The Burnt House

“Exactly.”

“Suspended sentence.”

“Two for two.”

“And what about Rosea

“That’s an open question.” Decker told her about the disposed carpet mats that shone blue with blood protein after being sprayed with luminol. “I haven’t ruled out Holmes, especially considering who he is, but he’s down on the list. After his arrest, we got access to his credit cards. I turned up a receipt with his signature on it, putting Holmes in San Jose at ten-fifteen on the morning of the crash.”

“You found him an alibi.”

“I did. There is no way Holmes could have murdered Rosea

“Could Holmes have hired someone?”

“The next question, and it’s a very good question. So far we don’t have any evidence that proves or disproves that theory.”

“So that brings you back to Ivan,” Rina said. “All that blood on the car mats…and Ivan took in the car to be completely reupholstered. There’s a logical co

“Logic doesn’t always enter into the picture, but we do what we can.” He looked at his wristwatch. “Ready?”

“Whenever you are.”

“That’s never.” He stood up. “But tuition is expensive and I’ve got to make a buck, though Lord knows there are easier ways.”

“But you love your job,” Rina said.

“Sometimes,” Decker admitted. “It’s rewarding when you solve some perplexing cases and put away some real bad people. But most of the time, the work is a lot of drudgery and just plain sad.”

MARGE WAS WAITING for him, a cup of coffee in her hand. “We’ve got news.”

She wasn’t smiling but she wasn’t frowning. He’d just have to wait for the verdict. Decker pulled out the key to his office. “It’s been that kind of week.” He opened the door. “Come in and tell me all about it.”

She handed him the coffee and stared at his ravaged face. “When was the last time you had some sleep?”

“A while back.”

“Go home, Decker,” Marge told him. “We can execute warrants without you.”

Oliver walked into the office and regarded Decker’s puffy face. “You need sleep, Loo.”

“I do, but as long as I’m here, you two might as well bring me up to speed. Then one of you has the privilege of taking me home.”

“I can do it,” Oliver said. “I’m ready to pack it in myself.”

“What happened to your car?” Marge asked.

“Rina drove me. I’m not alert enough to be behind a wheel.”

“Good call.” Oliver leaned against the wall and looked at Decker. “You want to go first?”

Decker sipped coffee. By now, his gut was on fire from all the acid, but being conscious took precedence over comfort. “I have a quick question, first, and then I want you two to tell me what’s going on. My question is: Are we still considering Raymond Holmes as a suspect in Rosea

“Why?” Marge said. “Do you have anything new that would point us in that direction?”

“No, but I’ll add this. If Holmes did it, it would most likely have to be a murder for hire. A credit-card receipt puts him in San Jose at ten-fifteen on the morning of the crash. So I’m flinging the question back to you. Do you have any indication that he was involved?”

Oliver and Marge exchanged looks. Then she said, “I’ll repeat what you told me over the phone. It’s complicated.”

“This is not what I wanted to hear,” Decker said. “Okay, what do we know so far?”

“We are pretty sure that the Beemer was a kill spot,” Oliver said. “Forensics stripped off the new carpet, went down to the original metal, and sprayed it with luminol.”

“It lit up like blue fireworks,” Marge said. “There was a big pool of blue on the rear floor behind the driver’s seat, but there was also a lot of fluorescent spatter.”

“On the steering wheel, on the dash, on the gauges, on the gearshift, on the convertible roof, which wasn’t replaced, just cleaned.”

“There was a steady stream that fluoresced on the glove compartment. It looks like the initial spurt that might come from a stab wound that hit a major artery.”

Decker said, “Do we know if the blood is Rosea

“Not yet,” Oliver said. “We called up Shareen Lodestone and asked her if she might have something that contains her daughter’s DNA, like an old hairbrush or an old toothbrush.”

“No go on the toothbrush, but she does have an old hairbrush,” Marge said.

“We need a hair with a root,” Decker said.

“Yes, that would help,” Oliver said. “But even if we don’t find a hair with a root, we can always do a mitochondrial DNA. If Shareen’s mitochondrial DNA a is perfect match to the mitochondrial DNA extracted from the blood, we can establish that the blood has to have come from a female progeny of Shareen. The woman doesn’t have any other daughters. I think the conclusion is obvious.”

“Can we extract mitochondrial DNA from the samples we have?”

“According to forensics, definitely,” Marge told him. “The samples are not that old and not that degraded. Plus they found what they think might be tissue.”

“Excellent.” Decker smoothed his mustache. “So if there’s a match, we can be almost certain that she was murdered in her car.”

“With that much fluorescence, it’s a safe bet,” Marge told him.

“Can we put Ivan at the scene?”

Marge said, “We found some latent bloody prints. Several partials on the dash and a lovely right thumbprint on the steering wheel itself.”

Oliver said, “Meaning that the prints were made at the time Rosea

“You’re hesitating. What is it? The prints aren’t Ivan’s?” Marge and Oliver shrugged. Decker swore. “Do you have anything that links Ivan to the bloody scene?”

Oliver said, “We have his prints all over the place, but since he’s been driving the car for over six months that proves nothing.”

“Damn!” Decker told himself to backtrack. Let the evidence point to the suspect and not the other way around. “Where is Ivan right now?”

Marge shrugged. “We have a warrant to search his car for blood, Loo, not one for his arrest.”

“We’re working on that,” Oliver told him. “As soon as the blood is determined to be Rosea

“In the meantime, he goes south of the border?” Decker said.

“Wanda Bontemps and Lee Wang are watching him.”

“Where is he?” Decker repeated. When the question was met with silence, Decker said, “Scott, call Wanda and find out where Mr. Dresden is currently parking his ass.”

Oliver left wordlessly. Decker looked at Marge. “I take it you’re ru

Marge answered, “George Kasabian is on it, and he’ll call either way.”

“He’s good,” Decker said. “How long has he had the prints?”

“About an hour.”

“Let’s hope he’s contemplating something.” No one spoke for a moment. Then Decker said, “Do you have Kasabian’s number?”

Marge read it off of her cell. Decker put the phone line on speaker and punched in the number. George a

“Hi, George, it’s Pete Decker from West Valley.”

“Welcome back, Lieutenant,” Kasabian told him. “I was just about to call you. Actually, I was just about to call Marge Du

“I’m right here, George,” Marge answered. “What’s the good word?”

“If you have a pencil, I have a name.”

Two shocked but spontaneous grins. Decker gave his hands a loud clap and said go into the speakerphone.

“The thumbprint belongs to Patricia Childress.” He spelled the last name and gave them Childress’s date of birth. “These particular prints were taken when she was arrested for prostitution seven years ago.”

“God bless vice.” Decker handed the information to Marge. “Du