It was just before seven A.M. when I reached the lab. The ME had taken samples of blood, skin, and hair along with her to the morgue, so the routine testing and any forensic work she might order would get under way immediately.
I had stopped at the property clerk’s office to re-count the money that Lee Petrie, his partner, and I had been through once at Wilson’s apartment. Twenty-seven thousand large, all under the roach-infested sink. I got permission to take the bills with me to the lab instead of vouchering them and letting them sit on a shelf collecting dust, in case we might be lucky enough to get touch DNA off any of them.
I had the bullet that killed Wynan Wilson for the ballistics examiners. No spent shell—the shooter had been cool enough to pick up her debris. No gun yet, but that could be just a matter of time. I had toiletries that either Wilson or Keesh might have used, and kitchen utensils that might yield results about the most recent visitors. Saliva from the highball glasses in the sink could tell us whether the deceased had a drinking partner.
Once I’d signed off on everything, I walked outside to my car. It was a nippy fall morning. I started the engine and then checked my phone for messages.
Nothing from Lieutenant Peterson, so nobody at City Hall had dropped a dime on me. I was right about Shipley’s bluff.
And nothing from Coop.
She didn’t want to bother me at a crime scene and expose me to the ribbing of the other guys, who were comically ruthless at the news that Coop and I had hooked up. I didn’t need to jack her up, either, before her meeting with Battaglia about the computer mess created by Antonio Estevez and his bride.
Garden-variety domestic, I wrote to her in an e-mail. She’d get the irony in that once I told her the full story. It’s how law enforcement referred to O. J. Simpson’s murder of Nicole, until an incompetent judge and an overhyped media frenzy screwed the case up. Perp in flight, but you’ll like my idea to smoke her out.
I sent her a second e-mail. Assign a star to handle this one, will you? Someone who can withstand a little heat from the New York Times.
Coop would want this case for herself, but with Shipley tied up in the investigation—if not in the actual crime—she would recuse herself. I knew that. But I also knew that she would pull the strings from behind the scenes and that nothing would derail her from outing the truth about the reverend, even when political pressure fanned the flames.
The last e-mail was personal, to separate it from any discovery motions that would put our correspondence into play. Far-fetched, but after Estevez, worth doing.
Hey, Coop. Going home for a few hours’ sleep. The weekend will feel really good. So will you.