Never quit, I thought, confused and excited at the discovery. That’s what doctors do. Davis should have learned that in medical school.

  Unlike Davis, Flo Clevenger didn’t seem to mind being called in the middle of the night, especially when Sennett told her we might have a break in the case. We met her at the Detroit Police lab just before midnight and explained what we had found. She ran the chromatographs in thirty minutes. “You guys have hit the jackpot,” Flo said with a tone of excitement.

  “How do you mean?” Sennett asked.

  “I mean that from a paternity standpoint, the blood on the piece of glove that you brought me matches perfectly with the DNA from the other specimens.”

  “You mean the swabs were that of the boys’ father?” Sennett asked.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, that’s what it is,” Flo replied.

  “So ,it is possible that the person who murdered Hamoud Ishaki might have been his father,” I said, now more confused than educated.

  “Correct, Ben.” Flo nodded solemnly as she spoke.

  “And maybe Masri is not involved,” I added.

  “All we know is that Masri was not the father and his DNA is not in that jar,” Sennett said stiffly. “But I’ve been a cop for twenty-five years. He’s involved. I know guilty when I see it.”

  “Yeah. Don’t forget the blood of the dead kid on his clothes,” Flo interjected.

  “But is it possible that all of these DNA tests are coming back with the same person? Could it be that these were planted findings?” I asked.

  “Maybe on Masri, but the tissues from Carrington and the two dead boys are theirs. But let’s table that for a moment. For one thing, they couldn’t fake the paternity tests,” Flo said.

  I excused myself, telling Sennett and Flo that I wanted to call Jordan. I stepped outside in the hallway and telephoned her. All I got was a busy signal.

  As I walked back to Flo’s office, I noticed a line of photographs on the wall. I looked closer and saw that there were pictures of men and women in dress uniforms. Under each were the name and the title of lab director. I stared at a one taken back in the late forties. It was the face of an elderly white man with a thin, pinched nose, high forehead, and tired, deep-set eyes. I wondered how many crimes he could have solved with all this new technology and how many criminals had gotten away.

  Then I thought about the DNA findings we had just found. What had we proven? The murderer and the father were one and the same. Fine. But who? Then I thought about Stacey Issacson and James Carrington. These murders were too much like Stacey’s to be a coincidence.

  I walked back into the Flo’s office. Sennett was on his cell phone. I waited until he put the phone back in his pocket. “George,” I said flatly, “we need to check out the remains of Stacey Issacson and see if her DNA matches.”

  “You won’t quit on that theory, will you?” he asked, with resignation in his voice. I shook my head. “Well, it will have to wait for now. That was Homicide. They found a coat, shoes, and personal effects in a dumpster in Dearborn, near The Oasis. There was blood on them.”

  “Any idea as to the owner?”

  “Yeah, the clothes belonged to Bill Yaldo. There was blood on the coat that belonged to Yaldo.”

  “Any ideas?” I asked.

  “Like I said, I know guilty when I see it. And I don’t need any fancy DNA testing,” Sennett replied, an edge back in his voice. “This has to be Masri. Who else? He is a sick, dangerous, and very smart killer. Don’t ever forget that, Doc.”

  “I won’t,” I replied. “I just want to find out more about the Issacson murder.”

  “You really believe there’s a relationship to the Issacson murder,” Flo said with some surprise in her voice.

  “I’m not that smart,” I answered. “All I know is the killer was related to Hamoud Ishaki and Brett Zielinski, and he wasn’t Masri.”

  Sennett looked disconcerted. “I’ve got to sort this thing out. Right now, I’ve got a lot on my plate.” He started toward the door and we followed him out, through the hallway and into the parking lot.

  It was a dark, moonless night. When I had arrived at our cars, I looked up at the eight-foot chain link fence with razor wire on the top and felt a little more secure behind the fence than outside. I opened my car and got in and sat for a moment. After looking at the specimen and getting the DNA results, I felt confused and unprotected. Whoever was committing these crimes was smart, probably a lot smarter than me. Now, looking outside the fence, the thought occurred to me that maybe I should wait for Jerome to come back in the morning.

  That thought didn’t last long as I saw the automatic gate go up and watched as Flo and Sennett drove off. I was bushed, but I was also angry. I should have been home, enjoying the weather instead of following leads on a murder and examining a dead man’s testicles. I wished Karin Shackley had never contacted me. I wished I wasn’t in the detective business.

  Then I thought of George Sennett, a man so driven to find a vicious killer that he practically forgot to eat and sleep. George was my friend and he needed my help. Just what that help was I hadn’t figured out, but somehow, I knew I had to. I brought the Wagoneer to the gate, which opened slowly. I eased out onto the dark street.

  Chapter 18

  Iturned left and switched on my bright lights. As I did, I thought to myself that I had been down this path before—ensnared by events into an investigation I didn’t want. It bothered me. Not so much for myself, but for Jordan. I needed her help, but the two most important events in her life were about to happen, and I didn’t want anything to spoil them. Besides, anxiety and pregnancy weren’t a good mix.

  Not that Jordan ever complained. When it came to things like this, she was a rock. I was beginning to think it was my anxiety, not hers. As I drove away from the police lab, I felt a little guilty. Who was I to be that paternalistic? After all, didn’t she get herself into this case all on her own? Maybe I didn’t want an answer.

  I felt a little on edge as I drove down the narrow street. It was dark, and once I got away from the brightly lit parking lot, the illumination was barely adequate. I looked both ways before continuing. There wasn’t any traffic at this hour and before I knew it Sennett and Flo had disappeared in the distance. Nevertheless, I proceeded slowly toward Woodward Avenue. When I reached the intersection, I noticed a single pair of headlights behind me. I turned onto the main thoroughfare.

  The headlights followed. I kept looking at them as I drove down toward Six Mile Road. It wasn’t long before I noticed that the vehicle started to gain on my car.

  I slowed for the yellow light ahead at the Woodward intersection but thought better of it. The car behind me was getting closer, so, instead, I accelerated through the intersection and made a hard left. I thought my move had lost him, but I wasn’t fast enough. I looked again at my side mirror and saw that the vehicle had made the light.

  My hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. I was scared now. This wasn’t just an idle coincidence—I was being followed. As the vehicle got closer, I could see that what I thought was a car was really a van. I slowed again so I could see if I could recognize anything about the van or who was driving it.

  I glanced quickly at the side of the vehicle. There was some Arabic writing on the side and a name I couldn’t make out. Then I pulled up slightly and looked again at the driver. In the light from the halogen streetlamps, it looked for all the world like Moladi.

  I didn’t have time to decide who it was, because the driver suddenly swerved his van into my lane. I yanked the wheel to the right and accelerated again, just missing a parked car. I saw the red light ahead. Suddenly there was a bright flash from the van and a thud against my briefcase.

  A bullet. It took a moment to realize I was being shot at. Then came the fear as a flush came over me and my heart began racing. I felt my hands grip the wheel tighter.

  I had to go through the red light. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a car coming down the side street. I looked at my speedometer. It read almost seventy, and the van was closing. There was a risk, but I had to take it. I could see the headlights of the approaching car and heard the wailing of its horn. All I could think about was Jordan. We both squeaked through the intersection just as a car crossed behind us.

  As soon as we were through, I slammed on the brakes and saw smoke from the tires in my rearview mirror. The van kept going, but suddenly I saw him touch his brakes. I waited until the last minute, then swung my car across the median and into the southbound lanes. At that time of night there was no traffic.

  His van turned toward me in my rearview mirror. If I couldn’t shake this guy, I knew I was in trouble. I looked back in the mirror again and saw the lights of the van behind me, as the driver made the turnaround. The lights edged closer.

  It was happening again. I could see my car careening wildly down a twisting, mountain road in Colorado, chased by a desperate killer intent on ending my life. There was the sound again, shots ringing out and the shattering of glass. Staying alive, using my head. It was all that had kept me alive back then. Now, amazingly, my terror polished my mind, enabling crisis-mode decisions and cool, razor-sharp responses again. I meant to survive.

  A traffic light up ahead changed from green to yellow. I jammed my foot against the accelerator, looking from side to side to see if traffic was coming across the intersection. I had gone beyond the point of return. The speedometer read 75 mph as I roared past the low-slung strip buildings that lined Woodward. Lights flashed up ahead, a multi-colored blur. As I sped past, I saw the patrol car.

  The police were after me immediately, sirens wailing and lights flashing. I pulled over and stopped in front of a twenty-four hour McDonald’s. The van flew past. I tried to make out the license plate tag, but it was too dark and, now that I was safe, I was shaking too hard to see clearly. All I could do was sit with my arms outstretched and the heels of my hands against the steering wheel, waiting for my chance to explain what had happened to the cops.

  Two officers, one big guy and a smaller woman, slowly walked out of their blue Crown Vic. I could see them proceeding cautiously toward the back of the Wagoneer. This was no average traffic stop. They each took a side of my car, their hands on their holsters. Officer Big tapped harshly on the driver’s side window with his nightstick. I rolled down the window and offered my driver’s license and police badge with a trembling hand. I had never been happier to see two police officers in my life.

  I did the get-out-of-your-car thing and walked a straight line. When they determined that I wasn’t drunk and saw my police badge, they eased off. I was going to tell them the whole story, then I thought better of it. Instead I pled the only mea culpa a doctor can have; I was on my way to an emergency at the hospital.

  They seemed to buy my story but gave me a ticket anyway. So much for professional courtesy. As they pulled away, I sat for a moment, trying to understand what had just happened to me. I looked up at the mirror and for a moment saw my father’s visage. The same cheekbones, the same eyes studying my face for an answer. I had a momentary urge to call him, tell him about the dilemma I was in, ask for his advice. I almost thought of doing it, but at eighty-five it wasn’t fair to put that burden on him. So, I started the car up and headed north to the house.

  It was three in the morning when I finally came home. I was carrying the exhaustion of a near-death experience and a case that was dragging me into the vortex of a dangerous whirlpool. Usually I park the car in the garage, but it was late, so I left it on the street. I opened the door and walked into the house quietly. The only light that was on was from a small lamp in the study. As I walked in, Buck came padding into the hallway, wagging his tail.

  I patted his head and then peeked into the room. Jordan was asleep on the sofa, a crocheted Afghan covering her. A pang of remorse filled me, both from the strain I was putting on Jordan and the effect it might have on our unborn child. I felt helpless.

  I was about to go upstairs, when Jordan awoke. “What time is it?” she asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

  Buck was rubbing his head on my legs, so I started scratching him behind the ears. “A little after three in the morning. I’m sorry you waited up for me.”

  “Do you want to tell me where you’ve been?” There was a hint of accusation in her voice.

  “I tried to call you, but all I got was a busy signal,” I said a little defensively.

  “I was home all night, waiting for you.”

  I looked over at the phone on the desk. It was off the hook. “Are you worried I was somewhere I shouldn’t have been?”

  By this time Jordan had awoken fully and was sitting with her legs crossed in front of her, the blanket on her lap. She was wearing a thin black t-shirt over her white cotton underwear. Her hair was down and in the soft lamplight, her face looked like she could have been in a Vermeer painting. “Maybe I am,” she said. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been out late at night. Is there something I’m doing? I know I haven’t been the most affectionate lately.” I could see her eyes glistening, she was close to breaking down.

  I went over to the couch, sat next to her, and wrapped my arms around her shoulders. She didn’t push me away this time, but she also didn’t seem ready to forgive me for my absence just yet. I thought about my evening at The Oasis and now my near-miss at the hands of a drive-by shooter. Then there was the issue of sex, or lack thereof. Did she think I was staying out late just to avoid the issue? Or maybe she thought I was having an affair. I had to level with her.

  I decided to move to the large upholstered chair next to couch so I could compose myself. After a couple of moments, I started telling her about the episode at The Oasis, explaining everything, including the drink that Moladi slipped me and the videotape.

  “Where is the tape now?” she asked, the lawyer back in her voice.

  “I have a copy. I suspect the original is with Moladi.”

  She didn’t say anything, so I went on to tell her about this evening’s events at the police lab, finishing with the chase, the van, and the errant bullet fired into my briefcase. I could see, as I continued, that her face was beginning to soften, and the hard look had gone out of her eyes. It was replaced by a look of sorrow.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said with a tone of disappointment.

  I shifted a little in my chair. “I didn’t want to upset you and the baby. Besides, having a picture of your husband in bed with another woman is not conducive to conjugal bliss.”

  “Ben, when I lost Matt on that wharf in Miami, I vowed I would never let that happen again. I need to know what’s happening. I’m not a child.”

  I felt bad. That’s exactly how I was treating her. “I was going to, I just wanted to wait until I understood where this investigation was going. So much has happened.” I explained the finding on the glove fragment and the DNA tests. Her reaction wasn’t what I had anticipated.

  “You’ve been in a shell just like you were before I met you. There is more to your behavior than just the case, isn’t there?” she asked softly.

  I was embarrassed at my weaknesses. I decided to confess. “I’ve been feeling well, you know, a little left behind. I needed you more than you’ll ever know.”

  By this time she had left the couch and had squeezed herself next to me on the chair. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled my face close to hers. I felt the warmth of her lips.

  “You might have been wrong not to tell me what was going on, but I let you down too. I was selfish, just too wrapped up in my own problems.” By this time she had unbuckled my belt and her hand was slipping down inside of my pants. “I’ll never let that happen again.”

  My hands felt for her panties, and I slipped them off. As I did, I slid my hand between her legs and felt her liquid softness. Then I suddenly stopped. “Are you sure this is okay?” I whispered hoarsely.

  She grinned at me, putting her forefinger to her lip. “Shut up, Dailey.” With that we both eased off the chair and onto the floor. As I entered her, I knew with certainty that this was not a dream.

  I walked out of the house at seven the next morning, tired from everything that had happened last night, but without the anxiety I had felt for the past few weeks. That feeling lasted until I got to my car on the street. That’s when I saw one of those flyers that people stick in your windshield wiper advertising cheap loan rates or a free pizza. I frowned at the annoyance and then looked at the other cars on the street. None of them had one. Now my senses were alerted. I lifted up the wiper, almost afraid to read what it said. I should have been. When I opened it up, it read:

  I had fun last night. I hope you did too.

  Friend of the Devil

  I folded the paper and then opened the door to my car. When I got behind the wheel, I sat there wondering what to do. I felt angry, scared, and helpless, and all I could think of doing was to vent my frustration on Sennett.

  When I called, he wasn’t there, so I left a message and drove to my office. About halfway there, I stopped at a deli, bought my coffee and carbohydrate—a giant artery-clogging cinnamon pinwheel—and sat down on a stool in front of the counter. I opened up the paper. As if the note wasn’t enough, there was Ahmad Masri’s dour face all over the front page. The headline read, “Arab businessman suspected in second torture and murder.” The article outlined his release on bail, some details of his past, and, of course, mentioned his daughter. A nationwide manhunt had begun. By the time I was finished, I was feeling sick to my stomach, and it wasn’t entirely the pinwheel’s fault.

  I arrived at the office early, went in through the back door, and let Katie know I was there. Once at my desk, I spread out my notes on the killings. Somewhere in these jottings was the key to these murders. Somewhere.

  I rearranged the columns of the murders into different orders: age, sex, location. I looked at the victims’ names, their histories, even the clothes they were wearing. Nothing came to me. I was about to put my papers away when Katie poked her head around the corner. “Dr. Dailey, were you expecting a Dr. Davis this morning?”

 

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