She checked her watch and hurried for the exit. She had a lunch date to keep.
22
'Thank God,' Jack said, hoarse by the time a guard showed up in the lineup of holding cells. 'I have to call my lawyer!'
'Shut up, Newlin.' The guard was burly and young, with a brushy mustache and an angry expression. 'You're nobody special in here.'
'I have a right to call my lawyer, like anybody else.' Jack was controlling his temper. He had to get to Trevor.
'Your rights. That's all I fuckin' hear all day.' The guard took a ring of keys from his pocket as another guard appeared for backup. 'Here's your rights, pal. You have the right to three frees a day, delivered to you like room service. You have the right to free heat and utilities and the right to be in the news like a friggin' celebrity.' The guard shoved a key into the lock in the cell. 'You got so many goddamn rights I can't count that high. Now turn around and put your hands behind your back.'
'I need to make that phone call.' Jack turned his back and presented his wrists, as the guard opened the door and slammed the cuffs on.
'Tell them at the house, counselor.' The guard yanked him out by the elbow and shoved him down the hall, but Jack exploded in frustration.
'Goddamn! I've waited hours for one lousy call!'
'Shut up!' the guard shouted, and pushed Jack so hard he lost his balance, stumbled forward, and fell.
'No!' Jack cried out. He couldn't break his fall with his hands cuffed, and his chest hit the concrete squarely, knocking the wind out of him. His chin bounced on the
floor and he felt dazed for a minute. When he looked up he was eye level with the laughing man. Who abruptly stopped laughing.
23
The lab at the Roundhouse was busy, the criminalists bright-eyed except one. She was the one Brinkley had had working all night, liaising with the FBI and running the DNA tests he needed. He'd had to rush the report of the result, to stay ahead of Davis. Brinkley thought about saying thank you to the tech, but didn't. It was part of her job. If she didn't like it, she should find another. 'What did you find out about the earring back?' he asked, standing with Kovich at the black-topped lab table. Before them was a row of microscopes and slides, which were carefully stored and numbered by case. 'It's hers, isn't it?'
The stiff's?'
'No, the daughter's. The earring back is Paige Newlin's, isn't it?'
'No, it's not. I took some flakes of skin off the hair you gave me and compared it with the earring back. There's no match.'
'What?* Brinkley couldn't hide his disappointment. 'You're sure about that?'
'Hair? What hair?' Kovich asked, but Brinkley ignored him.
'You damn sure about that?' he repeated. He would have bet his life it was the daughter's earring.
'Absolutely, Detective. I did a visual inspect and double-checked with a DNA analysis, just to make sure -'
'Hold on.' Kovich smiled crookedly. 'Let's get back to the hair.'
'The hair's not your concern,' Brinkley said, but Kovich pushed up his glasses.
'Excuse me, Mick, I'm very interested in this hair. You
may not know this, but hair is a hobby of mine. In fact, if I get to see this hair for even one minute, I bet I can tell you where it came from. I am a fucking hair expert.'
The criminalist looked from Kovich to Brinkley and held up her hands. 'Don't get me in the middle, okay? I was told to look it over on the QT, so I looked it over.'
'S'all right,' Brinkley said, but Kovich held out his hand.
'Cough it up. Gimme the hair. I can carbon-date it. I amaze my friends, really. You oughta see me at parties.'
'Here.' The criminalist slid the bagged hair from an unmarked case folder and handed it over.
'Well, well.' Kovich took the bag and held it up to the fluorescent lighting. 'Yes, it's quite clear that this is a very special hair. Subject hair belongs to a gorgeous young model who is innocent of any major felony, but who is so good-looking she should be locked up.'
Brinkley could hear the edge to Kovich's voice. He said to the criminalist, 'Did you check what I asked you?'
'Yeh. Lookit.' The criminalist turned around and peered into a large black microscope that rested on a white lab table. She took a second to bring the scope into focus, twisting the chrome knob. 'Check it. It's a match.'
Brinkley elbowed Kovich aside and looked in the microscope. A perfect circle of bright white stared back at him, and through the center of the circle was a thick stalk of red, with a line in the middle. That's a hair? What's that line in the middle?'
'It's the cortex. The center of the hair, basically. Now look at this slide.'
Brinkley watched as the circle went bright white and another red stalk appeared. 'It looks the same.'
'It is.'
'Nice,' Brinkley said, under his breath, and Kovich nudged him out of the way.
'Let me play.' The heavy detective bent over the scope. 'Ah, yes, even more hair, my specialty.'
'A hair found on the decedent's body,' the criminalist said. 'One of several actually. It is the same hair as those in the bag.'
'You dig, Kovich?' Brinkley asked. 'We got the daughter's hair on the mother. What's that tell you?'
Kovich came up from the scope, his expression sour. 'It tells me you and me are goin' for a ride, Mick.'
'You know it's good, Stan.'
'We'll talk about it. Let's not fight in front of the lady. Foul language may be involved.' Kovich turned to the criminalist. Thanks.'
'You're not gonna make a stink, are you, Detective Kovich?'
'Nah. I'm just gonna bitch-slap my partner here. You wanna watch?' Kovich turned to go, with Brinkley following.
'Don't forget the reports,' the criminalist called after them, and she thrust a set of papers at Brinkley. 'By the way, the dirt in Baggie A, from the coffee table? It was gravel, soot, silica, and paniculate of dog feces. Like you'd get off a sidewalk.'
'I coulda told you that, Mick,' Kovich said, as he led Brinkley out. 'I am a particulate-of-dog-feces expert.'
Brinkley didn't reply and tucked the reports unread under his arm.
It was impossible to keep a secret in a police station, so Brinkley and Kovich always fought in the Chrysler. It wasn't that they planned it that way, it was just that the fights always seemed to break out when they were driving. Or maybe that was the only time they talked to each other, Brinkley didn't know. 'The hair on the mom is the daughter's,' he was saying, increasingly exasperated. 'You tellin' me that that doesn't mean anything?'
'No. It means something.' Kovich was driving aimlessly in the north end of town. He squinted over the steering wheel into the bright sunshine. 'It means the mom hugged her daughter.'
'But the daughter told us she wasn't with the mom that day.' The Chrysler, a shitwagon, hadn't warmed up enough to turn the heat on, so Brinkley kept his jacket buttoned up. The car was an '88 model, left over from another unit. Homicide got all the castoffs; their motor pool was a disgrace.
'So she hugged her mother another day. A day the mother was wearing the same blouse.'
'What's the likelihood of that? They didn't live together.'
They worked together and they hugged.'
