CLOSER
Herron held the two lists side by side. There it was—5:21 a.m., Alex calls Stephanie back. Goes to voice mail, nothing on hers until 8:41. But then Prenn calls another number, a 202 area code. DC. His finger ran quickly up the page, then he flipped to the previous one. There. He circled the number and continued back to the beginning of the record.
He scanned Stephanie’s printout. Nothing. Then he went through it again, circling all the calls to or from Prenn. He drew a timeline on the back of an envelope. August 13, Prenn calls DC, and then again early morning on the twenty-fourth, the day after Parrish disappears. Later that day several calls back and forth between Stephanie and Prenn. Through the rest of the fall and winter there’s a pretty constant regular flow of calls between the two of them, all hours, sometimes pretty late, Herron noted. Then on February 26 there’s a call from Prenn to the DC number. That was Thursday, five days ago. Sunday night things got exciting—the calls and texts, the call from Stephanie to him, Prenn calls DC again and here we are.
Herron sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers, thumbs to his chest and pursed lips resting on the index fingers. Connect the dots. Let’s say the wife finds out her husband’s fucking the bimbo he’s set up in the Back Bay apartment. She’s pissed, but she wouldn’t just confront him. She definitely struck Herron as being from the dish-best-served-cold school of vengeful bitches. So she bides her time, cozies up to the partner-slash-best-friend. One thing leads to another; nature takes its inevitable course. Maybe Prenn falls hard for her, and she winds him up tight, sells him the “we have to get rid of my husband, then we can be together” bullshit. Right out of some cheesy noir movie.
Now, Prenn, he knows people, he’s mister finance; he has to have some interesting acquaintances. He calls his DC connection, maybe the guy comes to town. Prenn calls him a few days later and within hours Parrish’s gone. He and his girlfriend wind up in the river dead. And now Prenn and the missus are inseparable, calls, texts all hours. Too easy. That was the thing, though, most people who committed murder got caught. Either because they were stupid or because they figured everybody else was. It was like those kids who shot that liquor store clerk in Revere on New Year’s. They were fucking waving the gun and dancing around laughing, then they shot out the CCTV camera and never thought to take the tape out of the VCR. Herron remembered the stunned expression one kid had on the stand when the video was shown, like he couldn’t believe it. Fucking douchebag.
This one looked like a slam dunk. He was tempted to dial the DC number, but why spook the guy. He picked up the phone and called Julie. This had to be by the book.
“Hey, Jules, it’s me. Listen, there’s a 202 on the sheet you just sent over. I’m going to need everything you got on him. I’m going to Trahon now, so I’ll have the warrant tomorrow. I think this is a very bad guy.”
* * *
The lieutenant was on the phone but motioned him to a chair. Trahon was all right, street cop, came up through the ranks. Herron knew he wouldn’t ask too many questions about where the phone logs came from. But some of the judges could be pricks about shit like that. The last couple of years Herron had seen too many cases thrown out because cops had used cell records off the internet. It was stupid, everybody bought them. Why is it no big deal when telemarketers buy people’s information, but then when the police do it to catch some piece of shit who everyone knows is guilty as sin, all the civil liberties pussies start foaming at the mouth? Maybe he should go visit the widow first, see what he could stir up. He got to his feet and mouthed, “It can wait,” as he headed out. Trahon shrugged and went back to his call.
* * *
Dennis had dropped off a salami sandwich and a bottle of Vittel around noon. He had brought a dinner menu from the brasserie at the corner and Jordan circled the rabbit stew, which Dennis had delivered at six. Other than that he had left him alone. He came back around eleven. “How are we doing?” he asked.
“Okay, I think,” Jordan said. He looked tired. “I’m on the third round of DNase. I just want to be sure it doesn’t end up looking like I’ve been dead six years instead of six months so I’m going in short increments. It’s a little unpredictable. I’ve never tried to control the fragment size this closely before. It’s tricky...” His voice trailed off. “It needs to be right.”
“Yes, it does,” Dennis said. Then after a moment, “I can give you until six in the morning but that’s it. Got it?” Jordan nodded.
“Have a good night, Doc,” Dennis said and clapped him on the shoulder.
* * *
As soon as he was alone, Jordan crossed to the BioAutomation MerMade 384, a massive rolling steel apparatus surmounted by a hydra’s head of plastic tubing and bottles, and turned the monitor back on. He didn’t know if Dennis would have known what the DNA synthesizer was, never mind that it wasn’t necessary for what he was supposed to be doing, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He unfolded the creased paper place mat from his pocket and, finding his place, quickly continued entering As, Cs, Gs and Ts on the computer keyboard. The MerMade wasn’t what he was used to, but the Oligo software was intuitive enough and the machine was actually faster than the synthesizer in Jordan’s lab. He checked the progress bar; he was going to make it. Just.
* * *
Alex held the Ziploc bag of ice cubes against the lump on the back of his head. It throbbed dully. He looked concerned. “If he calls again, I think you have to answer. Otherwise, it looks like you’re hiding something.”
“Why don’t I just tell him the truth?” she said. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“No, but I have,” he said. “My guy will get kicked off the force and probably be prosecuted if anyone finds out what he’s doing. I was able to convince him to help us because he owes me but I can’t let him go to jail. You agreed to do this my way. Right?”
Stephanie sighed. “I know, you’re right. I’m sorry. If he calls again, I’ll talk to him.” She turned and recrossed her legs. “Why is it taking so long?”
“Just waiting for the right guy to be working evidence. Apparently you can’t just walk in there and help yourself. You have to hang in there. It’ll happen.”
“I’m trying,” she said, wrapping her arms around her knees even though it was warm in the kitchen.
He smiled. “I know it’s hard but we’ll get there. My friend—we’ll call him Louis—he owes me. We go back a long way. It’ll happen.”
She nodded. “Okay.” Then, “Why Louis?”
“You know, Casablanca. The cop. Working for the Germans but helping the good guys? Nothing? The ‘start of a beautiful friendship’ guy.”
She shook her head. “Nope. Don’t think I ever saw it.”
“Never saw it? That’s impossible,” he said in mock horror. “Promise me you’ll let me address that. Stat.”
She smiled under tired eyes, still hugging her knees close. “Okay.”
* * *
When he left Stephanie’s, Alex tried to call Sam’s message drop but got a recording saying the number was no longer in service. There was another number. He flipped through his contacts. There it was, a 307 area code. Wasn’t that Wyoming? He’d never called this one. It was listed as “Sam, emergency.” This qualified. Stephanie was unraveling. They needed the DNA now. Alex didn’t feel like Sam appreciated the delicacy of the situation. He dialed. There was a long delay before the phone rang and then the ring sounded, hollow and filtered. Sam picked up on the second ring. His voice was flat and harsh.
“Hang up and go home, you fucking asshole,” he said and terminated the connection.
When Alex walked into his apartment the phone was ringing. Unknown caller. He answered, “Hello?”
“Listen carefully,” Sam said. “Boston Police were asking about the other phone number. That’s why it’s gone. You’re the only person who would have called me from there, which means they’re looking at you. Home phone is clean still but your cell is shit. Get a burner, and do not, under any circumstances, try to contact me again. Am I clear?”
“I’m sorry. I promise you I never said anything to anybody.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Sam said.
“I was just worried about Stephanie. She’s going to do something stupid if I can’t get her Jordan’s DNA.”
“She’ll have it tomorrow,” Sam interrupted, “and if that’s not the end of it I will kill that fucking bitch myself. This whole situation has become quite tiresome, Alexander. My gut says to kill them all right now and be done with it.”
“You can’t,” Alex said, almost frantic. “We’re so close.”
“It’s on your head, Alex.”
“I’m really sorry,” Alex started to say, but the line had gone dead.