Fade Away (Myron Bolitar 3)

“Yeah. With a microscope or something.”

“With a …” Dimonte flapped his arms, his face crimson. “What the hell good is traces going to do me? They don’t prove a damn thing. You can’t test traces.”

“It’ll prove there was blood.”

“So what?” he shouted. “You go through any house in America with a microscope and you’re bound to find traces of blood. Who the fuck cares?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Rolly. The blood was there.”

There were maybe five lab cops—no uniforms, no marked cars—going through the house. Krinsky was there too. The video-camera in his hand was off right now. He also had what looked like manila files jammed into his armpit. Myron motioned to them. “That the coroner’s report?”

Roland Dimonte stepped in to block Myron’s view. “That ain’t none of your business, Bolitar.”

“I know about Liz Gorman, Rolly.”

The toothpick hit the floor on that one. “How the hell …?”

“It’s not important.”

“The fuck it ain’t. What else do you know? If you’re holding out on me, Bolitar—”

“I’m not holding out on you, but I think I can help.”

Dimonte narrowed his eyes. Señor Suspicious. “Help how?”

“Just tell me Gorman’s blood type. That’s all I want to know. Her blood type.”

“Why the hell should I?”

“Because you’re not a total numb nut, Rolly.”

“Don’t give me that shit. Why do you want to know?”

“Remember I told you about finding blood in the basement?” Myron said.

“Yeah.”

“I left something out.”

Dimonte gave him the glare. “What?”

“We tested some of the blood.”

“We? Who the fuck is …” His voice trailed off. “Oh Christ, don’t tell me that psycho-yuppie is in on all this?”

To know Win was to love him. “I’d like to make a little trade.”

“What kind of trade?”

“You tell me the blood type in the report. I tell you the blood type we found in the basement.”

“Fuck you, Bolitar. I can arrest your ass for tampering with evidence in a police investigation.”

“What tampering? There was no investigation.”

“I could still nail your ass for breaking and entering.”

“If you could prove it. And if Greg were around to press charges. Look, Rolly—”

“AB positive,” Krinsky said. He ignored Dimonte’s renewed glare and continued. “It’s fairly rare. Four percent of the populace.”

They both turned their attention to Myron. Myron nodded. “AB positive. It’s the same.”

Dimonte put up both hands and scrunched his face into perplexed. “Whoa, hold up here. Just what the fuck are you trying to say? That she was killed down here and moved?”

“I’m not saying anything,” Myron said.

“Cause we didn’t see any evidence of the body being moved,” Dimonte went on. “None at all. Not that we were looking for it. But the bleeding pattern—I mean, if she was killed down here, there wouldn’t have been so much blood like that at her apartment. You saw the mess there, right?”

Myron nodded.

Dimonte’s eyes darted aimlessly. Myron could practically see the gears inside his head grinding to a halt. “You know what that means, don’t you, Bolitar?”

“No, Rolly, why don’t you enlighten me?”

“It means the killer came back here after the murder. It’s the only explanation. And you know who all this is starting to point to? Your pal Downing. First we found his fingerprints in the victim’s apartment—”

“What’s this?”

Dimonte nodded. “That’s right. Downing’s fingerprints were by the door frame.”

“But not inside?”

“Yeah, inside. Inside the door frame.”

“But nowhere else?”

“What the hell’s the difference? The fingerprints prove he was at the scene. What more do you need? Anyway, here’s how it must have happened.” He stuck a new toothpick in his mouth. New toothpick for a new theory. “Downing kills her. He comes back to his house to pack or something. He’s in a rush so he leaves a little mess in the basement. Then he runs away. A few days later he comes back and cleans it up.”

Myron shook his head. “Why come down to the basement in the first place?”

“The laundry room,” Dimonte answered. “He was coming down here to wash his clothes.”

“The laundry room is upstairs off the kitchen,” Myron said.

Dimonte shrugged. “So maybe he was getting a suitcase.”

“They’re in the bedroom closet. This is just a kids’ playroom, Rolly. Why did he come down here?”

That stopped Dimonte for a moment. It stopped Myron too. None of this made much sense. Had Liz Gorman been killed here and dragged to her apartment in Manhattan? That didn’t seem to make much sense based on the physical evidence. Could she have been injured down here?

Whoa, hold the phone.

Maybe the attack started here. Maybe there had been a scuffle in the basement. In the course of subduing or knocking her out, blood was spilled. But then what? Did the killer stick her in a car and drive to Manhattan? And then—what?—on a fairly active street, the killer parked a car, dragged her injured body up the stairs, entered her apartment, killed her?

Did that make any sense?

From the first level a voice cried down, “Detective! We found something! Quick!”

Dimonte wet his lips. “Turn on the video,” he told Krinsky. Videotaping all the relevant moments. Just like Myron had told him. “Stay here, Bolitar. I don’t want to have to explain your ugly mug being on the film.”

Myron followed but at a discreet distance. Krinsky and Dimonte headed up the stairs into the kitchen. They turned left. The laundry room. Vinyl yellow wallpaper with white chicks blanketed all four walls. Emily’s taste? Probably not. Knowing Emily she’d probably never even seen the inside of a laundry room.

“Over here,” someone said. Myron stayed back. He could see that the dryer had been pushed away from the wall. Dimonte bent down and looked behind it. Krinsky arched over to make sure the whole thing was being filmed. Dimonte stood back up. He was trying like hell to look grim—a smile wouldn’t look good on film—but he was having a rough time of it. He snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and lifted the item into view.