LITMIR.BIZ

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      In the meantime, the case against Samara continued to mount.

      * * *

      On Monday, Nicolo LeGrosso had called to tell Jaywalker that he’d succeeded in interviewing both Barry Tannenbaum’s next-door neighbor and the doorman who’d been on duty the evening of the murder. Both of them reiterated the accounts they’d given the detectives. The neighbor was as certain as she could be that it had been Barry and his wife “Sam” she’d heard arguing, and that after Sam had left there’d been no more voices. And although the doorman no longer had the logbook to show LeGrosso (the NYPD detectives having taken it), he was absolutely positive that Mr. Tannenbaum’s only guest that evening had been his wife.

      Nicky also reported that he’d struck out on trying to identify and interview the cabby who’d driven Samara home from Barry’s the night of the murder. His subpoena to the Taxi and Limousine Commission had come back “no record.” Either Samara had lied about taking a cab directly back to her place, or the cabby had taken her off the meter, pocketing the fare for himself. Other than Samara’s word, there was no way of knowing.

      On Wednesday, Tom Burke had phoned. “You owe me ten bucks,” he announced.

      “What for?” Jaywalker had forgotten what they’d bet on, but he was pretty sure from Burke’s smug tone that it was Samara who was going to turn out to be the big loser.

      “The knife,” said Burke. “The one found behind the toilet tank at her place?”

      “Right.”

      “Preliminary DNA tests show it’s got Barry’s blood on it. Ditto the blouse and the towel.”

      “You got the report already?”

      “Not yet,” said Burke. “They’re way backed up over there. I got a phone call this morning, though, and I thought you’d like to know.”

      “Thanks,” said Jaywalker. “You’ve made my day.”

      “Come on, don’t tell me you’re surprised.”

      “No, I’m not surprised.”

      “And, Jay?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Sorry about the suspension thing.”

      “Thanks, Tom. I’ll be okay.”

      “They going to let you wind down your cases?”

      “Seems like it. Some of them, anyway.”

      “Jay?”

      “Yeah?”

      “Keep this one, if you can. God knows she’s going to need you.”

      Burke had called again the following day. “I still don’t have the DNA report,” he said. “But they phoned to tell me they’ve quantified the odds of its being anyone else’s blood on the stuff besides Barry’s.”

      “I can hardly wait,” said Jaywalker. In the old days, back when all they could do was type blood by group, such as A Positive, AB Negative or O Positive, the best they could typically tell you was that fifty or sixty percent of the population could be excluded as suspects. Then, with the advent of HLA testing, the figure jumped, reaching the nineties. But DNA was a different story altogether. Now the numbers suddenly lifted off and soared into the stratosphere. And it was those numbers, typically described as “astronomical,” that had completely revolutionized the science of identification.

      “You ready?” asked Burke.

      “Sure. Lay it on me.”

      “The odds that it’s not Barry’s blood are precisely one in twelve billion, six hundred and fifty-two million, one hundred and eighty-nine thousand, four hundred and twelve.”

      Although Burke had read off the numbers deliberately enough for Jaywalker to copy them down, he hadn’t bothered. He knew his DNA, and as soon as he’d heard the twelve billion part, it had been enough for him.

      There weren’t that many people on the planet.

      By Friday Jaywalker had been told that he could keep enough cases to know that Samara’s would be among them. He broke the news to her through the wire mesh of the twelfth-floor counsel visit room.

      “That’s terrific,” she said. “Have you come up with a plan to get me out?”

      “Let me ask you a question first.”

      “Okay.”

      “Remember that stuff they say they found behind the toilet tank at your place?” He was careful to include the words “they say.” Omitting them would have told her that he was willing to accept the detectives’ version as true.

      “Yes,” she said. “The knife, the blouse and…”

      “The towel.”

      “Right. What about them?”

      “You told me you didn’t know anything about them, right?”

      “Right.”

      “Are you absolutely sure?”

      “Yes,” she said. “Why?”

      “They’ve found Barry’s blood on them.”

      Shrug time.

      “Who could have put them there?” he asked.

      “I don’t know. Whoever killed Barry and wanted to make it look like I did it?”

      “From the time you got home after leaving Barry’s, until the police showed up and arrested you, was there anyone else in your place, besides you? Think carefully.”

      She seemed to do just that for a moment. What Jaywalker had no way of knowing was whether she was genuinely trying to reach back three weeks earlier and remember. Or had it suddenly dawned on her what a terrible trap she’d put herself into? Half of him expected her to break down right then and there and confess. The other half, knowing Samara, knew better.

      Liars tended to stick to their lies, however absurdly. Years ago, after he’d informed a client that a full set of his prints had been found on a demand note left behind at a bank robbery, the man had looked Jaywalker squarely in the eye and said, “Hey, what can I tell you? Somebody must be using my fingerprints.”

      “No,” said Samara. “No one else was there.”

      “So how could those things have gotten there?”

      “I have no idea,” said Samara, this time without hesitation. “I guess the cops must’ve put them there.”

      Somebody must be using my fingerprints.

      “So, have you come up with a plan?” she pressed.

      “Sort of,” said Jaywalker, amazed that she could recover quickly enough to change the subject without missing a beat.

      She leaned forward.

      “Not now,” he said, looking around. “Not here.” Although his words and glances were meant to convey that there were too many eyes and ears nearby, the truth was that Jaywalker’s sort of plan suddenly seemed foolish and unworkable. On top of that, Samara’s cavalier attitude, in the face of a truly damning piece of evidence, upset him more than he was willing to admit. If she wasn’t willing to level with him and trust him with the truth, how could he possibly become a co-conspirator in a scheme to get her bailed out on false pretenses?

      “When?” she asked him.

      “Monday,” he said. “We’re due in court for your arraignment. We’ll talk then.”

      She sat back in her chair, crossed her arms in front of her breasts and pouted, but it was only a little pout. Monday was only three

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