Jake finished a Coke, which kept him from passing out at his desk, then crushed the can and flung it into the trash. He'd seen plenty of scientists, and plenty of cops, come to grief trying to make evidence support a theory they'd grown too fond of. Is that what he was doing here? he wondered. He started once more to run through the evidence, looking for the one fact that would make all the others come together coherently. Make no judgments; let the facts do the work.
"Victims one, two, and three, and possibly victim four, were children of the Desaparecidos." Of this, Jake was now positive. He'd spoken again to three of the early victims. Numbers two and three had readily admitted to being adopted. Both said they had no knowledge of their birth parents and had never tried to contact them. They assumed their birth parents were American, but when pressed, they admitted they really didn't know.
Victim number one, Lucinda Bettis, had once again reacted differently from the others, shouting "No" and slamming down the phone when Jake asked her if she had been adopted. To him, that was as good as a yes. It was this discovery, at least three of the four early victims linked through adoption, that had reluctantly brought Vito around to discuss the case with Jake again.
Jake stood and made notes on the whiteboard in the corner as he spoke. "Fiore, Hogaarth, Fortes, and Slade, by virtue of their ages, are not children of the Desaparecidos. The first three are too old; Deanie Slade is too young. But three of the four have definite connections to Argentina."
Pasquarelli's only response was to purse his lips into a tight line. He refused to make the leap from adoption to Argentina. He still hadn't completely let go of Islamic terrorists.
"The Vampire takes blood from all of them but tortures only the last three, and kills only Hogaarth and Fortes," Jake said. "Why?"
"Because he's a fuckin' terrorist nut!" Pasquarelli shouted. "Why do they strap bombs to themselves and blow themselves up in buses full of innocent people? They're nuts!"
Jake shook his head. "Not a nut. The Vampire's escalating violence may be a sign of increasing mental instability, but when he began this series of attacks, I'm sure he had a very specific purpose in mind."
The pained look returned to Pasquarelli's face, as if he were humoring a temperamental child. "Which is…"
Jake stopped writing on the whiteboard and chewed the end of the marker. "Identification. To be able to match the children of the Desaparecidos with their biological families."
"You just said the last four victims weren't des… des… des… peradoes. Why take their blood?"
"I've gone around and around on this point in my mind. That's the inconsistency I can't resolve. But identification still seems the most likely scenario," Jake said.
"Wait a minute," Vito objected. "Why go to all the trouble to knock them out and draw their blood if all he wants is to prove they're related to someone? He could've just broken into their homes and taken their hairbrushes or toothbrushes. Or followed them until they dropped a Starbucks cup in the trash and then fished it out. Those are much easier ways to get a little DNA."
"That had me puzzled, too," Jake said. "But remember, DNA analysis has only been in use since 1989. Before that, blood-group factors were used to establish paternity. Of course, it wasn't conclusive, but it was the best technology available. Right before I called you, I stumbled across this in all the research I've been gathering about the Dirty War. Take a look."
Jake tossed a journal article into Vito's lap. The detective's eyes glazed over as he scanned the dense columns of type. "Give me the highlights."
"After the right-wing dictatorship collapsed in 1983, parents who suspected their daughters had given birth while in custody, or whose baby grandchildren had been kidnapped along with their parents, began to mobilize to seek reunification between the children of the Desaparecidos and their biological families. They knew it might take years, so they established something in Argentina called the National Genetic Data Bank to collect evidence from the biological families. Nowadays, they preserve dried blood spots for DNA, but when they first began the project in the early eighties, all they could save were meticulous records of the blood-group factors of the grandmothers and grandfathers. ABO, Rh…"
Vito sat staring at a scratch on the front of Jake's desk. Jake could tell he was beginning to pry open a door in his friend's mind. "If any of these grandparents died before 1989, all that would be left as evidence would be their blood-group factors," Vito said. "So you're telling me DNA wouldn't be of any use in that case?"
"Exactly! DNA doesn't show blood-group factors. You'd need actual blood from the grandkids to try to make a match."
Vito held up a restraining hand. "Don't get too excited. Why does the Vampire have to knock them unconscious, steal their blood if he's trying to reunite them with their own grandparents?"
Jake scribbled on the whiteboard, his back to Vito. "Mrs. Martinette and Family Builders helped me understand." He stood aside to reveal the sentence on the board: BOTH PARTIES MUST WANT TO BE REUNITED. "The grandparents want to find the kids, but the kids might not want to be found. They have their lives here; they don't want to know about some awful past in Argentina."
Vito rubbed his eyes. "But that implies the victims were all contacted by this grandparents group and declined to be tested. Don't you think that would have come out when we first interviewed them, searching for connections? Like, wouldn't someone have said, 'Yo, here's something weird-some guy called me last week to tell me my biological mother was an Argentine political prisoner'?"
Jake grinned. God bless Vito. He was such a New Yorker. No chance he'd ever let you get too full of your own brilliance. "Of course you're right. If the victims had all been approached, we would have seen the pattern before now. But here's what I'm speculating. As far as we know, only victim number one, Lucinda Bettis, was openly approached about establishing her biological identity. And she didn't respond positively. And that's what set the Vampire into action."
Vito gnawed his lower lip. "When you talked to this chick, she was really cagey, right?"
"I think she might be more forthcoming in the presence of a New York City police detective."
Vito stood up. "All right, all right. I'll go talk to her."
Jake beamed. Finally, Vito was back in his corner. "I think you'll be glad you did."
"Humpf." Vito paused with his hand on Jake's office door. "Wait a minute-what about the other vics? The Vampire doesn't need their blood to match with grandma's. How do you explain that?"
The smile faded from Jake's face. The word BLOOD pulsated again from the whiteboard. "I'm working on it."
Jake's house, never tidy under the best of circumstances, had degenerated over the course of the Vampire investigation to something between chaos and biohazard. Plates of Chinese and Indian carryout lay around the first floor in varying degrees of petrifaction. The tower of unopened mail, some envelopes emblazoned with "Second Notice" imprints, threatened to consume the hall table. A battered cardboard box with a Romanian return address disgorged a suspicious ashlike substance.
Manny surveyed the scene with disgust. "You and Jake are going to supplant the Collyer brothers for the pack rat of the century title." She kicked aside some forensic journals. "At least they left little paths to navigate from room to room."
"How conventional." Sam finished a section of the Times and tossed it over his shoulder.
Manny reached to pick it up, then stopped herself. "You're trying to provoke me."
"Not so, dear woman. We simply represent different approaches to housework." Sam stretched out his legs on the couch and reached for another section of the newspaper. "I'll never be a clean-as-you-goer. Too Sisyphean-you push the rock up the hill every day, only to watch it roll back down again. I prefer the tactic Hercules used to clean the Aegean stables. Let things get really bad, then divert a nearby river and wash it all away at once."
"When do you plan to work that wonder, Herc?" Jake emerged from the kitchen bearing paper plates of Vietnamese sprin
g rolls. "With all the china plates out of commission, we're limited to nonsaucy food."
"Food. The great motivator." Taking her spring roll, Manny plopped into an overstuffed chair. "Tell me again what Detective Pasquarelli said after he talked to the FBI."
Manny had reported her entire conversation with Paco to the police. Detective Pasquarelli had been very excited about the information and naturally wanted to interview Paco himself. But the FBI's involvement in the case had compromised his autonomy. Because of the Sandovals' diplomatic immunity, he had to get FBI clearance to proceed. As Manny had feared, it hadn't been forthcoming.
"Vito said the agent he works with directly seemed just as excited about this break as he is. But that guy's low on the totem pole. He had to kick it upstairs for permission. They're still waiting."
"That's preposterous!" Manny said. "Diplomatic immunity is a courtesy; it should not be absolutely inviolable. In a case this serious, there should be no question about pressuring the Sandovals to cooperate."
"Maybe tomorrow they'll catch a break," Jake said.
"Don't count on it." Manny leaned back in her chair and promptly shot back out again. "Ow! It's booby-trapped." She pulled the cushions away. "My God, there's a scalpel in there!"
"Sorry, dear. I was doing an experiment to see if a scalpel could make accidental incised wounds if you lean back on it in a chair. Guess the defense attorney will have to try harder because you just proved that his client intentionally killed her husband." Jake then patted a space beside him on the love seat. "Come sit with me."
Manny eyed the cobweb stretching from the floor lamp to the arm of the love seat. "No thanks, I'll just clear a space over here."
She pushed a box of old slides into the corner. "This is the problem with having a big house. The more space you have, the more junk you accumulate. You know, when I drove over to Club Epoch in Hoboken, I was seriously considering moving to one of those big loft apartments in a converted factory. Now I'm afraid if I lived there, I'd wind up hoarding like you two."
"I think you should consider it, Manny," Sam said. "Think of how you could expand your shoe portfolio. But the time to buy is now. There are only a few factories left to be converted."
"The ones that are left all have hazardous-waste issues," Jake said. "You wouldn't want to expose your footwear to radiation. A Manhattan studio is much more salubrious."
"Your concern for my health is touching." Manny began heaving newspapers off the window seat. "Couldn't we at least get rid of some of these copies of the Times? They're weeks old."
She paused to read a headline. "'Vampire Suspected in Death of Prominent Physician'-this one's from when Dr. Fortes was killed. 'Vampire's Lair Found in Brooklyn,' 'Vampire Tied to Bombing in Hoboken,' 'Mysterious Attacker Targets Opera Star.' Geez, the Vampire's been on the front page of the paper just about every day since this case started. This pile is an archaeological record."
Jake stopped chewing and stared at her, a crumb of spring roll stuck to his lip. He dumped the half-full plate onto the floor. Mycroft shot across the room and immediately tucked into the delicate melange of shrimp and vegetables.
"I hope you were done with that," Manny said as Jake crossed the room to the window seat.
Jake didn't appear to hear her. He fell to his knees and began digging through the newspapers, scattering them left and right.
"Jake, come on. I just stacked those for recycling," Manny protested.
"Help me find April fifth," Jake demanded.
"What's April fifth?" Manny asked.
"The day after the first Vampire attack. Lucinda Bettis, victim number one."
"Here it is."
Jake snatched the paper from her, quickly scanned the front page, then flipped to the Metro section. "Nothing," he said, checking the inside pages. "Not even a little blurb." He tossed the paper aside. "Now look for April eleventh."
"What are you-"
"Here!" Jake held it up and immediately began paging through the issue. "Nothing on page one, nothing on the front page of Metro, but here on page B-four we see it. 'Police Curious about Strange Similarities in Attacks.' A six-paragraph story comparing the MO of the attack on victim two with that of Lucinda Bettis. Now, find April twenty-third."
Manny handed it to him.
"By victim three, the story's moved to the front page. Prominent mention of the blood draw and the needle mark left on the victim. As I recall, this is when the Post first dubbed him 'the Vampire.'" Jake sat back on his haunches. "From then on, it's been headline news every day in every local paper. That must be it."
"What must be it?" Sam and Manny said almost simultaneously.
Jakes pointed to the sea of newsprint surrounding him and Manny on the floor. "This is why the Vampire drew blood from Fiore, Hogaarth, Fortes, and Slade even though they aren't children of the Desaparecidos. He must crave publicity for his cause. When he realized what a stir his weird blood draws were causing, he decided to use that as his signature, even on victims he intended to torture and/or kill. The blood draw itself was unnecessary, just done as a flourish."
"A signature," Manny whispered.
"For someone who seeks publicity, he's done an awfully good job of covering his tracks," Sam said. "He's got the police chasing after imaginary Islamic terrorists. You and Manny are the only ones who seem to know this is about the Desaparecidos."
Jake's and Manny's eyes met; then they both turned slowly to look at Sam. "He's planning something," Manny said. "Or, I should say, they're planning something, because we know there's a woman involved in this, too. She's the one who posed as Tracy and recommended me to Maureen Heaton. She intentionally drew me into this case"-Manny reached for Jake's hand-"and I bet, by extension, drew you into this case. They wanted us because of who we are, because of the results we achieved on the Lyons case."
"I think that must be it," Jake agreed. "The story of the Desaparecidos has been around for about thirty years. The mothers and grandmothers keep up their protests, but the outrage has faded. There are still victims who've never been accounted for, kids who don't know their true heritage. But people aren't listening anymore. They want to forget about the Dirty War."
"And there are still perpetrators who've never been brought to justice," Manny said. "I sympathize, but I don't want to be part of the Vampire's vigilante scheme. I won't allow myself to be used this way!"
"We may not have a choice," Jake said. "There's no doubt in my mind that Travis plays into their plan for a grand finale. I'd like nothing better than to deprive the Vampire of his big bang, but we can't endanger Travis. If we can't anticipate the Vampire's next move, we may have to play out the game according to his rules."
Manny rolled over in her bed and squinted across the room. The numbers 5:09 glowed greenly from her programmable coffeemaker. Given how exhausted she'd been the night before after coming home from Jake's, she was surprised to find herself awake before the deafening sound of the built-in grinder pulverizing French-roast beans was due to kick in at 6:00 a.m.
She'd been tempted to spend the night at Jake's. The growing suspicion that she was just a pawn in some unpredictable scheme of the Vampire's had made her jumpy and grateful for company. But she had an eight-thirty deposition in the Greenfield case and she didn't intend to arrive for it wearing yesterday's clothes. When she stayed at Jake's, she lived out of her handbag, slept in his WELCOME TO THE BOWELS OF FORENSIC PATHOLOGY T-shirt, and returned to her apartment in the morning to change. She had no intention of moving parts of her wardrobe into his house. She didn't want her cashmere and silk absorbing the smell of formaldehyde, and besides, it wasn't that kind of relationship. She'd gone so far as to buy some French hand-milled rose petal and jasmine soap for his bathroom, strictly as a defense against the red bumps she'd developed from showering with his ghastly little bars of hotel-room freebies, but that was as domestic as she intended to get.
Manny stretched out and closed her eyes. She wouldn't fall back asleep, but she could rest in b
ed for a while until the coffeepot started its routine. The light lavender scent of her bedding lulled her, and she drifted, blissfully unconnected to the problems of the day to come.
Somewhere in the apartment, a sound.
Manny bolted straight up. There it was again: the unmistakable sound of a poodle retching. She realized that must have been what had awakened her early.
She clicked on the light. No Mycroft at the foot of the bed. A bad sign. Whenever he was sick, he slunk off to the corner of her closet. The last time he'd had an upset stomach, a six-hundred-dollar pair of Jimmy Choos had taken a one-way ride on a Department of Sanitation truck.
"Mycroft, sweetie, what's wrong?" Manny opened the closet door and peered under the racks of neatly hanging suits and blouses. Sure enough, she spied a little mound of red fur in the far corner, behind last year's handbags and her Uggs. Falling to her knees, Manny crawled forward and extended her hand. "C'mere, baby. Let Mom take a look."
Mycroft yelped as she slipped one hand under his trembling body and slid him toward her. When she got him into the light, Manny's heart constricted. This was no "I shouldn't have eaten all that mozzarella." Mycroft's eyes were glazed, his belly was distended, and he was breathing in short, sharp pants.
My God, what had he eaten yesterday? Had he stumbled into rat poison in the park when she had tossed those gourmet treats to waylay Paco? Or was it that spring roll he'd devoured at Jake's? Was there some herb in Vietnamese food fatal to dogs? Lemon-grass? Cilantro?
Whatever the cause, Mycroft was in a serious crisis. As her panic rose, Manny's mind went blank. What should she do, call 911? Pound on the door of her neighbor, the cardiologist?
She took a deep breath. Getting hysterical wasn't going to help Mycroft. Dr. Costello was on her speed dial. The vet could tell her what immediate action to take until she could get My croft over to him.
She lunged for her BlackBerry, then waited impatiently as the vet's office voice-mail system droned through its options. "Our office is closed now. To schedule an appointment, press one. To leave a message…" Manny's heart was pounding so hard, she could barely hear. Hurry, hurry. Finally, "… If this is a true medical emergency, please dial 212-555-3680. The doctor will respond to your page within ten minutes."
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