‘Two sets of prints. They belong either to the victim or to the altar boy. Nothing from an unidentified source.’

‘How about the chalice?’ Garcia asked. ‘Didn’t the killer allegedly drink the priest’s blood from the chalice?’

‘Yes.’

‘So we can get the killer’s DNA,’ Garcia said with excitement.

‘No, we can’t.’ Hunter rubbed his tired eyes.

‘Why not? Can’t DNA be extracted from saliva?’ Garcia faced Doctor Winston.

‘Yes, it can.’

‘But the blood inside the chalice belonged to Father Fabian, right?’ Hunter asked.

Doctor Winston nodded.

‘That means that our killer’s DNA, taken from the saliva, would’ve mixed with the priest’s DNA in the blood. Once DNA gets mixed together . . .’ Hunter shook his head. ‘It can’t be split apart anymore.’

Garcia looked at Doctor Winston for confirmation.

‘Robert’s right.’ He nodded. ‘The lab will be able to tell you that there’re two different sources of DNA. But they won’t be able to split them.’

‘Fantastic.’ Garcia cupped his hand over his nose. The nauseating smell was getting to him. ‘This gets better by the second. Do we have anything conclusive?’

Doctor Winston took a deep breath. ‘The blood the killer used to draw the number three on the priest’s chest. It’s human, and it’s not Father Fabian’s.’

Hunter raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

‘It belongs to a woman.’

‘A woman?’ Garcia looked baffled. ‘I didn’t know you could tell gender from a simple blood test?’

‘You can from DNA tests, or if you specifically test for levels of estrogen.’

Hunter instinctively checked his watch. ‘There’s no way you would’ve gotten DNA results this fast, doc. And you had no reason to test for estrogen levels.’

‘So how do you know the blood came from a woman?’ Garcia pressed.

‘Unless . . .’ Hunter’s questioning eyes moved back to Doctor Winston.

‘Unless what?’ Garcia asked eagerly.

‘Unless she was pregnant.’

Doctor Winston closed his eyes and nodded slowly.

Twenty-Three

Amanda Reilly re-entered the numbers into her spreadsheet and pressed the RETURN button.

Nothing changed.

The final calculation was still way short of what was needed to cover her estate agency’s bills for the month. She placed her reading glasses on the desk in front of her and pinched the bridge of her nose. This was the fourth consecutive month she’d have to default on several payments. The week was drawing to a close, and the two viewings they’d had this week hadn’t produced an offer. According to her calculations, if she didn’t get a sale soon she’d only be able to afford to keep the agency open for a few more weeks – maybe a month.

Amanda had dropped out of high school at the age of seventeen after flunking tenth grade for the second time. She was an intelligent girl, but when it came to exams and answering questions her heart would take off like a fighter jet, her mind would go blank and she couldn’t get a single answer out.

Amanda knew she was very good with people. And she had charisma – bundles of it. Her first job was as a trainee broker in a small real estate agency in central LA. It didn’t take her long to get the gist of things, and within a year her sales figures were topping everyone else’s in the agency.

She didn’t stay in central Los Angeles for long, accepting a job with Palm Properties, one of the largest real estate agencies in Palm Springs.

In California, businesses don’t come much more cutthroat than real estate, but Amanda knew how to use her assets to her advantage. Other than being smart, charismatic and charming, she was also very attractive, with shoulder-length blond hair, sky-blue eyes and porcelain-smooth skin. Some would say she slept her way into her partnership just three years after joining Palm Properties.

Amanda stayed with the agency for eleven years before giving up the partnership and opening her own agency – Reilly’s – in West Hollywood. She was a hard-working woman, and during the following ten years three other Reilly’s opened across Los Angeles. But just over a year ago, the booming American property market came crashing to a halt. Repossessions were at an all-time high. Bank loans were nonexistent. No one was buying. Not even the super-rich.

Amanda tried every trick she’d learned over the years to keep her head above the waterline, but nothing seemed to work. She had to close all but her flagship agency in West Hollywood. The past four months had been particularly hard for Amanda and her company. She had to let everyone go except for her best friend and first ever Reilly’s employee, Tania Riggs.

Despite the gloomy week, Amanda was feeling lucky. Late yesterday she’d received a call from a potential buyer who sounded very interested in one of her most expensive properties. A seven-bedroom, nine-bathroom, four-million-dollar mansion on Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. The caller had seen the property advertised on their website and loved the features – the swimming pool, the large eccentric fireplace in the living room, the tennis court, the beautiful grounds – the house was perfect. He had requested a viewing for late this afternoon.

‘Here you go,’ Tania Riggs said, handing Amanda a dark green plastic folder.

Amanda had asked Tania to prepare a ‘killer’ package on the property.

‘I’ve included everything.’ Tania said. ‘Photos, detailed information on the house and grounds – even a list of celebrities who live within two miles of the place. There’s also a CD with that PowerPoint presentation I showed you earlier.’

Amanda smiled. ‘That was a fantastic presentation, Tania, thanks. I have a good feeling about this.’ She wiggled the folder in her hand.

‘Me too. It’s such a beautiful house, and if you have the money . . . a bargain.’

Amanda admired Tania’s optimism. For someone who hadn’t received her wages in five weeks, she sure knew how to stay positive.

The phone rang and Tania ran back to her desk to pick it up.

‘Amanda,’ Tania said, after placing the caller on hold. ‘It’s Mr. Turner for you.’

Amanda nodded and reached for the phone on her desk. The conversation took less than a minute.

‘Please tell me he didn’t cancel,’ Tania said nervously, after Amanda hung up.

‘No, no.’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘But he’ll be about an hour late.’

‘Oh, that’s OK, then.’ Tania smiled. ‘Do you want me to wait with you?’

‘There’s no need. I’m all set here.’ She pointed to the dark green folder Tania had given her. ‘Go home, girl. And try to have a good rest over the weekend.’

‘I sure will. Good luck.’

Tania buttoned up her coat all the way to her neck before closing the door behind her.

Amanda placed her right elbow on her desk, rested her chin on her closed fist and stared at the spreadsheet on her screen once again. Things were about to change, she could feel it.

Twenty-Four

Hunter and Garcia were studying the forensic photographs taken at the church when Captain Blake entered the room without knocking and closed the door behind her. Her eyes rested on the piles of leather-bound notebooks on both detectives’ desks.

‘Are these the priest’s journals?’ she asked, approaching Garcia’s desk, picking a volume up and flipping through the first few pages.

Hunter nodded.

‘Anything interesting?’

‘Depends what you consider interesting.’