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“Can’t you do something?” she asked.

“I can write him a parking ticket.”

Tish put down her coffee cup and stripped off her sunglasses. Her face was tense.

“Do you recognize him?” Stride asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“He knows we’ve spotted him.”

The truck engine started like the growl of a tiger. The delivery truck jerked away from the curb and continued north on London Road. Tish watched it until the van disappeared behind a row of brick buildings.

“Do you still think I’m paranoid?” she asked.

Stride wasn’t sure. “Have you noticed the truck before?”

“Now that I think about it, I may have seen it a number of times in the last few days.”

“It may be nothing, but I’ll do a check with the delivery company,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“I haven’t been ignoring you these past couple weeks,” he added. “I didn’t want to call until I had something more to tell you.”

“Do you have results back on the DNA tests?”

Stride nodded. “I got them from the lab this morning.”

“And?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. There was no match. We collected DNA from the flap of the envelope on the stalker letter that was sent to Laura, and we were able to get a good sample. When we ran it against the state and FBI databases, we came up empty. Whoever he is or was, he’s not in our files.”

“Damn.”

“It was a long shot.”

“Let me ask you this,” Tish said. “Would Peter Stanhope’s DNA be included in a database somewhere?”

“I doubt it.”

“So it could be his DNA, and we just don’t know it.”

“Sure.”

“Can’t we get a court to compel him to provide a sample of DNA?” Tish asked.

“Not without probable cause,” Stride said. “We would need to have something specific to tie him to the murder.”

“Laura was killed with his bat,” she protested.

“That might get us a DNA sample if the crime happened last week and if we still had the bat. After thirty years, no judge would grant a motion with what we have today.”

“You mean, because Peter Stanhope has more money than God.”

“Frankly, yes. I’m sorry, Tish, but there are certain realities to face here.”

Tish watched the calm blue water on the lake. A light breeze rippled through her hair. “I can’t believe there’s nothing we can do. There has to be a way to get a DNA sample from Peter.”

“There’s something else,” Stride said. “More bad news.”

“What?”

“This can’t go in the book.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“We have additional genetic material from the crime scene. There was semen found near the body. The police kept that fact secret.”

“You still have the sample? It’s still intact?”

Stride nodded. “I ran the DNA from the semen. It’s not the first time I’ve done that, but we add thousands of people to those databases every year. It didn’t make any difference. There was no match.”

“Can you compare the semen to the DNA from the stalker note?” Tish asked.

“That’s the bad news.”

“What do you mean?”

“I did compare the two samples. The DNA on the stalker note doesn’t match the semen where Laura’s body was found.”

“That’s not good,” Tish agreed, frowning.

“No. Even if we could get a match to the stalker’s DNA, it means we’ve got someone else at the murder scene. The county attorney wouldn’t consider bringing charges against anyone unless we could identify the person who left that semen behind.”

“Do you have Dada’s DNA?”

“No.”

“So it could have been him. We know he was in the woods that night. He could have seen whoever killed Laura.”

“More likely, he killed her himself,” Stride reminded her. “Remember, Dada’s prints were on the bat. Besides, it’s all speculation. We don’t know who Dada was or where he went. After thirty years, he’s probably dead now. Life expectancy for vagrants like him isn’t long.”

“Do you remember anything that might help us track him down?”

“You know as much as I do. He was a Rasta. Dreadlocks, tam, the whole works. He probably wouldn’t look anything like that today.”

“He wasn’t old, though, was he?” she asked.

“No. Early twenties, maybe.”

“So he could still be alive.”

“You’d stand a better chance of finding Amelia Earhart.” Stride heard the cough of an engine and glanced at the street. “He’s back,” he said.

“Who?”

“The delivery driver.”

The same truck they had spotted earlier parked on the opposite side of London Road, near Tish’s Civic. This time, the driver’s door opened, and a man climbed down. He crossed the street and headed straight for them. He was tall and extremely thin, with pencil legs. He wore the delivery company’s uniform-short-sleeved button-down shirt, shorts, and white tennis shoes.

“Do you recognize him?” Stride asked.

Tish bit her lip. “No.”

As he came closer, Stride saw signs of age and dissipation in the driver. He looked like a heavy drinker. He was in his forties, but his skin was mottled across his bald scalp, and blood vessels had popped in his cheeks and nose, leaving a rosy web. When he pulled off his sunglasses, his pale blue eyes were rimmed in red. His blond eyebrows were trimmed short. He had a long, narrow face.

“Tish?” the driver said, ignoring Stride. “Is that you?”

She hesitated. “Yes, it’s me.”

“I heard you were back in town.”

“Have we met?” she asked.

“It’s me. Finn Mathisen. I know it’s been a long time. I don’t look like I did back then, but who does, huh? Remember, I had big curly hair?”

“Oh, Finn, sure, I’m sorry,” Tish said. She sounded as if she really did know who he was now. “How are you?”