Flesh and Blood Read Online Free PDF Page B

cloud of smoke. “What are you giving this to me for?”
    “Either take care of it or it ends up at the FBI labs in Quantico.” Benton hands him the Baggie and a Sharpie. “Which wouldn’t make any sense. No pun intended. I’ve emailed the photographs to you.”
    “What? You auditioning to be a crime scene tech? Reading your crystal ball’s not enough anymore? Well I can check. But I’m pretty sure Cambridge isn’t hiring.”
    “They’re not fake and they definitely were polished,” Benton says to me. “If you look at them under a lens, each has the same very subtle pitting. It may be that a tumbler was used. Gun enthusiasts who hand-load their own ammo often use tumblers to polish cartridge cases. The pennies need to go to the labs now.”
    Marino holds up the Baggie. “I don’t get it.”
    “They were left on top of our wall,” I explain. “It could have waited until we were sure nobody is around,” I say to Benton.
    “Nobody is. That’s not how an offender like this works.”
    “An offender like
what
?” Marino asks. “I feel like I missed the first half of the movie.”
    “I’ve got to go.” Benton holds my gaze. He looks around and back at me before returning to the house where I have no doubt he’s been making plans he’s not sharing.
    Marino initials the Baggie, scribbles the time and date, screwing shut one eye behind his Ray-Bans as smoke drifts into his face. Another drag on the cigarette and he bends down to wipe it against a brick, scraping it out, and he tucks the butt in a pocket. It’s an old habit that comes from working crime scenes where it’s poor form to add detritus that could be confused with evidence. I know the drill. I used to do it too. It was never pretty when I’d forget to empty my pockets before my pants or jacket ended up in the washing machine.
    Marino climbs into the SUV and impatiently shoves the Baggie into the glove box.
    “The pennies go to fingerprints first, then DNA and trace,” I tell him as we shut our doors. “Be gentle with them. I don’t want any additional artifact introduced such as scratches to the metal from you banging them around.”
    “So I’m taking them seriously, really treating them like evidence? In what crime? You mind explaining what the hell’s going on?”
    I tell him what I remember about the anonymous email I received last month.
    “Did Lucy figure out who it is?”
    “No.”
    “You’re kidding me, right?”
    “It wasn’t possible.”
    “She couldn’t hack her way into figuring it out?” Marino backs out of the driveway. “Lucy must be slipping.”
    “It appears the person was clever enough to use a publicly accessed computer in a hotel business center,” I explain. “She can tell you which one. I recall she said it was in Morristown.”
    “Morristown,” he repeats. “Holy shit. The same area where the two Jersey victims were shot.”
    We back out onto the street and I’m struck by how peaceful it is, almost mid-June, close to noon, the sort of day when it’s difficult to imagine someone plotting evil. Most undergraduate students are gone for the summer, many people are at work and others are home tending to projects they put off during the regular academic year.
    The economics professor across from our house is mowing his grass. He looks up at us and waves as if all is fine in the world. The wife of a banker two doors down is pruning a hedge, and one yard over from her a landscaping truck is parked on the side of the street, SONNY’S LAWN CARE . Not far from it is a skinny young man wearing dark glasses, oversized jeans, a sweatshirt and a baseball cap. He’s loud with a gas engine leaf blower, clearing the sidewalk, and he doesn’t look at us or do the polite thing and pause his work as we drive past. Grass clippings and grit blast the SUV in a swarm of sharp clicks.
    “Asshole!” Marino flashes his emergency lights and yelps his siren.
    The young man pays no attention. He doesn’t even seem to