The Genesis Code

by John Case

  Which reminded him: he had to call a scientist named David Torgoff. According to Deva, Torgoff was a consultant whom the company had used as an expert witness in investigations involving DNA evidence. ‘A walking oxymoron,’ he was a famously plain-speaking professor of microbiology at MIT. As such, he was eminently suited to guide Lassiter through the polysyllabic fog of Baresi’s researches into genetics. The operative words being ‘plain-speaking.’

  He searched his desk for Torgoff’s number, and just as he found it, Victoria buzzed him on the intercom. ‘There’s a Mr. Coppi calling? From Rome?’

  Lassiter hesitated, wondering who Coppi might be. Finally, he said, ‘Put him through.’

  A moment later a man’s voice came on the line. ‘Mr. Lassiter? Mr. Joseph Lassiter?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Forgive me, but . . . I must be certain that I have the correct person. Are you the Mr. Joseph Lassiter who was recently a guest at the Pensione Aquila in Montecastello di Peglia?’

  The silence hung between them for a long while, as the adrenaline surged in Lassiter’s chest. ‘Who is this?’ he asked.

  ‘I apologize, Mr. Lassiter. My name is Marcello Coppi. I am a lawyer in Perugia.’

  ‘Mm-hmnnn,’ Lassiter said, doing his best to keep his voice in neutral.

  ‘Yes. And, uhhh, I was given your telephone number by an associate – in the carabinieri.’

  ‘I see. And what’s it about?’

  ‘I am afraid that I have some unpleasant news.’

  ‘Mr. Coppi . . . please.’

  The Italian cleared his throat. ‘The police will soon petition the court for your indictment in the murders of . . . a moment, please . . . Giulio Azetti and . . . Vincenzo Varese.’

  Lassiter felt the breath go out of him. ‘That’s insane,’ he said. ‘If I was going to kill Azetti, why would I tell people I was on my way to the church? He was dead when I found him!’

  ‘I have no doubt of your innocence, Mr. Lassiter, but I would caution you not to discuss details of your defense on the telephone. The purpose of this call is only to suggest that it is in your interest to have representation in this matter – here, in Italy . . . and to offer my services.’

  Lassiter took a deep breath and blew a stream of air toward the ceiling.

  ‘I can assure you that I have the highest references, Mr. Lassiter. If you will contact the American embassy –’

  ‘This is unbelievable,’ Lassiter said.

  ‘Yes, I agree. It is quite unusual. Normally, the police would make an effort to arrange an interview in Washington, but in this case . . . I am told they will seek extradition as soon as the court issues its indictment. It is very unusual.’

  Lassiter thought for a moment, and asked, ‘Why would they do it that way?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps there is pressure. . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ Lassiter said, ‘and I can guess where it’s coming from.’ He paused. ‘Look: this isn’t what you’d call a convenient time for me to be extradited anywhere –’

  ‘This is a joke?’

  ‘Yes. The point is: if you represented me over there – could you delay this thing?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the Italian said. ‘It is possible, of course, but . . .’

  ‘You’ll need a retainer.’

  ‘Well . . . yes, of course.’

  Once an amount had been settled upon, Coppi promised to keep Lassiter informed of every development, and Lassiter, in turn, said that he’d find a lawyer in Washington to represent him in the States. When they’d exchanged particulars, Lassiter hung up the phone, sat back in his chair, and muttered fuck, over and over again – until Victoria knocked and leaned in through the door.

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘Yeah, c’mon in.’

  ‘This just arrived.’ She came to his desk, and handed him a Federal Express envelope. ‘It’s from the National Enquirer.’

  ‘Oh! Great. Thanks.’

  As Lassiter began to open the envelope, Victoria turned toward the door, then stopped. ‘Ummmm . . .?’

  Lassiter looked up from the envelope. ‘What?’

  ‘I was just curious.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Buck.’

  Lassiter snorted. ‘We’re all curious about Buck – what’s on your mind?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I was just wondering if . . . well, is he married?’

  Lassiter frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It never came up. You want me to ask him?’

  ‘No,’ Victoria replied, blushing. ‘It’s not important.’ And with that, she closed the door behind her.

  Lassiter put his head in his hands. Italy was a disaster. It wasn’t a question of prevailing in the courts. He was confident of doing that – if the case ever came to trial. But it wouldn’t, that was the point. If I’m extradited, Lassiter thought, they’ll kill me in jail – no question.

  Unless I beat them first.

  He looked up, sat back, and drummed his fingers on the desk. What to do? Stay cool, he told himself. Until it gets hot. Then run like hell.

  The envelope from Gus Woodburn contained a note and an eight-by-ten photo of a woman, laughing as she knelt to zip up the parka on a little boy. They were standing outside a McDonald’s, somewhere cold: piles of dingy snow lay on the ground, and there were parked cars and mountains in the background. Lassiter looked at the woman and thought, That’s her. That’s definitely, probably her. But he couldn’t be sure. She was in three-quarter profile and slightly out of focus. The photograph was obviously a blowup of a snapshot taken with a cheap camera, and . . . it could be her, or it could be someone who looked like her.

  Still, it was definitely her – or her sister – because there was no mistaking the boy: he was standing in front of the woman with a ski cap in one hand, and a Big Mac in the other. His hair was a tangle of dark curls, and he seemed to be looking at the camera from the bottom of a well.

  And this is Jesse, she’d said. Lassiter remembered now, and remembered, also, that she’d told him her name as well. Standing there, a few feet from Kathy’s grave, she’d introduced herself. Her name was . . .

  Gone. Absolutely gone.

  With a growl of frustration, Lassiter turned to the note that accompanied the photo, and began to read:

  Joe –

  The Callista-watchers think this is the real thing, but what do they know? It came in a year ago, and the cover letter went up in smoke, somewhere between the mail room and my desk. So we don’t know who took it or where, but if it’s of any use . . . great. (Looks like she’s got a kid! Love child? Terror Tot? If you find out, let me know!)

  Gus

  There was a magnifying glass in Lassiter’s desk, and he used it to look more closely at the photo. Callista and Jesse were in the foreground, with the restaurant just behind them. To the left were a couple of parked cars, and in the distance, mountains.

  If the angle had been a little different, it would have been possible to see the license plates on the cars – and that might have allowed him to guess the state in which the picture had been taken. But the photographer had framed the photo in such a way that only the upper parts of the cars could be seen.

  Even so, there was a clue of sorts: using the magnifying glass, Lassiter could see that one of the mountains in the background was crisscrossed with ski trails. With forty people in the Washington office, there was a chance one of them would recognize the place. He called Victoria on the intercom and asked her to come in.

  ‘We’re having a contest,’ he said, handing her the photo. ‘A weekend for two in New York, all expenses paid, for anyone who can tell me where this was taken.’

  Victoria squinted at the photo. ‘How are they supposed to know that?’ she asked.

  ‘If I knew that, Victoria, I wouldn’t have a contest,’ Lassiter said. ‘But I was thinking: maybe you should mention the ski slope in the background. Maybe somebody’ll recognize the pattern.’

  Victoria looked doubtful. ‘What
ski slope?’ she asked.

  ‘Right there,’ Lassiter said. ‘Behind the restaurant. You can see the trails.’

  ‘It’s a blur.’

  ‘It’s not a blur. A skier would probably recognize it in a second.’

  ‘I’m a skier,’ Victoria said, ‘and I’m telling you, it’s a blur.’

  Lassiter grimaced. ‘Look, just get some copies made – and pass ’em out, okay? You never know.’

  Victoria shrugged. ‘Oh-kayyy,’ she sang, and went off to the copy room.

  That night, Lassiter ate Chinese takeout in his study, and washed it down with too many Tsing-taos. He watched Meteor Shower for the third time, and fell asleep, thinking, I’m going to need a lawyer. He corrected himself. Another lawyer. Someone to join the contingent of corporate lawyers retained to represent the firm, someone to supplement the efforts of the special legal talent finalizing the fine print of the AmEx deal, someone to handle the stateside end of things in tandem with Marcello Coppi – in short, he needed a criminal lawyer. It was a bad sign, he knew, when the lawyers in your life outnumbered your friends.

  In the morning, they stopped at the cleaners on the way to work, and Lassiter picked up his shirts and leather jacket. To his surprise, and chagrin, an envelope was pinned to the pocket of the jacket – and inside was Baresi’s letter to Father Azetti. In the escape from Montecastello, he’d forgotten completely about it. He glanced at it briefly and shoved it into the jacket’s breast pocket.

  As the Buick rolled down the GW Parkway toward the Key Bridge, Lassiter sat in the back, reading the Washington Post. Pico and Buck were in the front, talking quietly, when Buck suddenly turned around.

  ‘We got a problem,’ he said.

  Lassiter grunted. ‘No shit.’

  ‘I mean it,’ Buck said. ‘We’ve had a tail for two days now.’

  Lassiter looked up from the newspaper and reflexively glanced over his shoulder. There were a thousand cars behind them. ‘I don’t see anything,’ he said. ‘It’s rush hour.’

  ‘Buck’s right,’ Pico said. ‘There was a car outside the house last night.’

  ‘All night,’ Buck corrected.

  ‘And when we went to the cleaners, they pulled into the gas station across the street. I think they’ve been with us since yesterday morning,’ Pico added.

  Lassiter put the newspaper down. ‘Why didn’t you call the cops?’ he asked.

  Buck shrugged. ‘“Call the cops”? They are the cops.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Bureau plates,’ Pico said. ‘The city issued ’em all at once – so they’re all in sequence. You can spot ’em a mile away. It’s like they’re wearin’ a bell.’

  Buck provided the sound effects: ‘Bong! Bong!’

  Pico laughed. ‘Avon calling! Except that isn’t what they say. What they say is: “Washington field office!”’

  Lassiter took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let it out.

  ‘Is there something we ought to know?’ Buck asked.

  Lassiter shook his head. ‘I’ve got a problem in Italy. I think this is probably a part of that.’

  When they got to the office, Pico parked the car in the garage beneath the building, while Buck accompanied Lassiter to the ninth floor. As the elevator doors opened the bodyguard pushed the hair back at the sides of his head and, apropos of nothing, said, ‘That Victoria – she’s something, huh?’

  As soon as he entered his office Lassiter went to the window and looked out. Across the street a blue Taurus sat in a No Parking zone, begging for a fifty-dollar ticket. He couldn’t see if anyone was in the car, but a curl of smoke was rising from the tailpipe. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the drapes and went to his desk.

  Where a package wrapped in butcher’s paper was waiting. He glanced at the return address – Institute of Light – and tore it open.

  Inside was a fine, but not mint, copy of Relic, Totem, and Divinity. There was no dust jacket, and a number of pages were dog-eared. Still . . . it looked interesting. There were a number of black-and-white plates, reproducing such obscure paintings as Abgar’s Messenger Receives from Christ the Linen Bearing Christ’s Likeness; The City of Hierapolis; Mary Breast-feeding Jesus; and The Massacre of the Innocents.

  This last, attributed to the ‘Pomeranian Master (Danzig?),’ and dated 1490–97, was part of something called The Jerusalem Triptych. According to the text, the painting stressed the sadism of Christ’s tormentors, while illustrating the metaphysical wedding of Christ to St. Veronica.

  Lassiter leafed through the pages of the book.

  The first chapter discussed the origins of relic worship and icon cults. In it, Judaism was contrasted to Greek culture, which Baresi characterized as polytheistic, sedentary, and iconic – by which he meant that the Greeks organized their lives around city-states and representational art. Judaism, on the other hand, was defined by ‘linguistic monotheism.’ It was a religion of nomads, oriented toward the Word rather than the image. Christianity was seen as a Jewish sect, or schismatic tendency, that became increasingly iconic as the centuries passed – until, in about A.D. 325, portraits of Christ began to appear.

  A second chapter, entitled ‘Blood and Gnosis,’ was devoted to the question of the cultural attitudes of Christians and Jews toward nature, and in particular toward menstruation or ‘female flux.’ Lassiter was reading this when Riordan called.

  ‘Something’s come up,’ the detective said.

  Lassiter set the book aside. ‘What? The nurse is talking?’

  ‘No, the nurse is not talking. The nurse is praying. One rosary after another.’

  ‘So . . . what? You’ve found Grimaldi?’

  ‘No. But I think I know how he got loose. And it ain’t good.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lassiter asked.

  ‘We got a copy of the toll calls from the house in Emmitsburg. Over the last six months. See who they’re talking to, y’know? Maybe we’ll get a lead on where Grimaldi’s gone.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Right. So I get a list, and I’m going through the numbers with a Criss-Cross – and there’s a couple of hundred numbers, and guess what?’

  ‘Jimmy . . .’

  ‘C’monnnnn – guess.’

  ‘They’re doing phone sex.’

  Riordan made a sort of nasal bleat – Nyannnh! – in what was really a pretty good imitation of a TV game show signaling the wrong answer. ‘Wrong! There’s all these calls from Emmitsburg to a house in Potomac. Now, I won’t make you guess whose house it is –’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘’Cuz you’d never guess. This particular house belongs to your friend and mine, Thomas Drabowsky.’

  Lassiter was at a loss. He sat there for a moment, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Finally, he said, ‘The FBI guy?’

  ‘Right!’

  ‘So . . . you think Grimaldi was calling Drabowsky?’

  ‘No no no! The calls I’m talking about are way back – before Grimaldi’s even on the screen. August, September, October – they stop about the time Grimaldi’s arrested.’

  ‘Then . . . what’s the point?’

  ‘Almost all of the calls are on weekends, or at night. So I figure this guy’s got some personal business with the people in Emmitsburg. You with me?’

  ‘Tentatively.’

  ‘So Derek and I go out to see ’em –’

  ‘Derek?!’

  ‘Yeah, Derek’s back on the case. Anyway, we go out there, and I’m talkin’ to ’em one on one. And about the fourth person I talk to, this mousy guy, says, “Oh, yeah, those are my calls. I was talking to Thomas.” And I say, “Oh? And can you tell me what the calls were about?” And he says, “Sure. We were talking about the outreach program. Thomas helps us on weekends with the shelter and the soup kitchen. Thomas is a saint,” he says.

  ‘And I say, “Oh, really? And who is this guy, Thomas – I mean, really?” And he says, “Oh, he’s just a member – like everyone else.”
“A member of what?” I ask. And he says, “Umbra Domini. Thomas is a numenary.” “And what,” I ask, “does Thomas do in real life when he’s not helpin’ the poor?” And the guy says, “I don’t know. We don’t talk about our secular lives.”’ Riordan exploded into laughter. ‘He’s talking to a homicide detective, and he says, “We don’t talk about our secular lives”! Do you believe that?!’

  Lassiter didn’t say anything for a long while. Then: ‘So what do you think happened?’

  ‘I know what happened. I can’t prove it – but I know. When Grimaldi’s in the hospital, the word gets out. The next thing you know, Juliette’s working the burn ward at Fairfax General. Time comes to transfer Grimaldi, she helps him escape and he winds up in Emmitsburg.’

  ‘We already knew that.’

  ‘Lissen up! Potomac ain’t the only place they’re calling. I got toll calls to Italy. Emmitsburg to Naples – it kind of jumps out at you. And guess who they’re calling?’

  ‘I don’t have to guess.’

  ‘Right, Grimaldi’s calling home. He’s’ calling Umbra Domini headquarters. I checked.’

  ‘Isn’t that . . . I don’t know – kind of risky?’

  ‘Nah. Why’s it risky? This is their house – if they got to call headquarters once in a while, what’s wrong with that? No, the interesting part is the timing. The first call comes the day after Grimaldi blows the hospital – so I figure he’s reporting in.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘The next call comes a couple of weeks ago – right after the surveillance goes in.’

  ‘Emmitsburg calls Naples?’

  ‘Yeah. I figure they must have spotted the surveillance. Which wouldn’t be difficult – I mean, it’s not like there’s a lot of traffic out there.’