Part 21 (2/2)
”Yes?”
”Hi,” he said. ”It's the usual me. I'm sorry to call you at this hour, but it's-”
”What hour?”
”It's three thirty-five here, so it's twelve thirty-five there, right?”
Her voice was amused. ”You didn't know? This is when we do most of our work, sweetheart. The preteen geeks and stock traders are asleep, the phone lines and networks are clear, so things happen faster. Haven't you ever noticed that languid, sensuous look I have around the eyes in the daytime?”
”I've never seen you during the day,” he said.
”Oh. Well, we'll have to go have a picnic beside the freeway, or whatever it is people do.”
”I called to see if the Miami police had announced anything about who those two guys were.”
”No,” said Serena. ”But they're still trying. The FBI has been doing tests on the two bodies.”
”We know,” said Walker. ”The company has been talking with them.”
”Do you know about the blood tests?”
”No. What about them?”
”The cops type the blood at a shooting scene right away to figure out whose blood got spattered where. These two both had O positive-not unusual, but inconvenient. So the FBI sent samples to a lab in Wisconsin that does DNA tests. That was in the Miami papers, so I hacked into the e-mail at Donnard Laboratories to see what they were saying to each other. Apparently there are at least two kinds of examinations. One takes a month or two, and tells you more than you wanted to know. But while they're doing it, they get preliminary results that can at least tell one person's blood from another's. They told the FBI that the two men were relatives. Not brothers, though, or father and son. Something more distant, like second cousins.”
”Can they tell that?”
”They seemed to think they could, and I don't know why they'd say so to the FBI if they weren't sure. I mean, how many customers can a company like that have? And it makes theoretical sense. First cousins would share one-eighth of their genes, so these guys share less than that, but more than two random guys.” She paused. ”Are you even listening?”
”Yes,” said Walker. ”I'm trying to figure out what it means.”
”I don't know,” she answered. ”It's not going to be a shock to the FBI that criminals sometimes have relatives who are also criminals. Do you have news for me?”
”I guess all I've got is questions. We've figured out that one of those two guys was named James Scully, and he lived at 117 Birch Street, Coulter, New Hamps.h.i.+re.”
”C-O-L-T-E-R?”
”With a U. C-O-U-L-”
”Got it. Right here on the handy New Hamps.h.i.+re tourism Web page. What do you want to know?”
”Whatever you know.”
”Population, four hundred and twenty-eight-or twenty-seven, now.” She paused. ”No pictures of it. Founded in 1753-no big deal. So was everything else around there. It's not too far from Keene. It's about an hour northeast of you, on Route 9. That's marked as a scenic route, so let me see if they say anything about that. Yes. It's called the Old Concord Road, because eventually it gets to the state capital. It says 'eventually' because it winds around a bit. That's all I can see. Coulter seems to be just one of a few dozen places just like it.”
”Okay. We'll find it.”
”You stopped using Stillman's credit card. Where are you calling from?”
”The Days Inn in Keene. The number is-”
”That much I just got, from caller ID. What room?”
”Stillman is 93, and I'm 95.”
”Cozy. Are you going to Coulter now?”
”I guess so,” he said.
”Be careful. Stay close to Stillman and do what he says.” She corrected herself. ”I guess staying close to Stillman isn't being careful. Just remember he's been doing stupid things a long time, and he's alive, so pay attention.”
”He'd be flattered.”
”I'm going to drop everything else and find out whatever I can about James Scully.”
”Do you-” But the line was dead.
”I'd be flattered about what?” asked Stillman. Walker turned and saw that he was taking things out of his suitcase, putting some of them into his leather bag, and others into his pockets.
”She pointed out that you're alive.”
”Smart as a whip, that girl. Presumes very little on your time, too.”
”That hasn't escaped my attention,” said Walker glumly. ”I've talked to her about three times in the past two days, and she's hung up on me every time.” He added, ”The police don't know the names yet.”
”Get your stuff. Wear jeans and hiking boots and a jacket. Try to look like a harmless, respectable guy on vacation. I'll meet you in the car.”
Five minutes later, Walker found Stillman sitting in the pa.s.senger seat of the Explorer studying a map in the light from the open glove compartment. Walker got in and drove out West Street until he saw the sign for Route 9 he had remembered. He looked at the clock on the dashboard. ”It's already almost four. She said it's about an hour away. Is four forty-five A.M. A.M. a good time to arrive in Coulter?” a good time to arrive in Coulter?”
Stillman said, ”It'll do. We'll take a look around before they get to look at us.”
”There are four hundred and twenty-eight people.”
”I'll keep count when I see one,” said Stillman. ”What else did she tell you?”
”The FBI apparently hasn't identified Scully and his friend yet, but they know they were related.”
”What do you mean, related? How?”
”Like second cousins, but not as close as first cousins. They had some company do DNA tests. Don't ask me to explain more than that. She stole it off some e-mail the company was sending to the FBI. Smart as a whip, as you said.”
Stillman was staring ahead at the road, and his brow was furrowed.
”What?” asked Walker. ”Does that mean something?”
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