Page 78 of Paternal Instincts
“Technically, no, but Clementine gave me a bad vibe, and you’re a bastard, by the way. When were you going to tell me you’d already talked to her?”
“When you brought it up. I figured you’d get more out of her than I did.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
“Be there in twenty.” I hung up and pinched the bridge of my nose. My brain was foggy from a lack of sleep, and the shadow of a headache settled behind my eyes.
Aslan touched the base of my neck, his fingers digging into the tight muscles. We didn’t speak as he drove. We didn’t need to. His presence was enough to ground me.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said, closing my eyes.
“I’ll always be there for you, Quaid. We’ll get this motherfucker, then we’ll go have a baby.”
I smiled tiredly and checked my phone. No message from Bryn. Thank god.
***
The overhead fluorescent bulbs hummed in the silent bullpen as Costa and Jordyn examined the paternity results that had been delivered to the Davises’ late that afternoon. It was close to five, and apart from Eric Travolta and his temporary partner working quietly at the far corner of the room, no one was around.
Aslan sat in my desk chair, legs sprawled, hands cradled behind his head—far too relaxed considering the circumstances. Costa balanced his ass on the edge of the desk, Jordyn beside him, while I paced and gnawed a thumbnail.
I gave them plenty of time to process before halting and facing them, hands on my hips. “Well? Thoughts?”
“It could be a fake,” Jordyn said, “to get the family riled up and fighting.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Are you saying our perp waltzed into a lab with Crowley, a missing kid, and had this done?” Jordyn flicked the page.
“The person doesn’t need to. They could easily bring a sample to the lab and make a request.”
“It would mean nothing. Chain of custody. Inadmissible in court.”
“I don’t think this person cares about that. The point was to disrupt the family. Show their hand, and they know we can’t follow up because they redacted too much information. We don’t know where they went, when they went, or what name to look under. Even if we wanted to wager guesses and called every lab in the city, they wouldn’t give us anything without a warrant, and without a name, we can’t get one.”
Costa handed the form back. “Assuming it was mailed by the same depot and by the same person or persons, we’re shit outta luck.”
I frowned. “Why?”
“I ran my program through the footage we received from FedEx for the day the first and second letter was sent and I got no hit.”
“You had it set to recognize faces belonging to any of the Davis or Walsh families?”
“The ones we’ve been focusing on, yes. If you have a distant cousin or great aunt I don’t know about who’s under scrutiny, then no. I also included Jude and Clementine. Nothing.”
“Shit. Did you do a manual scan?”
“Not yet. I didn’t have time since I was working on a warrant for Benedict’s finances and sweet-talking Doyle’s favorite judge intosigning it. It’s approved, and no, I haven’t delved into dear old Benny’s bank accounts yet because, again, time.”
“Did she like your tattoos?” Aslan asked.
“No. She looked at me like I was a troublemaker.”
“You kind of are.”
“Can we focus?” I glared at my husband before returning my attention to Costa. “You’re saying we have no idea who’s sending these letters?”
“That’s what I’m saying.” He shrugged, not seeming surprised. “It’s not unbelievable to imagine whoever is doing this is also paying a random stranger or homeless person to run inside the building to do their bidding. Doesn’t take a genius to know we’d trace the packages and get a hold of the footage.”
