“Swabs are first tested for semen, to see if we have something for DNA testing,” Napoleon mused. “Now, spermatozoa only tests positive for seventy-two hours, so if someone had gotten a Como ‘sample,' so to speak, it would have to be fresh. Otherwise the spermatozoa would be dead, the swabs would test negative for semen and nothing else would be done.”

“The man's been behind bars,” Fitz growled. “How do you get a fresh sample from a man in prison?”

Griffin just looked at him.

“Hey,” Fitz said. “I know there's more sex in prison than in most bordellos, gimme a break. But we're not talking about someone smuggling out a stained sheet and dropping it at the scene. The match was seven out of seven sample sites, meaning they found matching DNA on the sheets, the nightgown, vaginal swabs, etc., etc. You wanna explain that scenario to me?”

“That makes it trickier,” Griffin confessed. “Eddie could've preserved a sample somehow. I don't know, jacked off in a Dixie cup and sent it out?”

It was Fitz's turn to stare at him. “Now why the hell would he do that? This is a guy who's been swearing to anyone with a microphone that he's innocent. Wouldn't he kind of wonder about a request for, gee, seminal fluid?”

“Conjugal visits?” Napoleon tried.

“Not at Intake,” Griffin said.

“This is crazy,” Fitz muttered.

“This is nuts,” Griffin agreed. “Okay, what if we're going about this backward? What if the swap wasn't made at the scene? What if the swap was made with Eddie Como's sample?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the samples from the crime scenes are showing a match with another sample labeled Eddie Como. But what if that is where we have the mistake?”

“No way,” Fitz said immediately.

“Couldn't happen,” Napoleon seconded. “Standard operating procedure for executing a search warrant for DNA samples: Detective Fitzpatrick and Detective McCarthy picked up Eddie Como and brought him to the Reagan Building, where two clinicians and I were waiting. The clinicians drew two vials of blood, plucked several strands of hair from Como's head, then took additional combings from his pubic region. I personally packaged each sample and labeled it as evidence to preserve chain of custody. So that's what, five people who can vouch that Eddie Como was in the room-”

“I'm not saying you guys had the wrong man,” Griffin interrupted.

“And four samples,” the BCI sergeant continued relentlessly, “all properly sealed and labeled that you would have to swap. What are the chances of that?”

“It would be difficult,” Griffin said grudgingly.

“Try impossible,” Fitz countered hotly. “Try fucking impossible. We know how to do our goddamn jobs!”

“Then how did we get this match?” Griffin's voice was rising.

“I don't know! Maybe it was Eddie Como. We haven't seen his body.”

“Eddie Como is dead! The ME already confirmed his fingerprints. The guy is dead, deader and deadest. So once again, how the hell did his DNA wind up at another rape-murder scene?”

“I don't know!”

“Someone is fucking with us,” Griffin said. “Someone is playing a game.” And then, on the heels of that thought. “Shit!”

“What?” Fitz asked wildly.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! I gotta make a phone call.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, now. Where's a landline? How the hell do I dial out?”

“Who are you calling?”

“The Easter Bunny, who do you think?” Griffin impatiently punched in the number. “Detective Waters,” Mike said thirty seconds later.

“Mike, Griffin. You talk to ACI? What did he say?”

“Price said… Price said, he told you so, and he's still waiting for your visit.”

He told you so… Who murdered Sylvia Blaire, David? Eddie Como.

Ah shit. Griffin hung his head. The room simultaneously closed in on him and fell away. Eighteen months later. Eighteen painful, careful, deliberate months later, here he was again. Knee-deep in some strange, twisted David Price game. Griffin took a deep breath, struggled to pull it together. A dead man couldn't have killed Sylvia Blaire. Something else had to have happened. Something else that put Como's DNA at the scene.

And then he was thinking back to Monday afternoon and his conversation with Fitz: “So why did Eddie, who left behind no hair, no fiber, and no fingerprints, leave behind ten latex strips? Why did he on the one hand, learn how to cover his tracks, and then on the other hand, leave you a virtual calling card?”

Fitz had angrily declared that the Providence police had not framed Eddie Como. Now, Griffin finally, horribly, had an idea who had.

Games. Games didn't sound like Eddie's style. But Griffin knew another man, a young man with an even younger face, who loved to play games. Who also sent notes and made phone calls, except they never declared his innocence. A man who had spent two days now claiming insider knowledge and had even graciously sent Griffin a note welcoming him to the case.

And then Griffin was back to thinking about that stupid DNA, the only evidence that had pointed at Eddie Como. DNA that was supposed to have been washed away by Berkely and Johnson's Disposable Douche with Country Flowers… Except… What's the worst thing a detective could do? Make an assumption. And what was the major assumption they had all made? That the douche had been used in an attempt to remove DNA from the scene. Son of a bitch.

The final pieces started clicking into place and for a moment… For a moment, Griffin was so mad, he couldn't speak.

“What's going on?” Waters was asking on the other end of the phone.

“Who? Who?” Fitz was saying beside him.

“What day was the first reported rape?” Griffin asked harshly. “When was Meg Pesaturo attacked?”

“Eleven April, last year,” Fitz replied. “Why? What do you know?”

April eleventh. Five months after David Price's November arrest. Five months after Griffin's little meltdown. It seemed impossible. And yet…

“He's playing us.”

“What do you want to do?” Mike asked on the other end of the line.

“Who? What?” Fitz was still parroting wildly.

“The guy who saw this coming.” Griffin closed his eyes. “The guy who somehow knows more about this case than we do.”

“Who saw this coming?” Fitz pleaded.

“David,” Griffin said quietly. “My good old sexual-sadist neighbor, David Price.”

Chapter 31

GRIFFIN WAS DIALING HIS CELL PHONE, NAVIGATING HIS way furiously through tiny Providence streets to the I-95 on-ramp while Fitz clutched the dashboard and continued cursing colorfully under his breath. Jillian answered the phone, and Griffin immediately started talking.

“Jillian, I need you to tell me something and I need you to be honest.”

“Griffin? Good morning to you, too-”

“I know you're angry with the police,” he interrupted steadily. “I know you think we failed your sister and I know you haven't had a lot of incentive to cooperate with us. But I need your help now. I need you to tell me if you ever met a man named David Price. And don't lie, Jillian. This is deadly serious.”

Silence. He gripped the wheel tighter, wondering what that silence meant, and wishing that his stomach wasn't beginning to turn queasily while the ringing picked up in his ears. Breathe deep, release. Eighteen months of hard work. Don't lose sight of the ball now.

“The name sounds familiar,” Jillian said finally. “Wait a minute. Wasn't he your neighbor? Griffin, what is this about?”

“Did your sister ever mention his name?”

“No, not at all.”

“Ever get any correspondence? Maybe something in the mail?”

“No. Wait a minute.” There was a muffled clunk as she moved the receiver from her ear. Then he heard her voice shout out, “Toppi. Have you ever received anything from someone named David Price? Check with Mom.” Another muffled thunk, then Jillian was back on the line. “They both say no. Griffin, you arrested him, right? You sent him to jail… a long time ago. Why are you asking about him now?”