'How fresh?' asked Mac.
'Fragments are still pliable,' said Hawkes. 'He wasn't painting walls but he did lean against one that wasn't completely dry. Paint is a blend. High end. Expensive. Mixture of three colors. It comes out mostly green. I talked to the manufacturer. It's not used in homes much. Marketed to high-end office buildings, doctors' offices, law firms, places like that.'
Hawkes had taken the paint chips to the paint store, which had computer color-matching software. They had taken the paint chip, placed it in front of a small detection window on the computer that then identified the proper formula to make that particular color. It took no more than a few seconds. The formula was displayed on the computer monitor. With the push of the 'enter' button, the clerk at the computer could have created a gallon of paint that exactly matched the small chip Hawkes had supplied.
'The paint was purchased by Norah Opidian & Associates, Office Decorators,' said Hawkes. 'I called their number. Answering machine says they're closed, at a big office decorators' convention in Philadelphia.'
'Keep trying,' said Mac. 'Call the convention hotel. See if you can find somebody who can help you find where that paint came from.'
Mac pushed away from the desk, turned his head and looked out the window. The room went silent for a moment.
'Everything's connected,' Mac said finally. 'We have to find out how. He put the knife in Park's pocket at the Gun Hill station. What was he doing there? He doesn't live there and neither did any of the people he killed.'
'He's not done killing,' Stella said, rubbing her eyes.
'He's not done killing,' Mac agreed.
Pulling her thoughts from Custus was more than difficult and Stella knew why now. It had come to her a few minutes ago when Mac was looking out the window. Custus reminded her of Tom O'Brien, the administrator at the orphanage when Stella was ten years old. O'Brien and Custus had the same Irish accent, the same wit, though Stella had not been able to really understand it when she was ten. One day Tom O'Brien had simply been gone and no one would say where. The rumor was that he had been caught touching one of the girls.
He had never touched Stella. Or had he? The image of a smiling Connor Custus came to her. Custus was reaching out to touch her.
'Stella?' said Mac. 'You with us?'
'Yes, sorry. Yunkin may not be finished spelling,' she said.
'The day is over,' said Hawkes. 'He wanted to get his brother's name carved into four child molesters.'
'We're lucky his brother's name wasn't Anthony,' said Flack.
No one laughed.
'But his brother had a last name,' said Stella. 'And there was one other person in Paul Sunder-land's therapy group.'
'Ellen Janecek,' said Flack.
'And his brother's first name could be repeated,' said Stella. 'There are a lot of child molesters out there.'
'The anniversary of his brother's death is over for this year,' said Hawkes.
'He could be planning to spend another special day carving out a name for himself,' said Flack. 'His brother's birthday maybe.'
'Birthday? When was Adam Yunkin's birthday?' asked Mac.
Flack took out his notebook, flipped through pages and stopped. He looked up and said, 'Tomorrow.'
'Irony,' said Hawkes. 'The kid kills himself the day before his birthday.'
'Ironic, but maybe not a coincidence. Adam Yunkin didn't want to see sixteen,' said Stella.
'It could be nothing,' said Mac.
'Could be everything,' said Stella.
'Gun Hill area,' said Mac. 'While Hawkes is looking for an office decorator, see if you can talk to someone at the Gun Hill precinct who can give us a lead on an office being painted Vineland Green.'
'I'm on it,' said Flack. 'I know a couple of people in that precinct.'
Mac heard something behind him. He looked over his shoulder at the window. It had begun to rain again.
Anne Havel made the call and asked to talk to whoever was in charge of investigating her husband's murder. She was put through to Danny Messer.
While she waited, she glanced out the living room window, ignoring her father-in-law, Waclaw, who sat numbly on the sofa.
The days of rain had taken her through many moods. At first, before Alvin had been murdered, she had welcomed the protective wall of the deluge that isolated her from the world. Even as a child she had welcomed the heavy, driving rain.
After three days, the isolation had ceased to be comforting and had become confining. The house was not big; three small bedrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen. The rain kept the children home and Waclaw had sat watching television, even though he didn't understand most of it, from morning till night.
The house had become a confining trap. And now, with the cruel return of the rain, it had suddenly struck her as a good place to end her life.
'Detective Messer,' said Danny.
'This is Anne Havel.'
'What can I do for you, Mrs. Havel?'
So much, she thought. Take that zombie of a man away. Sit with her children day and night for at least a week. Make the rain stop. Make it stop.
'My husband left a diary,' she said. 'It's in Polish. He was having an affair with someone at the school.'
'Who?'
'He didn't write the name, only called the person 'Nogi,' 'Legs' in Polish.'
'We'll need that diary.'
'It's yours,' she said, hanging up the phone and turning to her father-in-law. 'Are you hungry?'
If Waclaw understood, he gave no sign.
Anne walked to the kitchen. She would do the easiest thing possible. She would make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The girls would be fine with that. Waclaw wouldn't care.
She opened the refrigerator. No peanut butter.
Keith Yunkin sat in the comfortable, new office swivel chair. He had unpacked and assembled it the day before. It was the only piece of furniture in the office. The floor was polished wood and the walls freshly painted in what was supposed to be a restful green.
Other furniture would be moved in, possibly today. The office and the rest of the building, now that it was almost truly finished, would begin coming to life. Keith listened for the sound of movers and curious tenants. He would hear them coming down the hall when they started to come in. Now that the rain had begun to fall again they would almost certainly not be moving in today. Plenty of time to pick up his duffel bag, slide open the window and step out into the rain.
On his lap was a paper towel he had taken from a diner bathroom. On top of the towel was a half-finished sandwich, peanut butter and jelly. He was hungry. There was another sandwich in his duffle, an egg salad on rye. He would probably eat that too.
He couldn't stop thinking about Ellen Janecek. He had to complete the cycle. Everyone in the group would have to pay for Adam's death. He had chosen Sunderland's group randomly. It was a place to start, a symbolic place, a statement. After he had killed her, he would call the
