly hot, he thought, and started to dab his forehead. To his horror, he realized he had taken the napkin with him. Jesus! Was the waiter on his way out now to accost him? He would be remembered. He would be the man who stole the napkin. The cop who stole the napkin. Quickly, he stuffed it into his pants pocket, which made the pocket bulge clownishly. It seemed as big as a damned tablecloth in there now, that napkin. He hurried toward his car. He unlocked it, tossed the napkin into the front seat, shut the door and locked it, locked it away from him.
He stepped back from the car, feeling a little dizzy, breathing heavily. He turned and stumbled toward the low wall that ran along the far side of the parking lot, at last leaning against the railing there, looking out over the cliff that gave the hotel its name. The wind was stronger here, blowing hard across the beach and up the face of the sheer rocky surface, on to his own heated face. He needed the cool ocean air to calm him, the sound of the sea to soothe him.
Hitch told himself that he had no reason to feel vulnerable. But that was bullshit, and he knew it. He had been vulnerable for ten years. Not long after Lefebvre disappeared, he had been terrified, certain he would be next. When Rosario left the force, he had gone down on his knees before God and begged for mercy.
He got a miracle. For ten years, nothing.
Now this. His miracle, it seemed, had an expiration date.
Maybe Dale Britton was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Elena Rosario he had seen at the funeral.
A voice behind him said, “Did you drop something?”
He turned to see Myles Volmer holding the napkin. He was smiling.
Hitch felt his spine turn to cold jelly.
“Wh-what are you d-doing here?” he stammered, noticing two other burly giants standing not far away.
“Isn’t the question what are
Hitch glanced nervously toward the hotel, at the large, tinted windows that looked out toward the water.
