“What do you have for me?” Jan asked after he’d slipped the money in his pocket.
Mike put the folded paper holding the skin sliver on a table and opened it. “Can you do something with this?”
Jan stepped over to an autoclave and removed a long tweezers. He picked up the skin sample and held it up to the light. “Where did you get this? I mean, what part of the anatomy?”
“Face. The cheek.”
“How long have you had it?”
“A few days.”
“All good. One last question. Was the person dead or alive?”
“Dead.”
“I can have something for you in a few hours.”
“I’d like to see how it’s done,” Mike said.
“No problem. The first part is a copying process,” Jan said, moving along the white floor and pointing to the equipment. “We replicate and grow the DNA until we get a large enough sample to test more easily. We can take a few molecules of DNA and clone it to billions within a few hours. At one time, we needed an electron microscope to look at the end product. Now we can use a regular microscope, because the end products are much larger. That saves a lot of money. There are cycles in the copying process where we heat and cool. After about twenty-five cycles, we can make over thirty million copies. We don’t have to tend to the replication process too closely, either. We can go out for a bite while it’s cooking.”
The two walked a few blocks to Russ and Daughters on Houston Street. It was what New Yorkers called an appetizing store, a delicatessen in other places. Up until the early 1960s, almost every block had one.
“This place has been around since, like, 1914,” Jan said. “Still family-owned. As the story goes, Joel Russ didn’t have any sons, so he defied convention and wrote ‘and daughters’ instead of ‘and sons.’ Pretty forward-thinking for the time. On the other hand, he had no choice if he wanted the business to continue.”
The place smelled like pickles. The fish in the showcase were neatly lined in rows, like exhibits in a museum. The two men found a booth and both ordered smoked whitefish with cream cheese on sesame bagels. Jan set his phone alarm for one hour. Sipping an egg cream, he said, “I was sorry to hear about Marilyn. Evelyn said you were close.”
“Yes, we were”
“Normally I don’t ask, but why not use a government-certified lab? I mean, if you want to tell me.”
Mike bit into his sandwich and looked around. “Let’s just say that the number of people I can trust is getting smaller. Leave it at that.”
They ate in silence for a few more minutes.
“What sort of work do you do?” Jan asked. He quickly added, “If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I work for NOAA, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. We stop illegal fishing, make sure that fish come from where the fishers say they’re coming from. We handle some smuggling cases. That sort of thing. It’s not a lot of intense cops-and-robbers stuff, but it’s important. I like to believe that I’m making a contribution.”
“It’s sounds a lot like what Marilyn was doing, right? Based on what Evelyn told me.”
“I work on the law-enforcement side, and she worked on the regulatory side. It’s a distinction that only us feddies would make,” Mike said, smiling. “Plus, I carry a gun. She wielded a clipboard. Sometimes, the bad actors were more afraid of her than me.”
“Okay, so why’s a guy like you, who checks fish, playing around with DNA from a dead guy?”
Mike hesitated. “It’s personal.”
They finished their meal with chitchat about the neighborhood, the condition of New York City, and why bagels in Washington didn’t even come close.
“It’s the water,” said Jan. “I’m convinced of it.”
Back at the lab, Jan pulled a test tube from the replication machine and twisted it around in his fingers, letting the light shine through the syrupy liquid. “I think we’re in business.”
Mike watched as he poured the contents into a large beaker and added some additional liquids.
“Yeah,” Jan said, studying it further. “We’re in business.”
The next steps went quickly, through various processes, with the gel-like liquid finally making its way to what Jan called “the sequencer.”
“The technology is moving in the direction of high-speed, multiple sequencing of many DNA samples. We don’t do that here. We’re strictly a boutique, one-at-a-time kind of shop.”
He peered into a microscope, and then moved to another table, where he pulled a sheet from what looked like a copy machine.
“Here’s the end product.” Jan held it up. “This is what you want.”
The sheet showed two rows of narrow tubes that looked like worms with bands of white, black, and gray in various widths.
“This is a karyotype,” Jan said proudly.
“I know these are chromosomes,” Mike said.
“That’s right. Actually, each human cell contains twenty-three exact pairs of chromosomes, if you recall sixth-grade biology. To make things readable, we strip out the second pair and line up the other ones in size from largest to smallest. The first twenty-two are called autosomal, and are common to both men and women. At the end,” he said, pointing to the last ones on the second line, “are the X and Y chromosomes. In men, both X and Y are present—like we have here—but in women there are two X chromosomes.”
Mike was fixed on the chart. Jan continued, “They hold different chemicals, proteins, and other materials, but what we’re really interested in is the DNA, deoxyribonucleic acid. It contains the genetic information. The order in which the genes line up—the bands that you see—is distinctive to each of us. Each unique form of a gene is known as an allele.”
“That’s how we get blue eyes or brown hair.”
“Right again. All the hereditary information is here in coded form.”
“How did you get the bands to look different?”
“At the end of the process, I added a stain that adhered to what’re called nucleotides. Think of them as subunits of the DNA. Depending upon their composition—again, unique to each person—each nucleotide absorbs the stain to a different degree. That gives us various band combinations, some light, some dark, some wide, some thin. Taken as a whole, each person has a distinctive pattern of bands. It’s not unlike fingerprints.”
“How accurate is this in determining someone’s identity?”
“Except for identical twins, the chances of any two individuals having the same pattern is about one in a billion.” Jan handed the karyotype sheet to Mike. “Do you have the suspect’s known karyotype? Without that, you can’t check for a match. I presume you don’t want to use CODIS.”
“I can’t allow that sort of trail. I’ll have to figure out another way.”
“I might be able to help you there, too,” Jan said, rubbing his thumb against his forefinger in the universal sign for money.
“How so?” Mike asked.
“The system relies on a double-checking scheme. CODIS was designed to compare a target DNA against records in the database. If the software matches them, the labs begin a procedure to verify that their information is correct. They do this twice, just to be sure. On the second check, if one lab says that an error was made, the whole thing gets thrown out. This happens more often than you might imagine. By this time, however, the two labs technicians have talked, exchanged subject and target names, talked about what mistakes were made, that sort of thing. The entire action, lab tests and all, just gets shitcanned.”
“And there’s no record of this occurring?” Mike asked.
“There is, but it goes into an electronic file that nobody looks at because it’s a waste of everybody’s time. I think one time the Justice Department’s Inspector General’s office may have audited the list of lab errors. But they were just interested in the number of times it occurred, nothing else. It was a way to check labs’ procedures and standards.”
“And you can make this happen?�
�
“I have friends at accredited labs who can do this for me.”
“And they’re trustworthy? You know them personally?”
“They’re my friends. They’re also friends of Benjamin Franklin and his many brothers.”
Chapter 21
Mike was looking out the window of Evelyn’s apartment when the call came from Jan about the DNA results.
“I have a name,” he said.
“Shoot.”
“DNA pegs to a guy named Jack Shanolin. There’s an AKA of Friggin’ Jack. That’s all I know.”
“Thanks, Jan.”
“Are you still in the city?” Jan asked.
“Yes. I’m staying at Evelyn’s apartment.”
Silence.
Mike offered his appreciation again before hanging up. A few seconds later, he called Burke. “The name is Shanolin, Jack. He goes by Friggin’ Jack.”
“The FBI still says they don’t have anything on the DNA they presumably took from the dead men,” Burke said. “We know that’s a lie. I’m going to query it as ‘information only.’ I’m also going to embed it in another case. Should be out of sight from prying eyes.”
They talked again about how they didn’t trust Hearst and the FBI, but they still couldn’t figure out why.
“Okay, let me get on this,” Burke said. “I’ll call you know when I know something.”
“Great. I think I’m going to stay here a few more days.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I’m at Marilyn’s sister’s apartment.” He added, “Don’t get any ideas.”
“Not me.”
Mike was glad that Evelyn had suggested he stay in her place in Manhattan. He could see similarities to Marilyn’s apartment—the same mid-century modern furniture and how she kept the place tidy. They even drank the same brand of coffee. The apartment was on the Upper East Side, overlooking the East River and the Queens skyline, which was mostly high-rise apartment buildings.
He grabbed a beer from the fridge, sat in an orange club chair by the window, and studied the Queensboro Bridge’s steel skeleton. It was getting dark, and the span’s lights were being turned on in sections. He watched as traffic barely moved along, from Manhattan to Queens, commuters making their slow way home to their suburban Long Island homes. The red cars of the Roosevelt Island tram, parallel to the bridge, carried sightseers and residents to the thin island in the middle of the East River. The main feature of the island was the ruins of Roosevelt Hospital, which had opened in the late 1800s as a smallpox facility because of the island’s then-remote location. How times had changed.
Mike thought he could live in New York—for a while. But he would miss Chesapeake Bay and the sound of the ocean off Rehoboth. Still, he enjoyed the excitement and vitality of the streets, the noise and the restaurants.
A key turning in the front door lock pulled him from his reverie.
Evelyn walked in, carrying a small plastic bag bulging with groceries. She smiled at Mike.
“Glad to see that you found your way here.” She plopped the bag on the kitchen counter. “Was Jan able to help you out?”
“He was very helpful.” Mike met her in the kitchen. “I got a name, and my boss is checking it out. I should hear back soon.” As soon as Mike said this, he realized that his voice might have sounded too enthusiastic. He was talking about the person who’d killed Marilyn. The look on Evelyn’s face said he was right.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay, Mike. It’s difficult for both of us.” She emptied the bag’s contents. She wiped a tear. “I got us something for dinner.”
“Why don’t I take you out? It’s my small way to say thanks for letting me stay here. Plus, you hooked me up with Jan.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Mike.”
“Let’s go out.”
Mike’s phone vibrated and he walked into the living room as he answered. A minute later, he returned to the kitchen, staring intently at the screen.
“That’s the bastard,” he said. “Do you want to see?”
“Yes.”
He turned the screen to her and then turned it back as he studied the man’s face again.
“Do you know him?” Evelyn asked.
Mike closed his eyes. He now realized that he had seen him three times before. Once in the hospital playing orderly, once sprawled dead in the front seat of the yellow Camaro, and again in the morgue, but …
“Mike?”
“Sorry. I—”
Mike’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Burke. Known assoc. of Shanolin: John Rotunda aka Alberto Rotunda. More info to come.
Mike studied the attached mugshot. “Holy shit.” Mike recognized him, too. He hadn’t seen the passenger in the car he’d chased around the Washington Beltway, but he had seen him at the morgue.
He didn’t offer to show the photo to Evelyn and she didn’t ask. He couldn’t look her in the eyes.
“What happens now?”
He had been, for short spurts of time, able to separate his personal from his professional life. To do otherwise would jeopardize the investigation. He was emotionally involved, and there was no way around that. Hell, he shouldn’t even be on the case by agency standards. It violated every rule, but here he was, staring into the faces of the men who’d killed Marilyn, the surveyors and most likely the crew of the Judy Bee.
Mike received another text telling him to check his email. He knew what that meant—Burke had obtained a report on the two suspects. Evelyn directed him to a corner of her bedroom that held a small desk and a laptop connected to a printer. He walked over to the bed, sat on the edge, and read the pages quickly. He read them again before he stood up and walked into the living room. Evelyn was sitting on the couch, sipping from a wine glass. A full glass sat on the coffee table.
She looked up at Mike, but didn’t say a word.
He sat down on the couch next to her, looked at the wine on the table. “Do you have anything stronger?”
Evelyn pointed to a squat cabinet.
“Help yourself.”
He walked to the cabinet, retrieved a bottle of Scotch, and took it into the kitchen, where he poured a double shot into a glass and downed it in one gulp.
“We’re not dealing with low-level criminals here.” He lifted the papers off the counter and read their names to Evelyn. “These guys are highly trained mercenaries. They both served in Iraq, Afghanistan, and a handful of African countries, but not in any official military capacity. They were hired guns whose job was to assassinate heads of state and whoever else they were asked to dispatch. It’s surprising that they don’t have military backgrounds. Usually, you see ex-navy SEALs or Special Forces who can’t get enough of state-sponsored combat and move to the private sector after their tours. These two are different. They were trained by the private sector and took assignments from government agencies. Actually, anyone who has the money, even a private citizen, could have hired these two.”
Evelyn listened without saying a word.
“According to this file, they’ve worked for the CIA, MI-6, Guoanbu, and a half-dozen other intelligence agencies. They are apolitical, and it’s only about the money and challenge for them.” Mike looked at the papers as he spoke. “They have no fixed address and no bank accounts that anyone knows of. They don’t legally own cars, property, or anything else. They’re ghosts living out of suitcases and buying supplies and equipment on the fly. They’ve never been married, don’t have any known family members or friends—except for each other.
“Usually, people who have been as active as these two get caught now and again by local police. What happens is that a government agency steps in and rescues them, and whatever infraction they committed gets swept away.”
“Even murder?”
“I’ve seen instances where the FBI has taken control of a suspect from local police and invoked national security. They never see a courtroom. But here’s the part that’s weird—the DNA and photos did
n’t come from a local police agency but from a private company who hired them to work in Pakistan. They took DNA and photos in order to identify the bodies if they died in the field.”
“Is there a name?”
“The company is Telecommunications Associates International. They’re on Lexington and 45th Street.”
“That’s only a few blocks from the United Nations,” Evelyn said.
“There’s something else not right here.” Mike poured another double shot of Scotch. “Why would they kill people like Marilyn, the surveyors, or the boat crew? It doesn’t seem like their type of job.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know this isn’t going to come out right, but the people they murdered were not big players. I’m sorry if this sounds crass, but Marilyn and the others … well, they were not on the level that these two operate at. Their killing résumé includes warlords, foreign heads of state, high-ranking military people.”
“So, why, then?”
“I don’t know yet, but this telecommunications company may have some answers. I’m heading over first thing tomorrow. For now, I’m going to hit the sack.”
They looked at each other and laughed nervously.
“Do you have sheets for the couch?” Mike asked.
Chapter 22
Mike didn’t hear Evelyn leave for work in the morning. She left a note on the kitchen table that read: See you at dinner, E.
He drank coffee, which was still warm in the pot. Mike found some eggs, bread, butter, and cheese and built a scrambled-egg sandwich and gobbled that down. He showered, shaved, dressed, and was out the door at exactly nine o’clock.
Mike passed several street sellers standing at their kiosks, offering knockoff items like luxury handbags and watches.
“Five dollars each, three for ten,” the vendor shouted from behind a table filled with ties purportedly from companies like Hermes, Ike Behar, and Ted Baker.
Mike wore a sport coat and dress shirt and bought a dark-blue tie from the street peddler to match. He tied it while looking into a store-window reflection. He turned around and bought a briefcase from a man who, because he was the cousin of the tie seller, was pleased to give Mike the family discount.
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