Unforgivable (31 page)

“This is a special case,” Ric said simply.

“You guys have an alternative?” Mark pressed. “Because some defense attorney will argue—”

“I’m gonna have to go with the Supreme Court on this one,” Jonah said. “The Fourth Amendment doesn’t apply to shit left out on the curb for trash pickup.” He glanced at Mia. “’Scuse my language.”

“No problem,” Mia said. “But the Court hasn’t specifically ruled on the covert collection of DNA. Some people think they have a reasonable expectation of privacy when it comes to their genetic material.”

“Why?” Ric eyed her coolly. “No different from footprints or fingerprints left somewhere. If I can lift some guy’s prints from the glass he uses in an interview room and compare them with the ones left at the crime scene, why can’t I do the same with his DNA?”

Mia crossed her arms, defensive now. “I’m merely pointing out that this is a gray area for the courts. Until there’s a ruling—”

“Whose side are you on?” Ric snapped. “We’re trying to get a killer off the streets here.”

“I’m not on a side. My job is to test evidence and report my findings.”

“And my job is to collect the evidence. Let the lawyers argue about what’s admissible. I’m trying to protect the public.”

“Hey, you guys mind if we get this over with?” Jonah asked. “My breakfast isn’t sitting too well just now. How about one of you experts help us out with what we’re looking for?”

“Is your subject a male or a female?” Mark asked.

“Male,” Ric and Jonah said in unison.

“In that case, keep an eye out for disposable razors, tissues, toothpicks, condoms—”

“This looks like the kitchen trash,” Mia said, surveying the smorgasbord of food littering the floor. Ric used his knife to poke through greasy chicken bones, limp bits of broccoli, a slimy carton of Chinese food.

“Any plastic utensils?” she asked. “A drinking straw? Maybe some chopsticks?”

“Nothing I can see.”

“Let’s try this bag,” Jonah said, then dragged it to a space across the floor before ripping it open. “Lots of papers in here. Looks like maybe from an office.”

“Again, look for tissues, toothpicks, discarded gum.” Mark ticked off the possible sources of DNA. “Cigarette butts, envelopes—”

“Coffee cup,” Jonah announced, holding up a cardboard Starbucks cup.

“That looks like lipstick on the lid,” Mia pointed out. “Is there a name written on the side?”

Jonah examined the customer name that had been scribbled by some barista. “Camille,” he read aloud, then cast a look at Ric. “Think this is from the wife’s office.”

Ric cut open a third plastic bag, which looked a bit more promising. Tissues tumbled out, some crumpled trash, a cardboard toilet-paper roll.

“Think I got a bathroom,” Ric said.

Mia stepped closer. “Any razors? Maybe a toothbrush?”

Ric lifted a piece of trash from the floor. Some sort of silver wrapper. “How about disposable contacts?” He looked up at Mia.

“Does your suspect wear them?”

“No idea.” Ric picked up a small cardboard box with a prescription label on it. “Make that a yes. We got the name right here.”

“There could be touch DNA on the box,” Mia said. “But it would be better to have the contact itself.”

“You want a
contact lens
?” Jonah shook his head. “Yeah, right. Talk about a needle in a haystack.”

Ric picked up something that looked like nothing and lifted it to the light for a better view.

Jonah stopped what he was doing and looked at him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Nope,” Ric said. “I think I found our DNA sample.”

Jonah passed Moore and Burleson on his way into the station. Barely eight a.m., and they both looked dead on their feet.

“You guys just clock out?”

“Been here since two,” Moore said. “Vehicle versus pedestrian over on campus. Hit-and-run.”

“Fatality?” Jonah asked.

“Damn near,” Burleson reported. “Kid’s in ICU. Probably not gonna make it past today.”

“I’m toast,” Moore said, and turned around as Ric exited the station house. “Hey, Ricky, how’s that taskforce thing coming?”

Ric made eye contact with Jonah. There was some kind of news.

“Slow,” Ric answered.

Moore and Burleson didn’t press, which was a good thing, because their task-force work was supposed to be kept confidential. Ric didn’t talk much, though, so most
people didn’t realize when he was dodging questions and when he was just being himself.

Jonah lingered on the steps and tied his shoe while the other guys headed off to their cars.

“You up for a drive?” Ric pulled out his keys and flipped them into his palm.

“Sure. Where?”

“Lake Buchanan. I need to check on something.”

“You want to swing by Lane’s lake house?”

“This is something else. I’ve got a lead that might net us a search warrant.”

“Long as you’re driving,” Jonah said. “My car still smells like a trash chute.”

Forty-five minutes and one coffee stop later, they’d almost reached Marble Falls, the largest town near Lake Buchanan. Ric’s idea might not pan out, but they didn’t have a lot of other leads to follow until the lab results came in, so Jonah figured some legwork wouldn’t hurt. Plus, he was tired of sitting around a conference room with Special Agent Singh. She was one of those theoretical types who white-boarded everything to death and never pounded the pavement.

“What do you hear from your Army buddy?” Ric asked, interrupting his thoughts. It was the first thing he had said since explaining their destination.

“The firearms guy?”

“Yeah.”

“Haven’t heard back yet,” Jonah said, pulling his phone out to make sure he hadn’t missed a message.

A friend of Jonah’s was the range master at a shooting field west of town. Jonah had asked him if he knew any cops who’d come in lately for some target practice. His
ranges went out to a thousand yards, and his place was popular with military guys.

“Anyway, I just called him yesterday,” Jonah said. “And it’s kind of a long shot, no pun intended. There are a lot of ranges around if someone wanted to brush up. Fact, if our guy is a cop, he could just be using a police range.”

“Not if he’s practicing three-hundred-yard shots,” Ric said. FBI investigators had been out to the gas station and had concluded that Saturday’s gunshots were fired from a ridge more than three hundred yards north.

“True,” Jonah said, “but he might not have been practicing anything, not if his track record’s any indication.”

Jonah expected an argument, but Ric was too busy grinding his teeth to nubs. Jonah had known the man for years—worked some shit cases with him, too—and he’d never seen him this uptight. Ric was getting impatient for an arrest. He probably wouldn’t sleep easy until they got one. Suspects they knew about were one thing, and Ric probably figured the lieutenant governor was more or less neutralized because the FBI had him under surveillance. But Lane’s hired gun was a different story. Ric wanted him ID’d yesterday. He wanted him locked up and a million miles away from Mia.

“How’d it go last night?” Ric asked, as if on cue. He’d been asking for daily updates since she’d booted him off her surveillance team.

“Pretty quiet.”

“How’s Mia?”

Jonah rubbed the crick in his neck. “Well, her couch sucks. But she makes damn good pancakes, so I’m not complaining.”

Ric cut a glance at him, and Jonah could see that he didn’t appreciate the attempt to lighten things up.

“No visitors,” Jonah added. “Not even any phone calls.”

Ric was pissed off about that guy Black, and Jonah didn’t blame him. He would have felt the same way.

“You know, you should probably work this thing out with her,” Jonah said. “It’d be easier for everyone.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, for starters, your brother and I wouldn’t be pulling these night shifts guarding her all week. It’s not like she wants us there. That’s pretty clear.”

She’d stayed in her room all night working, except when she was in the kitchen making food. Jonah suspected she felt guilty about needing a bodyguard. The two nights he’d stayed over there, she’d offered to feed him about a dozen times.

“I bet she’ll take you back if you apologize,” Jonah said. “Usually works for me.”

“Apologize for what?”

“Whatever you did to piss her off.” Jonah looked at him. Mia seemed like the sensitive type, so he guessed it was something he’d said. “What’d you do, anyway?”

“Nothing.”

Silence ensued, and Jonah watched the dreary landscape rush by. Three straight weeks of crappy weather. Today was more of the same. The temperature hovered around freezing, and every time Jonah went outside, it was either raining or sleeting or cold as shit.

“I think I might have given her the wrong idea.”

Jonah glanced over, surprised. He’d figured the conversation was dead. “How’s that?”

“I guess she thought I wanted a relationship with her.”

“You don’t?”

Ric looked at him.

“Hey, I’m just asking. She’s a nice woman.” Jonah started to say something about her looks, too, but changed his mind.

“This job’s hell on relationships,” Ric said. “Ask my ex-wife.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like she’s going in blind. She knows plenty of cops. And she probably works as many hours as you do, if not more. She’s at that lab all the time.”

Ric didn’t say anything, and Jonah was glad to let it drop. He wasn’t one to give out advice like this. And Ric was right, to some extent. Cops weren’t known for their enviable personal lives.

The Marble Falls city limits sign came into view, and Jonah started looking for the address.

“What’s the street again?”

“Vista Bonita.”

It took about five minutes to find the place, which didn’t quite live up to its name. The store occupied the end unit of a mostly abandoned strip mall in an unscenic corner of town.

Ric got out of the car and looked at Jonah over the roof as he slammed the door. “I’ve got a good feeling about this place.”

“Why?”

“They’re the only game in town. Next-closest place is in Austin.”

A cowbell rattled on the glass door as they entered the store. The reception counter was empty, but Jonah heard the unmistakable sounds of
Wheel of Fortune
drifting from the back room.

He took a moment to glance around. Carpet bolts stood on end around the room. A pegboard lined one of the walls, and bulky sample books dangled from the many hooks there. A chemical scent hung in the air, like the smell of a new car, only stronger.

“May I help you?”

Jonah turned around at the female voice. The woman was short, middle-aged, and lumpy. It looked as if she’d tried a home remedy on her mousey brown hair sometime ago, and the result was a burnt-orange color that started about an inch away from her scalp.

Jonah hung back. Ric usually tried the charm approach with women, and it was best not to crowd him.

“Ric Santos.” He flashed a smile. “Pam, is it? I think we spoke on the phone.”

“Oh, yes.” She smiled, then cast a tentative look at Jonah. “You’re the police officer?”

“We were in the area, and I thought I’d stop by to check on that installation we talked about. Out on Lake View Road?”

“The one on New Year’s Day. I remember.” Her smile faltered. “Like I said, though, our computer’s down today. I don’t know what all I can tell you besides what we already talked about. What is it you need, exactly?”

“Just wanted to get the address on that again.”

Jonah would bet he’d never had it in the first place.

“Well, our computer—”

“I figure you have a record of it floating around somewhere? Maybe an invoice?” Ric nodded at the back office, where the TV blared and where someone in this outfit presumably kept a file cabinet.

“All of our records are electronic now.” Pam smiled. “Ever since we went paperless.”

“Maybe a purchase order?” Ric persisted. “A receipt of some sort?”

“Like I say, all that’s on computer. Which is down. I could look on the schedule, though, if all you need’s an address.”

“That would be helpful, thanks.”

She reached under the counter and pulled out a thick black binder. “I write those up myself, post them on the board each week. You said New Year’s Day?”

“I think
you
said that. I believe you remembered the job because it was a holiday?”

“That’s right.” She flipped open the book. “We had to do a surcharge.” She glanced up. “I would have let it go. It’s not like we were busy or anything, but the owner’s kind of a stickler, you know? So I went ahead and tacked on the twenty percent.” She found the page she wanted. “Here it is. Two-twenty-six Lake View Road. January first. Our first job of the year, as a matter of fact.”

Jonah inched closer and glanced at the page. The square for January first had a big X over it and an address written at the top.

The address belonged to Jeff Lane’s lake house.

“That was your only job that day?” Ric asked, very low-key. The stress maniac from the drive up here was long gone, replaced by this chatty police officer with an easy smile.

“Yep,” she said. “We did the whole ground floor. Berber carpet, wall to wall.”

“What do the H and D mean at the bottom there?”

“Oh, that just means our haul-away service. They
wanted that, too. Most people, when they replace their carpet, they can’t use the old stuff. We take it off their hands and send it to our recycling partners.”

“What happens to it then?”

“It gets steam-cleaned, deodorized, the whole bit. There’s a market for secondhand carpet. A lot of people don’t know that, but there is. Long as it’s in good condition. Not too many stains or anything.”

“And what if it’s stained?” Ric asked. “Say, something hard to get out, like maybe ink or blood or red wine?”

“Well, you’d be surprised what we can do about wine nowadays. Our installer can usually tell just by looking whether it’s an H and R or an H and D.”

“What’s an H and D?”

She tapped her finger on January first, just days before Ashley Meyer was discovered facedown in a park with carpet fibers clinging to her hair.