sample. We send it to our lab, compare the DNA with Terese's'-he raised his glass-'and we're done.'
'Ghoulish,' I said.
'And effective.'
'Do you think there's a point?'
'Meaning?'
'We know how the result is going to turn out.'
'Do tell.'
'I heard the tone in Berleand's voice. He may have talked about premature and inconclusive, but we both know. And I saw that girl on that surveillance video. Okay, not her face and it was at a distance. But she had her mother's walk, if you know what I mean.'
'How about her mother's derriere?' Win asked. 'Now that would be solid evidence.'
I just looked at him.
He sighed. 'Mannerisms are often more of a tell than facial features or even height,' he said. 'I get it.'
'Yes.'
'You and your son have that,' Win said. 'When he sits down, he shakes his leg like you do. He has your motion-the way your fingertips come off the ball-on the jump shot, if not your result.'
I don't think Win had ever mentioned my son before.
'We still need to do this,' I said. I thought again about that Sherlock Holmes axiom about eliminating the impossible. 'At the end of the day, the most obvious answer is still some kind of mistake in Berleand's DNA test. We need to know for certain.'
'Agreed.'
I hated the idea of violating a grave, of course, especially of someone who'd been taken so young. I would run it by Terese, but she had made it pretty clear how she felt about ashes to ashes. I told Win to go ahead.
'Is that why you wanted to see me alone?' I asked.
'No.'
Win took a deep sip, rose, filled his glass. He didn't bother offering me any. He knew I couldn't handle hard liquor. Though I'm six four and nearly 220 pounds, I handle booze about as well as a sixteen-year-old girl sneaking into her first mixer.
'You saw the video of the blond girl at the airport,' he said.
'Yes.'
'And she was with the man who attacked you. The one in the photograph.'
'You know this.'
'I do.'
'So what's wrong?'
Win pressed a button on his cell phone and raised it to his ear. 'Please join us.'
The door from the connecting room opened. A tall woman in a dark blue power suit entered. She had raven black hair and big shoulders. She blinked, put a hand to her eyes, and said, 'Why are the lights so low?'
She had a British accent. This being Win, I figured that the woman was, well, Mee-like, if you will. But that wasn't the case. She moved across the room and took the open seat.
'This,' Win said, 'is Lucy Probert. She works at Interpol here in London.'
I said something inane, like nice to meet you. She nodded and studied my face as though it were a modern painting she didn't quite get.
'Tell him,' Win said.
'Win forwarded me the photograph of the man whom you assaulted.'
'I didn't assault him,' I said. 'He pulled a gun on me.'
Lucy Probert waved that away as if it were so much flotsam. 'My division at Interpol works international child trafficking. You probably think it's a pretty sick world out there, but trust me, it's sicker than you can imagine. The crimes that I deal with-well, it boggles the mind what people can dream up to do to the most vulnerable. In our battles against this depravity, your friend Win has been an invaluable ally.'
I looked over at said friend and as usual his face gave away nothing. For a long time, Win had been-for lack of a better term-a vigilante. He would go out late at night and walk the most dangerous streets of New York or Philadelphia in hopes of being attacked so that he could maim those who would prey on the perceived weak. He would read about a pervert who'd gotten off on a technicality or some wife beater who'd gotten his wife to clam up, and he would pay them what we called 'Night Visits.' There was one case of a pedophile the police knew had kidnapped a girl but couldn't get to talk. They were forced to release him. Win paid him a Night Visit. He talked. The girl was found, already dead. No one knows where the pedophile is now.
I thought that maybe Win had stopped or at least slowed down, but now I realized that hadn't been the case. He had started taking more overseas trips. He had been an 'invaluable ally' in the fight against child trafficking.
'So when Win asked me for a favor,' Lucy went on, 'I did it. This seemed like a pretty innocuous request anyway-to run the photo Captain Berleand sent you through the system and come up with an ID. Routine, right?'
'Right.'
'It was not. We have plenty of ways at Interpol to identify people from photographs. There's facial recognition software, for example.'
'Miss Probert?'
'Yes.'
'I don't really need a technology lesson.'
'Wonderful, because I have neither the time nor inclination to give you one. My point is, such requests are fairly routine at Interpol. I put the photograph into the system before I left for the day, figuring the computer would work on it overnight and spew out an answer. Is that simplifying matters enough for you?'
I nodded, realizing that I'd be wrong to interrupt. She was clearly agitated and I hadn't helped.
'So when I arrived at work this morning, I expected to have an identity to report back to you. But that wasn't the case. Instead-how shall I put this politely?-all forms of intestinal waste hit the proverbial fan. Someone had gone through my desk. My computer had been accessed and searched. Don't ask me how I know-I know.'
She stopped and started searching through her bag. She found a cigarette and put it in her mouth. 'You damn Americans and your antismoking crusade. If one of you says anything about no-smoking rules…'
Neither of us did.
She lit up, took a deep breath, let it go.
'In short, that photograph was classified or top secret or fill in your own terminology.'
'Do you know why?'
'Why it was classified?'
'Yes.'
'No. I am fairly high up on the Interpol food chain. If it was over my head, it is ultra-sensitive. Your photograph sent warning bells right to the top. I was summoned to Mickey Walker's office-the big boss in London. I haven't been honored by an audience with Mickey in two years. He called me in and sat me down and wanted to know where I'd got the photograph and why I'd made this request.'
'What did you tell him?'
She looked over at Win, and I knew the answer.
'That I'd received a tip from a reliable source that the man in the photograph might be involved in trafficking.'
'And he asked you for the name of the source?'
'Of course.'
'And you gave it to him?'
Win said, 'I would have insisted.'
'There was no choice,' she said. 'They would have found out anyway. If they went through my e-mails or phone records, they might have been able to track it down.'
I looked at Win. Again no reaction. She was wrong-they wouldn't have been able to track it down, but I understood where she was coming from. This was clearly something big. To not cooperate would be career
