“What lie?” She looked again at the door, as if trying to get the nerve to walk out.

Mike leaned in close to Trish Quillian. “Brendan called you on Tuesday. Brendan phoned you after he shot his way out of the courthouse.”

Her eyes opened wide and she sat upright. She was speechless.

“What did he tell you, Trish? Bet he didn’t mention that there’ll be no one left to take care of your mother if you get yourself wound up in helping Brendan get away. You’ll be an accessory to this murder. Don’t let him drag you into this.”

She was looking straight into the mirror now. “There’s someone on the other side of that glass, isn’t there? Someone watching us and listening.”

“You’re talking to me,” Mike said. “That’s all that matters at this point.”

“You’ve tapped my phone then, have you?”

“No, we haven’t done that. I wouldn’t be needing to ask you what Brendan told you if we had. I wouldn’t be asking you where he is.”

“Well, I’m not interested in helping you, Detective. You didn’t do nothing to help me when I came to you. You haven’t done a single damn thing to find who killed Duke.”

She stood up. “I can go, can’t I? You’re not holding me?”

“Yeah, you can go,” he said, giving her a card with his cell phone number on it as he got to his feet, too. “But you call me if you get smart about Brendan. And there’s one more thing I’d like to ask you for, Trish.”

“What’s that?”

Mike took a small manila envelope from the pocket of his blazer and removed a Q-tip from it. “Could you just put this inside your cheek for me, dab it around to get some saliva on it?”

The woman appeared to be as taken aback as I was. She shoved Mike’s arm away. “What are you looking for now?” she asked, raising her voice. “You making me some kind of guinea pig, are you? Is this that DNA stuff you’re trying to get from me, using me against my own brother? Is that what you’re up to?”

Mike was thinking of the speck of blood-with the genetic markers of a woman-that was on the zipper of Rebecca Hassett’s sweater.

The Q-tip had dropped to the floor and Trish Quillian had her hand on the doorknob. “You want my saliva, Detective? You and your high-handed girlfriend from the District Attorney’s Office, that’s what you’re after? Like I’m a killer or a criminal?”

She sucked in her hollow cheeks and wet her lips. Then she opened her mouth ever so slightly and spit at Mike, missing the sleeve of his jacket by only inches.

“There’s your sample, Detective. Catch me if you can.”

Mike was on his knees, using a second Q-tip to swab the saliva that Trish Quillian had deposited on the floor of the small room.

“That’s quite a smooth interview technique you’ve developed, Mr. Chapman. Every day I’m on the job with you is a learning experience.”

“I’ve picked up samples from worse places than this, Coop. Where’s Mercer?”

“On the phone. He’ll be right over.”

“I’m whipped. Going home to get some sleep. I’m supposed to start again at midnight. Teddy O’Malley’s got a whole underground route mapped out again.”

“If your ankle is still bothering you so much, why don’t you get it checked out?”

“I’ll put it up when I get home. I’m too tired to wait in an ER just to find out that all I need is the Ace bandage and Tylenol I’ve got in the medicine cabinet.”

Mike wasn’t the type to complain about minor physical pain. “Maybe it’s worse than you think. I’ll go with you.”

“Another time.” I followed Mike as he limped to the lieutenant’s office, where Mercer met us. Mike held out the envelope. “Mind taking this to forensic biology? Have them work it up? Coop’ll explain.”

“No problem. Just made one more check on Duke Quillian. Asked Sloan-Kettering to pull the records on him to get confirmation about what Trish originally told you,” Mercer said, dropping his pad on the desk. “Duke was out of play, too. He was a patient there for close to two months-still in the hospital for more than a week after Bex was killed.”

“Sounds bad. What kind of cancer?” I asked.

“Acute leukemia.”

“Thanks for making the call,” Mike said. “I’ve been up and down on these Quillian brothers like a yo-yo. I’m ready for some sleep.”

“I think I’ll take the rest of the afternoon off,” I said.

“C’mon. Let me drop you at the apartment and get this down to the lab,” Mercer said.

It was three o’clock by the time I reached home, greeted the cops who were sitting in the lobby for the afternoon shift, and went upstairs. I was looking forward to being alone for several hours-for the first time in days-until Ignacia arrived for the overnight detail.

I put on some soft music, called a few close friends-and my mother-to reassure them that I was okay, and left a message for Luc on his voice mail. It was unlikely that I could keep our Saturday-night dinner date with Brendan Quillian still on the loose.

I spread out on the floor of the den with every map and guide to the city of New York that I could find on my bookshelves, trying to figure out if any place connected to Brendan’s sandhog heritage might be a safe haven for my fugitive.

Ignacia arrived with soup and salad, and we had a quiet dinner together in front of the television. Fatigue and anxiety from the week’s events had overtaken me, and I excused myself to go to my bedroom and read a few magazine articles.

I couldn’t even concentrate on those, so I closed my eyes. I thought of Luc again-the chiseled features, the sexy accent, the kisses that had aroused me as we walked along the cove a short week ago. I wondered if I would ever have the chance to re-create the electricity of those first hours. And I wondered what it would be like if he were beside me now.

I slept late, and after Ignacia left at 8 a.m., soaked in my bathtub and dressed casually in jeans and a sweater. I wasn’t going to court or meeting with any witnesses today, and I didn’t expect to be in the office for long. I carried a small bag with my ballet shoes and clothes in it, optimistic that I could sneak away early for a few hours of exercise at the barre.

The patrol car was waiting for me in the driveway when I got downstairs at nine thirty on a cool June morning. I was grateful for the week’s end after days scarred by such tragic events.

My cell phone rang just as we pulled onto the southbound FDR Drive at Seventy-third Street.

“Where are you?” Mike asked.

“On my way to the office. And you?”

“Spent half the night again in a warren of subway tunnels filled with homeless men and the other half in something that vaguely resembles a sewer. What does Mattie Prinzer drink?”

“Scotch,” I said. “Some kind of fancy single malt. One of those two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle jobs, if I remember correctly. Why?”

“Well, buy her a six-pack of ’em. She stayed up till dawn with my Q-tip.”

“And the good news is?”

“She’s matched the saliva on the cotton to the blood on Bex Hassett’s zipper.”

I sat bolt upright. “The same DNA? Trish Quillian’s blood is on the sweater her best friend was wearing the night she was killed?”

“Don’t get too excited, Coop. It may not be what you think.”

I was usually the one curbing Mike’s enthusiasm. I’d urge him not to jump the gun, so I thought immediately of the contrary arguments that had to be considered. “I know, I know. The girls were best friends. Trish’s blood could have been left on that sweater some other day or time.”

“It’s not just that-”

“But after more than a decade?” I said. “Don’t you think it’s fantastic just to get the match? Whatever the issue is about when and how the blood got there, the fact is that Trish Quillian is the only person in the universe with that genetic profile.”

“Tell the boys in blue to get you over here to Mattie’s office as soon as possible. There were actually two people in the universe with Trish Quillian’s DNA. That’s the first problem we’ve got to deal with. I’ll tell you the other one when you get here.”