Our Honored Dead (Stephanie Chalice Thrillers Book 4) (5 page)

“The victim’s name was Cohen,” Zugg repeated. “The YAP marker was found on the Y-Chromosome. Six specific Y-STR markers were present along with genetic material belonging to the Y-haplogroup J1c3.”

“Sometimes I really wish I had completed a degree in advanced genealogy . . . but I became a cop instead. Damien, what does all this mean?”

“Long story short?”

“Yes please.”
Dear God, please.

“It means that the victim shares the same genetic signature as Aaron, the brother of Moses.”

“The victim is related to Moses?” Gus asked in a disbelieving tone.

“Yes, but the same is true of almost anyone named Cohen; it’s not an exclusive circle.”

“So you can analyze a spec of the victim’s DNA and determine his genealogy back to—”

“Approximately 1600 BC,” Zugg replied. “That’s when it’s believed that Aaron lived. Actually, we can go back thirty or forty thousand years, but I don’t think it will help your chances of capturing your unsub.”

“That’s incredible. This information is one-hundred-percent accurate?”

“Well no, nothing is that precise. We’re going back to the Middle East almost four thousand years ago. Who knows who slept with whom? Bloodlines cross and cross and cross. I’m just telling you that the chances are pretty good that the victim’s name was Cohen, but it could have been Johnson or Atkins or Limbaugh.”

I laughed. Personally, a corpse named Limbaugh wouldn’t bother me one bit. “Any missing person’s reports on a male named Cohen, Herb? I’m sure you checked.”

“You know we did,” Ambler replied. “There are several of them, and we’re checking into every one. The problem is that we don’t know when the victim died or the victim’s age. The victim could have disappeared five days ago or fifty years ago. He could have come from New Jersey or Istanbul. We would be able to determine age if we had a reasonably large portion of a formed bone, but we don’t. Possible missing persons who match the victim’s profile are listed in the files we gave you.”

“I guess we don’t know a hell of a lot.”

Ambler smiled. “That’s why you’re here, kiddo.”

“There’s
my baby!” Ma reached out and smothered me with a hug. She planted a wet one on my cheek. “You smell like a mommy-to-be.”

“I smell like a mommy-to-be?” I was standing outside the door and had yet to enter her apartment—I doubt a bear’s sense of smell is as acute as my mother’s. “How does a pregnant woman smell?”

“Oh I don’t know, you just do. Now get out of my way and let me hug Gus.” Ma gave Gus the same octopus hug and kiss. “I made everything you could ever possibly want for dinner. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Did you ever know me not to be?”

Ma didn’t answer right away—I couldn’t believe that she had to think about it. “God bless you, you’ve always had a good appetite, but now that you’re eating for two . . .” It was good to see Ma so happy. She had gone through a real rough patch after my father died—she dressed in black for a full two years after he was gone. At this moment, she looked more alive than I had seen her in years. She was alive with the expectation of becoming a grandmother. “I made lasagna and a roast. I baked a cheesecake: pineapple with a graham-cracker crust.”

“Ma, even pregnant women are supposed to watch their calories.”

“Bah! That’s nonsense. You can eat anything you want,” she said with her patented dismissive hand gesture. “Besides, knowing you, it will all go to your boobs.” She smiled at Gus. “Any problems with that, handsome?” Gus appeared to be tongue-tied. “No, I didn’t think so.” She finally yielded her sentry post, and we walked into the apartment. “I almost forgot. I made you a little tripe.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. “You made me tripe? Are you crazy?”

“You loved it as a little girl—I used to make it for your father.”

I sniffed the air and wrinkled my nose. “So that’s what that awful smell is.” I buried my face in Gus’ shoulder. “God help me, the woman is insane,” I said playfully.

“It’s delicious,” she insisted. “You’ll try it, won’t you, Gus?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” Gus said. For the record, tripe is an Italian dish. Gus’ mother is Greek. BTW, her moussaka is to die for.

“It’s stomach lining,” I volunteered. “It’s absolutely putrid.”

“It can’t be
that
bad,” Gus said, but I could tell he was just trying to be nice. “Sure, I’ll try a little.”

“He’s afraid to say no. Where’s Ricky?” I asked.

“I sent your brother to the bakery for some fresh Italian bread. He’ll be back soon.”

“Gus, our baby’s going to think I’m a whale.”

“Don’t worry, babe,” Gus said. “I’ll let you know the moment I spot a blowhole.”

Gus’ blowhole-comment made me chuckle. This was the third week in a row that Ma had invited us to dinner. The menu varied each week, but the calorie count was always in the stratosphere. “Sit down in the living room, I’ve got to check on the roast. Would you like a beer, Gus?” Ma asked.

“I’d love one. Thanks,” he said.

“How about you, Stephanie, care for a cold one?”

“Ma, you know I can’t have any alcohol.”

“One beer? You can’t have one little bottle of beer? It’s full of vitamins.”

“I take vitamins.”

“It’s not the same,” she said. “Hops are good for you.”

“No beer,” I reiterated.

“Okay, I’ll just bring one for Gus. You can taste his if you like.” Ma walked into the kitchen.

“I’ll lay you straight odds she returns with two bottles.”

Gus smiled and gave me a kiss. “You’ve made her really happy.”

“I didn’t do it alone.” I nuzzled his neck and whispered in his ear. “All this talk about food is making me horny.”

Gus smiled and raised a pointer finger as if he were signaling for a waiter. “Check please.”

“Yeah you just try. Ma will cut you off at the knees—you’ll never make it to the door. You think you’ve seen some tough hombres on the street? They’re nothing compared to my mother. You’re not getting out of here until you’ve been stuffed like a
piñata
.”

“But I want to go home and mess around.”

“Not a prayer, boyfriend. By the time Ma gets finished with you, you won’t have the energy to take off your socks.” He sighed—alas, he knew I was right.

I heard keys in the door lock. I turned just as my brother Ricky walked through the door. He gave me a huge smile, dropped the bag of bread on the floor, and ran over to give me a hug. That was Ricky. He was a man with the mind of a child, but I loved every inch of him. He hugged me as if he hadn’t seen me in years. His greeting was always the same. It was like being greeted by a Labrador retriever—unconditionally loving.

“You look great, Stephanie,” he said. “Ma says you’ve got the glow.”

“I think Ma’s the one with the glow.”

Ricky thought for a moment and then his face lit up. “Is Ma going to have a baby too?”

I had to bite my tongue. “No, Ricky, I just meant that she’s more excited than I am.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty excited,” Ricky said. He made an unpleasant face. “She cooked you some smelly stomach stuff. I think it’s going to be bad. I asked her why she made it, and she said that you had a craving for it.” He turned to Gus. “Oh hi, Gus. Ma says she loves you.”

“She did?”

“Uh-huh. She said she didn’t want Stephanie falling in love with a cop like she did . . . but then she met you.”

Really?
I looked at Gus. I wasn’t sure which of us was going to cry first.

“Give me a hug,” Gus said and threw his arms around Ricky. My brother had yet to master the man hug. For him, it was one size fits all.

“Am I your brother yet?” Ricky asked.

Gus looked at me, and I could see that he was getting choked up. Gus was all man. He was six foot two inches tall and built like a commando. He could throw down with anyone on the street, but at this moment, his emotions were getting the better of him. I saw his eyes glaze over. “You are indeed,” he said.

I put my arms around the two of them. “This feels good,” I said. “This feels really good.”

As
I said, Gus was all man. He polished off two portions of lasagna, a healthy slab of Ma’s roast, cheesecake, and still had enough energy to put the cherry on my sundae . . . or did I put my cherry on his sundae? Either way, it was a complete evening.

Even Gus has his limits. He was sound asleep next to me while I reviewed the case files we had received in Ambler’s office. It was a cop’s worst nightmare. It contained page after page of laboratory analysis. I was just a layperson, and after a while, graphs that compared haplogroups, chromosomal markers, and genealogical DNA gave me a headache. There was no real evidence to sink my teeth into, no crime scene, no witnesses, no nothing. The concrete tablet in the FBI’s possession had been delivered to FBI headquarters anonymously. An unidentified man wearing a hoodie and dark sunglasses had handed a kid twenty bucks to drop off an envelope at the FBI building.

I looked at the clock. It was only 10:00 p.m. I picked up the phone and dialed Ambler at home. “What’s going on, G-man?”

“Is that you, Chalice?”

“Sure as shooting. Did I disturb you?”

“No. I’m doing some paperwork and watching TV.”

“
Mission Impossible
?”

“Uh no.”

Really? No? Ambler was in all likelihood the world’s greatest fan of the original
Mission Impossible
TV show. I think he slept in Jim Phelps jammies. “I can’t believe it. What are you watching?”

“I’m embarrassed to tell you.”

“Aw, come on.”

“It’s that important for you to know?”

“Pretty please.”

“I’m watching
MANswers
on Spike TV.”

MANswers
is a men’s-interests TV Show. They ask questions like: what is the best day of the year to get lucky, and which women are easier, redheads or blondes? Scantily clad women act out the answers by performing skits—the dramatizations incorporate a lot of giggling. I don’t see the show winning any kind of award, but I understood why it was popular with the gents. Ambler had no reason to be embarrassed, but I wasn’t surprised that he was. He had been like a second father to me. The idea of him watching mindless bimbo TV . . . well, I guess there was this certain level of expectation about how a father figure should behave. It didn’t matter to me because Ambler was a quality guy. We all have needs, right? “That’s okay, I’ve watched
The Green Lantern
at least ten times. I can’t get enough of Ryan Reynolds in that skin-tight plasma suit. Who am I to judge?”

“Where’s Lido?”

“I’m looking at his chiseled body right now. He’s out for the count. Say, does that man show have any ideas about this case because I sure don’t? When will we have forensics back on John Doe?”

“They haven’t been able to start. The crime lab is warming the body slowly so that it doesn’t decompose and become a hundred and fifty pounds of Jell-O. We may get some information back tomorrow.”

“You don’t give a girl much to work with—a chunk of concrete and a stack of DNA studies won’t solve a case like this.”

“I never said it was going to be easy. Like I said, we should know more tomorrow. I got you out of the office, didn’t I?”

“Yes, and I’m eternally grateful. We still have to find out who killed this distant relative of Aaron and Moses, and this morning’s victim. If the perp fashioned these mosaic medallions, he may be an artisan or craftsman of some sort.”

Gus stirred. “Who are you talking to?” he said in an adorable sleepy voice.

“I’m discussing the case with Ambler.”

“Oh. Tell him I said hi.” He began to snore within seconds.

“I’m going back to Kowsky Plaza in the morning. Maybe I’ll get a spark of genius. Call me if the lab finds anything useful.”

“You’ll be the first to know. Goodnight, Stephanie.”

I was about to say goodnight when a meddling idea popped into my head. “Hey, Herb, why don’t you have dinner with Agent Banks?”

“Marjorie? Would you please stop playing matchmaker.”

“I don’t know . . . she’s awfully sweet. I can definitely see her in the role of Mrs. Herbert Ambler. It beats watching
Bimbo Answers
on the Shower Material Network.”

“Shouldn’t you be reading up on the next trimester or something? Same old Stephanie Chalice, you just never quit. How would it look for me to be dating a subordinate? I just got the job.”

I think he likes her.
I didn’t want to push too hard. The relationship was brand new.
Only time will tell.
“Goodnight, old friend. Sweet dreams.”

Anya
Kozakova’s eyes were red while she banged away on the computer keyboard late into the night. Her apartment was swelteringly hot from too much steam heat, and her neighbors were having sex for the third time that evening.

“Animals,”
she screamed in her heavy Russian accent. “Practice some self-control.”