"Jean," Rothwell warned.
For someone who wasn't going to talk, Danny thought, she was providing a whole lot of information.
"And what did you do when he hit on you?" Danny asked.
"Looked at him cold."
She showed them the look. It was very icy indeed.
"Then I told him if he laid a hand on me again, I was going to scream 'rape.' And I also told him that if I got anything lower than the A I deserved, he'd be looking for another line of work."
"And what'd he do?"
"Ceased and desisted."
"Didn't threaten to 'out' you?" asked Lindsay.
The girl smiled. Nice smile. "Everybody knows we're gay. Even my family and Cyn's. They are, to use their words, 'cool with it.'"
"Are they?" asked Lindsay.
"No, but there's not much they can do and they live in hope that it will pass like the flu."
"Yesterday, ten to eleven in the morning?" asked Danny. "Where were you?"
"Spanish class. No lo creeo?"
"We'll check," said Danny.
When the girl had gone, James Tuvekian's two closest friends were examined. Neither showed signs of glass fragments in the palm.
The last three people called in were Bill Hexton and the other two security guards.
Epidermal samples were taken from everyone. No glass fragments anywhere.
"Looks like we'll have to do the whole school, Montana," said Danny, sitting back, hands behind his head.
"Maybe not," Lindsay answered, starting to pack the machine away.
There was something. Lindsay wasn't prepared to mention it, not till she got back to the lab. The palm of one of the hands they had looked at was puffy, slightly sore and had a slightly green residue. The other palm looked normal. She had taken a swab from the suspicious palm.
14
"WHAT HAVE WE GOT?"
The question was put by Mac Taylor, who leaned back against his desk. Stella and Hawkes sat in front of him. Flack leaned against the wall. They were all beyond tired.
"We've got someone watching his apartment," said Flack.
"He won't go back," said Mac.
"No," Flack agreed. He put his hand to his face. He needed a shave. He needed a shower, hot water beating against his aching back. He needed some sleep.
"Evidence?" asked Mac.
"The knife in Park's pocket is the same one used to kill Paul Sunderland," said Hawkes.
"Man has a lot of knives," said Flack.
"He made a mistake," said Hawkes. "There were traces of something interesting on the handle and in Park's pocket. Paint. Green. Fresh."
"How fresh?" asked Mac.
"Fragments are still pliable," said Hawkes. "He wasn't painting walls but he did lean against one that wasn't completely dry. Paint is a blend. High end. Expensive. Mixture of three colors. It comes out mostly green. I talked to the manufacturer. It's not used in homes much. Marketed to high-end office buildings, doctors' offices, law firms, places like that."
Hawkes had taken the paint chips to the paint store, which had computer color-matching software. They had taken the paint chip, placed it in front of a small detection window on the computer that then identified the proper formula to make that particular color. It took no more than a few seconds. The formula was displayed on the computer monitor. With the push of the "enter" button, the clerk at the computer could have created a gallon of paint that exactly matched the small chip Hawkes had supplied.
"The paint was purchased by Norah Opidian & Associates, Office Decorators," said Hawkes. "I called their number. Answering machine says they're closed, at a big office decorators' convention in Philadelphia."
"Keep trying," said Mac. "Call the convention hotel. See if you can find somebody who can help you find where that paint came from."
Mac pushed away from the desk, turned his head and looked out the window. The room went silent for a moment.
"Everything's connected," Mac said finally. "We have to find out how. He put the knife in Park's pocket at the Gun Hill station. What was he doing there? He doesn't live there and neither did any of the people he killed."
"He's not done killing," Stella said, rubbing her eyes.
"He's not done killing," Mac agreed.
Pulling her thoughts from Custus was more than difficult and Stella knew why now. It had come to her a few minutes ago when Mac was looking out the window. Custus reminded her of Tom O'Brien, the administrator at the orphanage when Stella was ten years old. O'Brien and Custus had the same Irish accent, the same wit, though Stella had not been able to really understand it when she was ten. One day Tom O'Brien had simply been gone and no one would say where. The rumor was that he had been caught touching one of the girls.
He had never touched Stella. Or had he? The image of a smiling Connor Custus came to her. Custus was reaching out to touch her.
"Stella?" said Mac. "You with us?"
"Yes, sorry. Yunkin may not be finished spelling," she said.
"The day is over," said Hawkes. "He wanted to get his brother's name carved into four child molesters."
"We're lucky his brother's name wasn't Anthony," said Flack.
No one laughed.
"But his brother had a last name," said Stella. "And there was one other person in Paul Sunder-land's therapy group."
"Ellen Janecek," said Flack.
"And his brother's first name could be repeated," said Stella. "There are a lot of child molesters out there."
"The anniversary of his brother's death is over for this year," said Hawkes.
"He could be planning to spend another special day carving out a name for himself," said Flack. "His brother's birthday maybe."
"Birthday? When was Adam Yunkin's birthday?" asked Mac.
Flack took out his notebook, flipped through pages and stopped. He looked up and said, "Tomorrow."
"Irony," said Hawkes. "The kid kills himself the day before his birthday."
"Ironic, but maybe not a coincidence. Adam Yunkin didn't want to see sixteen," said Stella.
"It could be nothing," said Mac.
"Could be everything," said Stella.
"Gun Hill area," said Mac. "While Hawkes is looking for an office decorator, see if you can talk to someone at the Gun Hill precinct who can give us a lead on an office being painted Vineland Green."
"I'm on it," said Flack. "I know a couple of people in that precinct."
Mac heard something behind him. He looked over his shoulder at the window. It had begun to rain again.
Anne Havel made the call and asked to talk to whoever was in charge of investigating her husband's murder. She was put through to Danny Messer.
While she waited, she glanced out the living room window, ignoring her father-in-law, Waclaw, who sat numbly on the sofa.
The days of rain had taken her through many moods. At first, before Alvin had been murdered, she had welcomed the protective wall of the deluge that isolated her from the world. Even as a child she had welcomed the heavy, driving rain.
After three days, the isolation had ceased to be comforting and had become confining. The house was not big; three small bedrooms, living room, dining room, kitchen. The rain kept the children home and Waclaw had sat watching television, even though he didn't understand most of it, from morning till night.
The house had become a confining trap. And now, with the cruel return of the rain, it had suddenly struck her as a good place to end her life.
"Detective Messer," said Danny.
"This is Anne Havel."
"What can I do for you, Mrs. Havel?"
So much, she thought. Take that zombie of a man away. Sit with her children day and night for at least a week. Make the rain stop. Make it stop.
"My husband left a diary," she said. "It's in Polish. He was having an affair with someone at the school."
"Who?"
"He didn't write the name, only called the person 'Nogi,' 'Legs' in Polish."
"We'll need that diary."