SATURDAY

1

Jack stood behind Gia in the first-floor study and stared over her shoulder at the computer screen.

He'd tried every search engine he knew but hadn't come up with a single hit for "oDNA." They'd all produced hits for "odna" but none of those had anything to do with genetics. No problem finding rDNA and mDNA, but that wasn't what he was looking for. So he'd asked Gia to try. She hadn't fared any better, but he'd been buoyed by the way her fingers flew across the keys. Those physical therapy sessions seemed to be paying off.

He noticed specks of dark pigment on her fingers. He touched one.

"You've been painting?"

She shrugged. "If you can call it that."

"That's great. Can I see?"

She shook her head. "These aren't for showing."

"Not a show—just me."

"I'd rather not."

"Why not?"

"Because… because they're not mine."

"I don't get it."

"Neither do I. They're too… off if that makes any sense. Not ending up the way I'd intended when I started them."

"But at least you're painting."

She sighed. "If you can call it that." She nodded toward the screen. "I'm not having any better luck than you did."

"I thought it was just me."

"No, there's no oDNA on the Internet, which means it's probably safe to assume that it doesn't exist."

"I disagree. Just beeause it's not on the Internet doesn't mean there's no such thing."

She swiveled in her chair to face him. "The net is chock full of fantasies, delusions, wishful thinking, and outright lies—all sorts of things that don't exist. Doesn't it follow that there'd be at least one mention if something did exist?"

He looked at the crumpled sheet from Gerhard's pad: oDNA? What did the question mark indicate? That Gerhard hadn't been sure about it either?

But Levy's reaction was a clear indicator that he was on to something. So why didn't it show up? And why didn't Levy want to admit that it existed?

Jack had a feeling that oDNA held the key to Jeremy Bolton's value to the Creighton Institute and whoever was funding them. Might even be the key to getting him off the street and out of Dawn Pickering's life—without screwing up Jack's.

But who else besides Levy and others at Creighton would know anything about it?

He'd have to keep hammering Levy.

"What if some super agency cleaned up all mention of it?"

Gia shook her head. "I don't see how that's possible."

Neither did Jack. Unless…

"What if they started early—at the first mention of it?"

She looked up at him. "You really think there's some secret government agency doing that?"

Levy had mentioned one, and he believed him. But Jack had given Gia only the sketchiest outline of what he'd uncovered.

She reached out and squeezed his hand.

"Are you sure you want to be involved in this? It started off as helping this woman find her private detective, then it moved into helping her get her daughter out of the clutches of an older man, and now… what's it now? This seems to be escalating every day."

No argument there. He hadn't told her about Gerhard's murder or the abduction—she'd only worry.

"I said I'd help her and I can't very well back out now. Her daughter's involved with a bad apple"—though maybe not so bad if the therapy was working—"and I wouldn't feel right leaving her in the lurch. Don't worry, I'm being careful."

All that was certainly true.

"But government agencies and some sort of DNA… what's that got to do with her daughter?"

"Not so much the daughter as the guy she's seeing. This oDNA could be something the mother can use to split them up."

She squeezed harder.

"Be careful, Jack."

"You know me." He offered his most reassuring smile. "Careful is my middle name."

Gia rolled her eyes. "If it were, you wouldn't do what you do."

"But I do take every possible precaution."

"And things still go wrong, don't they."

No argument there, either.

The risks involved in this fix-it had quickly escalated. And he was about to take them to a higher level.

But first he had to have a sit-down with another writer. Abe had left a message that he'd made contact with Winslow directly via e-mail through his Web site, pfrankwinslow.com. Winslow had e-mailed him back with a phone number, saying he lived on the Lower East Side and to call anytime.

Sounded like a man looking for all the publicity he could get.

2

"Any relation to Don?" Jack said with a smile as they seated themselves on opposite sides of a window table at Moishe's on Second Avenue.

Winslow gave him a blank, hazel stare. "Don?" He shook his head. "No Don in my family."

He was skinny and looked about thirty. He had wavy blond hair, a thin face, and what might politely be called a generous nose. Physically unimposing—a far, far cry from the brawny ex—Navy SEAL he wrote about.

"You're sure? Lieutenant Commander Don Winslow—he was a Navy hero during World War Two."

Another shake of his head. "Nope. Nobody ever in the Navy as far as I know."

How soon we forget, Jack thought.

He'd called the writer from Gia's this morning, saying he needed to do the interview ASAP if it was going to make the Trenton Times Sunday edition. Winslow said they could meet at a little restaurant near his apartment—that was, if Jack didn't mind coming to the Lower East Side.

Jack didn't mind at all. They had to meet someplace, and it couldn't be Julio's. Winslow's turf was fine. The writer had suggested this kosher deli/coffee shop.

"What'll it be, gents?" said a cracked voice.

An ancient waitress had appeared tableside with two porcelain cups and a pot of coffee. She had bright orange hair, thick blue eye shadow, and a sharp dowager's hump. Her name tag read SALLY.

Winslow ordered eggs over easy with corned beef hash; Jack ordered a bagel and lox, extra capers.

The menu reminded him of the Kosher Nosh, Gia's favorite eatery during her pregnancy. But with the baby gone, she'd lost her cravings. They hadn't been back since. Too painful.

He shook off the melancholy and pulled out his recorder.

"You're amazingly accessible," Jack said. "I interviewed Hank Thompson yesterday and had to go through his publicist and meet him at his publisher's office." He gestured around. "This is much more relaxed."

"Well, as far as being accessible goes, I don't have much choice: I'm available to the press any time, any day."

"That's refreshing."

"No, that's survival. This is off the record, okay?"

Jack had been about to turn on the recorder but stopped.

"I guess so. Sure."

Jack wanted to get to his questions but felt he had to play along.

"I just want you to know my situation. My publisher doesn't do diddly-squat for paperback originals. Like straight-to-video movies. I have to go out on my own and scrabble for every bit of PR I can get. That's the paperback life. As soon as my latest is shipped, my editor and publisher forget I exist."

"Paperback, ay? I'd have thought for sure it would make a.million for you overnight."

Jack waited for a rueful smile or some sign of a flash of recognition. Nothing came.

Ah, fame. Fickle be thy name.

"I wish! If I made a million, believe me, I wouldn't be living in a one-bedroom walk-up in Alphabet City."

"Okay. Duly noted." Jack pushed the recorder's ON button. "Now let's go back on the record: Where do—?"

"Right. Okay. And since I know you're going to ask me, I remember the exact moment I knew I had to be a writer."

Jack hadn't intended to ask and didn't give much of a damn, but he couldn't very well tell Winslow that. Probably wouldn't shut him up even if he did.