47
It was early morning, the air crisp and cold. Tendrils of the rising sun were just striking the treetops as Cash swiped her access card and entered the lobby of the forensics building. A few moments later, she had reached the lab, dark and quiet. The piece of the skull of Saint John the Baptist had been locked up in the secure evidence freezer. But she knew the code… Romanski’s code for everything was his favorite number repeated: 474747. It was terribly insecure, and she had criticized him for it on several occasions. But now his heedlessness was to her advantage.
She dialed in the number, opened the freezer, and took out the tiny vial that contained the piece of skull, which was itself sealed inside an evidence tube. She replaced it with an identical evidence tube containing a vial with a tiny chip of brown tree bark inside it. Then she slipped the real vial into the pocket of her sweatpants. The paperwork to release the relic to the priest, she knew, would take longer than the twenty-four hours the DNA expert, Strickland, said he needed. Holmes wouldn’t notice it was gone. The only one who would was Romanski, but he was on leave.
She exited the building and got into the front seat of the gray Nissan she had rented for the day—in cash. A hoodie was pulled tight around her face. The killers wanted the relic enough to kill Reno, and Cash was going to be extra careful. The parking lot showed no signs of activity, but as she pulled out into the street, she saw a dark blue Ford Ranger idlingin a parking space, a person inside. She slowed down as she went past and got a good read on the license plate, memorizing it, but she couldn’t quite make out the face—it was blocked by windshield glare.
She took a right turn and then slowed down, waiting to see if the car would follow. And it did: When she was halfway down the block, she saw the Ranger come creeping around the corner. She sped up, and it matched her pace—keeping just far enough away to make it difficult to see who it was. Cash halted in the middle of the road, and the Ranger did as well. She waited, silently, her throat tight, and then, in a surge of anger, pulled her Baby Glock from its holster and got out of the vehicle, pointing it at the truck. With a screeching roar, it pulled a U-turn and sped away. Cash watched it go, her heart fluttering, then re-holstered her weapon. That was a crazy thing to do, and she’d be in a lot of trouble if it got reported—but she knew those bastards wouldn’t. She would run the plate later, but she was certain it wouldn’t yield anything useful.
Cash debated whether to continue, but the Ranger did not return. She drove a roundabout route, eyes glued to her rearview mirror. There were two occasions she feared she was being followed, and she did the four-consecutive-right-turns test. Both proved to be false alarms, but it did alleviate her sense of unease.
Finally, she reached her destination—the Anschutz health sciences building of the University of Colorado—and stopped. She waited in the parking lot for a few minutes, looking around, but it seemed the coast was clear.
Cash felt jumpy, the vial burning a hole through her pocket, as she stepped through the doors. The health sciences building served as a welcome to the CU School of Medicine campus. The seven floors of the building enclosed a central atrium, and she was greeted by a modern, open-concept floor plan dotted with giant ferns and palms in wooden planters. A handful of tables and couches were occupied with medical students and staff chatting and laughing over coffee.
Having looked up his image on the university website, Cash spotted Dr. Strickland’s bushy head in between two ferns, and strode over.
“Agent Cash,” the man rose to his feet. He was completely different from how she’d imagined, with long unkempt hair, a big beard, wearinga T-shirt stretched to the max by a large belly. Peeking from the sleeve was a tattoo of the famous double-helix molecule. He did not, Cash had to admit, look like a prominent and accomplished professor.
“Dr. Strickland, it’s a pleasure.” Cash gave his hand a gentle pump.
Dr. Strickland shook his head. “I’m so shocked and horrified to hear about Michael Reno’s murder. I’m just devastated by the news.… I imagine you were close to him. Any leads on who did it?”
“No,” said Cash. “But we’re all over it. We loved Reno.” She felt her eyes welling with tears, and turned her head to the side and coughed, waiting for the emotion to pass. She pinched her arm to calm herself.
“Have a seat.” Dr. Strickland gestured at the chair across from him. “Reno texted me you have a bone you want tested. It must have been one of the last messages he sent before he was killed.”
“Yes.” Cash fished in her pocket. She quickly palmed it over to Strickland, who took it and held the vial up to the light. Cash glanced around nervously, but nobody seemed to be paying them any attention. “Reno told me you needed an aDNA workup on it but didn’t go into detail. What’s it from?”
“It’s… a bone fragment from a first-century AD burial.”
Dr. Strickland’s eyes widened. “Interesting. Why the need for an aDNA test?”
Cash had prepared herself for this line of questioning. “A friend of mine inherited it in a box with some fossils, with a note saying it was human. She asked if I could help her confirm that and also test how old it might be.”
“Weird,” said Strickland, but he seemed to be buying the story.
“She wants to keep it strictly confidential, if you don’t mind. And please, if the test could be done without any visible damage to the bone, that would be ideal.”
“I’m happy to do a solid for my friend Reno—poor guy. What a horror. I’ll do it and let you know if it’s human or not.”
As the vial disappeared somewhere into the depths of his cargo pants pockets, Cash felt more than a twinge of concern. She was pretty sure they hadn’t followed her to the campus, but she couldn’t be certain. She was at least reassured that Strickland didn’t look like an easy target.
He must have seen the troubled look on her face, because he said, “No sweat, Agent Cash. Your vial is safe with me. I’ll have it back to you by tomorrow morning, intact, with no sign it’s been monkeyed with.”
