I packaged my two samples. Got the Trim-Quick and blade out of Property, too. What memories those brought back.

I arranged the cold things in my cooler for the trip down to Regentech Laboratories in San Diego. I know the director there, Cristin Russim. She testified for the bureau a few times and she’s the best forensic DNA scientist I know. Even better, I knew I could trust her to keep this one quiet. Which was why I paid for the job myself. Didn’t want the Sheriff’s Department involved yet. They’d retest it, anyway, if I found what I thought I’d find. I told Cristin absolutely nothing about the case. Just dropped off the black finger and flesh and used tissues and the disposable razor and asked her to tell me who was who.

Left the rest to her.

KATY AND I stayed the week in San Diego. Did Sea World and the Wild Animal Park and the Embarcadero. Saw a play and went to a concert. Shopped. Wrote postcards to the children and grandchildren. Looked forward to getting back to Newport Beach. We got a cozy little place there ten years ago when the bureau finally sent me back to Orange County. Small and only one place to park but right on the sand at Eighteenth Street.

Cristin called me that Thursday evening. Said the DNA from under the fingernails was the same as in the razor. Same as in the tissues. Same human being. Good markers, easy ID. She’d say so in court if legendary crime fighter Nick Becker asked her to.

“Might take you up on that,” I said jauntily.

I told her I’d be right over to pick up the report and the finger. She said she’d frozen the finger quickly after testing and it was good as new.

“You’re white,” said Katy.

“It was Stoltz.”

“There’s got to be some mistake, honey.”

“There was. I made it.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know.”

38

THE NEXT EVENING I drove up to the Stoltzes’ house in the Tustin hills. Nice place, most of it behind a wall but no gate. You can drive right in.

Tustin’s different now. Orange trees long gone. Even out in Bryan and Myford and Irvine not a grove left. Houses packed in tight. Car dealerships and franchised everything, one big shopping opportunity. Doesn’t have a smell anymore, not like oranges anyway. Used to be a sign on the Fourth Street freeway exit that said “Welcome to Tustin-the Beverly Hills of Orange County.” Not really sure who came up with that one, or when they took it down.

Roger and Marie were in the front yard. Big straw hats and baggy nylon pants. U.S. Representative Roger Stoltz closing in on seventy-seven years, serving out his last term. Marie even older than that. Millionaires fifty times over from Orange Sunshine cleanser but still lived where they’d always lived. Bigger place is all.

They stared at me as I pulled up. Waved when I got out. Marie went into the house and I heard a screen door rattle shut.

“Hello, Nick Becker,” said Roger. “What brings you to these parts?”

I shook his hand. Strong, warm, and dry. “That’s a hard one to answer.”

“Is that a fact?” He looked at my briefcase. Frowned.

“Maybe you and I should talk in private, Roger.”

“Whatever you say. But Marie went to get lemonade for us so don’t hurt her feelings. Here, sit in the shade a minute and be social.”

I set my briefcase down next to a round redwood picnic table under a magnolia. Four little curved benches. Fresh lacquer on the wood and the magnolia heavy with big white flowers.

Stoltz sat and stared toward the wall. Still had the crisp mustache. His black hair had gone white and waxy but it was still there. Sharp eyes, no glasses. Little U.S. flag pin on his shirt pocket. You see those a lot these days. I thought of Terry Neemal’s description of the man he saw that night. Walking up the steps of the SunBlesst packinghouse with something bulky slung over his shoulder. Regular-sized.

We didn’t elicit that testimony because Cory Bonnett was six-four. Abbott Estle found it but the People argued that it was night. Neemal was a hundred and fifty feet away. What’s the difference in inches between six-four and “regular-sized”? Two inches? Four? In the dark with something big over the shoulders?

“Janelle again?” asked Stoltz.

“Yes. Janelle.”

Marie came from the house. A stocky Latino walked behind her with a tray and three tall lemonades. Marie was hunched and very small. Took her forever to get to the little table. The helper set out the drinks and napkins. Glanced at me. Headed back up the walk. Marie took one long look at Roger and a short look at me and said, “I’ll be in the house if you need me.”

“Thanks, darling.” He raised his cheek to her and she kissed it. Barely had to stoop. Labored back up the walkway to the porch.

“So,” said Stoltz. He was still staring at the wall. “I saw Andy and Lynette last week. My party in Georgetown.”

“He told me.”

“He had quite a little talk with Martha,” said Stoltz.

“She told him about writing your telegram.”

Stoltz smiled. His teeth were small and even and surprisingly white. “I remember that. Poor girl so worried about everything. Best staffer I ever had for running an office. And she really understood the Communist threat. Kept her thirty-six years, which tells you something.”

“She told Andy about trying to call you for help with that telegram. The telegram about Janelle.”

He looked at me again. “Yes, I remember that.”

“And Martha mentioned you coming and going three times in three days, couldn’t find you. Andy thought that was odd. Andy talked to the Congressional Travel Office. Checked the House disbursements statements for October sixty-eight and found out you flew back to California about four P.M. the day Janelle was killed.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“I’ve forgotten.”

“Everyone told us you were in D.C. that night, sir.”

“Are you sure about this plane flight?”

“I’m sure.”

Stoltz considered me. Forgot about the wall. Turned to face me squarely. “I’m failing to see the point. This proves nothing, Nick.”

I opened my briefcase, which turns on the tape recorder. Set a small plastic first-aid box on the lacquered redwood tabletop. Popped it open. Inside there were no scissors or tape or disinfectant. Just dry ice and a small plastic bag with something black in it.

I set the bag on the table. Stoltz looked at it, then up at me, then down at the finger again.

“This proves something,” I said. I set one of the Regentech reports on the table. Put the bagged finger on top of it. Black on white. “I had a private lab cook up the DNA from the flesh under Janelle’s fingernail. That finger right there.”

Stoltz stared at me with a cagey glitter in his eyes. “What, some amateurish laboratory in San Diego?”

“One of the best. The flesh is yours.”

Stoltz looked at me like he was intrigued. “Okay. Just say that’s true for the sake of argument. Say that flesh is mine. Even say I killed the girl. What would you do?”

“Get Bonnett out.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes, why? He killed at least two men in Mexico, you know. Beat his parents. Sold God knows how many pounds of dope to this country’s youth. To young people like Janelle. Nick, justice has been done.”

“Not with you sitting in your front yard it hasn’t.”

“Would you ruin your own career over a nothing like Cory Bonnett?”

I shrugged. Pushed the lab report and finger closer to him. Made sure the finger was pointing right at him. Crude, but at the bureau we learned this kind of thing really works. Hit the guy with something physical. I’d wrapped the bloody old Trim-Quick in a clean pillowcase. Took it out of my briefcase and set it beside the report. If the SunBlesst packinghouse were still standing I’d have taken him back there for this conversation.