“Civil War general. Led a volunteer cavalry troop called Hawkins’s Zouaves.”

“Well, he built himself a mausoleum in Providence so he could be surrounded by all his books after he shuffled off his mortal coil,” Bea said. “Elizabeth Rossetti, too.”

“The writer’s wife?” I asked.

“Yup. Dante Gabriel Rossetti placed his unpublished poems in his young bride’s grave at Highgate Cemetery, along with a Bible. The poet had a change of heart a year later and reclaimed his work for publication-somewhat dampened by exposure. The vellum pages are at Harvard now. It’s been done forever.”

“Worth considering,” I said.

“You’re good at exhumations, Coop.”

My only other experience like that had been the sad task of reexamining the body of a teenage girl whose original autopsy had missed the telling signs that motivated her killer.

“How long do you want to keep the staff going at this tonight?” Bea asked.

“I think most of them are about to hit a wall,” I said. “Maybe we should knock off and start them fresh in the morning.”

My cell phone vibrated and I reached for it to see whether it was a call I wanted to take.

“We can secure everything right here,” Mike said. “We’ll have a detail at this very door around the clock.”

Bea grimaced. It was obvious she didn’t like the idea of entrusting all these treasures to outsiders who didn’t respect the integrity of each book, atlas, map, and document the way these curators did.

“I promise you, they’ll be fine,” I said, pressing the talk button as I recognized the number of Howard Browner, one of the senior forensic biologists at the DNA lab. “Howard? It’s Alex.”

“Am I catching you at a bad time?”

“Still working, Howard. You, too?”

“Yeah.”

Browner-whom Mike called the Brainiac-was brilliant and dedicated to his work, one of the first experts in DNA technology who had trained many of us in this evolving science since its introduction in the criminal justice system.

Mike spun his finger in a circle, telling me to hurry the call so we could help Bea close up. I rolled my eyes at him.

“You have something for me?” I asked.

“I’ve been in the lab all day. Got handed this assignment late afternoon. It’s kind of interesting, along the lines of what Mattie’s been working on with you for the Griggs case.”

“Wrap it up, Coop,” Mike said.

“Thanks for thinking of me, Howard. I’m sort of tied up with Mike right now.” Interesting was not what I needed at the moment. “Can it wait till Monday?”

“Sure, Alex. It’s just a bench hunch.”

Browner wasn’t calling about a match in the databank but something his gut instinct was feeding him as he looked at profiles at his bench, as the lab workspaces were called.

“You mean a familial search?” I asked. “Is it Wesley Griggs?

Despite Mike’s prodding, I was anxious for a development that might impact Judge Moffett’s decision.

“No. Nothing new on that front.”

“I’ll call you first thing when I get to the office, Howard. Okay? You know how Mike is. We’re trying to shut down for the night.”

“Understood. Just make a note to tell me if the father of one of your witnesses is still around. I’d like to get a swab from him.”

“A witness in which murder case?” I asked. “Are you talking Griggs?”

Mike stood still and put his hands on his waist, staring at me as I listened to Browner.

“No, no, Alex. They’ve added me to the team on the BarrVastasi homicides. I’m working on a cigarette butt Chapman submitted.”

“That’s got to be the one he picked up from the floor of the squad. The smoker is a woman named Minerva Hunt,” I said. “What’s so interesting about it?”

“I had it right on my bench when the fax came through from London a few hours ago. I’m looking through all the profiles, and I see that the smoker and this guy, the drunk driver from England-well, they’ve got an allele in common at each one of thirteen loci we’ve tested. They match perfectly,” Browner said, his normally flat delivery lifted a decibel with excitement. “I know how you like this forensic stuff, Alex.”

My mind was racing to make the connection between the players. “Tell me what it means, Howard.”

“I can’t be certain till I get a paternal swab, but if I enjoyed betting as much as Mike does, I’d have to say I’m looking at a half brother and sister here. Same father, different mothers. Isn’t that wild?”

Alger Herrick-the infant who’d been abandoned by his teenage mother on the steps of an orphanage in England-was in all likelihood the illegitimate child of Jasper Hunt III, the blood brother of Talbot and Minerva Hunt.

“You think old Jasper ever figured that out?” Mike asked.

We had secured the map room, arranged for rides home for Bea and her colleagues, and were walking from the side door of the library to Mike’s car, shortly after midnight.

“Not back in Minerva’s college days, when he tried to fix her up with Herrick,” I said, recalling his story. “And I’ve got no sense that any of them realize it now.”

“This might be the most unwelcome familial search since Dick Cheney found out he’s related to Barack Obama.”

“The only resemblance I see is greed,” Mercer said.

“The genetic Hunt predisposition you mentioned yesterday,” Mike said. “Meanwhile, they’re ready to rip each other’s throats out over old books and maps. I say Coop charms some drool out of Jasper, we firm this up, and sit them all down for a reality check.”

“Chapman!” a woman’s voice called from half a block away.

We all stopped and turned, and saw Teresa Retlin, a detective from the burglary squad, jogging after us.

“Don’t you answer your phone? Your voice mail box is full,” she said. “I’m too old to be chasing you down in the middle of the night.”

“Didn’t stop you ten years ago, Terry. I think the phone’s out of juice,” Mike said. “And so am I. What’s up?”

He pivoted and moved forward while Retlin tried to keep pace.

“Got a baby snitch for you.”

“For me? What’s he snitching about?”

“Name is Shalik Samson. Says you want what he’s got.”

The three of us stopped short to listen to Terry Retlin.

“That twelve-year-old?”

“Fourteen,” she said. “Just small for his age. Neighbor saw him breaking in to the back window of an apartment an hour ago and called 911. The kid starting throwing your name around before I could cuff him.”

“Where is he now?” Mike asked.

“In my care, Chapman. I have to take him to a juvenile facility till Monday morning,” she said, handing Mike a business card. “Says he found this in the garbage. That you gave your card to a guy named Travis Forbes-the vic in my burglary-and Forbes threw it out.”

Mike laughed and shook his head from side to side. “Piece of work. Where’s your car?”

“My partner’s over there,” she said pointing across Fortieth Street.

Mercer and I followed Mike to the parked RMP. “Shalik, my man,” Mike said, bracing himself against the roof of the car and leaning down to talk to the boy. “What brings you to the library tonight?”

“I got locked up for helping you, Detective. You give me twenty bucks and I’ll tell you.”

“You got that wrong, Shalik. I don’t pay guys to break the law.”

“I got you into that building, didn’t I? You paid me yesterday.”

“Tell it to the judge, Shalik. We’re outta here,” Mike said, tapping the car. “Take him away, Terry.”

“No! Mr. Mike!” Shalik shouted.

“What’s on your mind? It’s getting too late for nonsense.”

“I was going in there tonight for you, Mr. Mike. Tell you what he up to,” Shalik said. “Find out why he all dressed up like a cop.”

“What? Let him out of the car, Terry,” Mike said, as Mercer stepped up to open the door and stand beside the skinny kid to make sure he didn’t try to run. “Tell me about that, Shalik.”