Or maybe not. Through everything, this much of the old alliance remained: the shared, animal instinct to keep its dying private. In some ways this is the most heartbreaking thing of all: always, always, right up until the end, the old connection was there when it was needed. We could spend excruciating hours not saying a word to each other unless it was unavoidable, and then in toneless voices, with averted eyes; but the instant O'Kelly threatened to take Sweeney and O'Gorman away we snapped to life, me methodically going through a long list of reasons why we still needed floaters, while Cassie assured me that the superintendent knew what he was doing and shrugged her shoulders and hoped the media wouldn't find out. It took all the energy I had. As the door closed and we were left alone again (or alone with Sam, who didn't count) the practiced sparkle would evaporate and I would turn expressionlessly away from her white, uncomprehending face, giving her my shoulder with the priggish aloofness of an offended cat.
I genuinely felt, you see, although I'm unclear on the process by which my mind arrived at this conclusion, that I had been wronged in some subtle but unpardonable way. If she had hurt me, I could have forgiven her without even having to think about it; but I couldn't forgive her for being hurt.
The blood results from the stains on my shoes and the drop on the altar stone were due back any day. Through the submarine haze in which I was navigating, this was one of the few things that remained clear in my mind. Just about every other lead had crashed and burned; this was all I had left, and I held on to it with grim desperation. I was sure, with a certainty far beyond logic, that all we needed was a DNA match; that if we got it everything else would fall into place with the soft precision of snowflakes, the case-both cases-spreading out before me, perfect and dazzling.
I was aware, vaguely, that if this happened we would need Adam Ryan's DNA for comparison, and that Detective Rob would very probably vanish forever in a puff of scandal-flavored smoke. At the time, though, this didn't always seem like such a bad idea. On the contrary: there were moments when I looked forward to it with a kind of dull relief. It seemed-since I knew I had neither the guts nor the energy to extricate myself from this hideous mess-my only, or at least my simplest, way out.
Sophie, who believes in multitasking, phoned me from her car. "The DNA guys called," she said. "Bad news."
"Hey," I said, shooting upright and swiveling my chair around so that my back was to the others. "What's up?" I tried to keep my voice casual, but O'Gorman stopped whistling and I heard the rustle of Cassie putting down a page.
"Those blood samples are useless-both of them, the shoes and the one Helen found." She smacked her horn. "Jesus Christ, idiot, pick a lane, any lane!…The lab tried everything, but they're way too degraded for DNA. Sorry about that, but I did warn you."
"Yeah," I said, after a moment. "It's been that kind of case. Thanks, Sophie."
I hung up and stared at the phone. Cassie, across the table, asked tentatively, "What did she say?" but I didn't answer.
That evening, on my walk home from the DART, I rang Rosalind. It went against all my loudest instincts to do this to her-I had wanted, very badly, to leave her alone until she was ready to talk, let her choose her own time for this rather than forcing her back against the wall; but she was all I had left.
She came in on the Thursday morning, and I went down to meet her in Reception, just as I had that first time, all those weeks ago. A part of me had been afraid she would change her mind at the last minute and not show up, and my heart lifted when I saw her, sitting in a big chair with her cheek leaning pensively on her hand and a rose-colored scarf trailing. It was good to see someone young and pretty; I hadn't realized, until that moment, how exhausted and gray and jaded we were all starting to look. That scarf seemed like the first note of color I had seen in days.
"Rosalind," I said, and saw her face light up.
"Detective Ryan!"
"It's just occurred to me," I said. "Shouldn't you be in school?"
She gave me a conspiratorial sideways look. "My teacher likes me. I won't get in trouble." I knew I ought to lecture her about the evils of truancy, or something, but I couldn't help it: I laughed.
The door opened and Cassie came in from outside, tucking her cigarettes into her jeans pocket. She met my eyes for a second, glanced at Rosalind; then she brushed past us, up the stairs.
Rosalind bit her lip and looked up at me, her face troubled. "Your partner's annoyed that I'm here, isn't she?"
"Well, that's not really her problem," I said. "Sorry about that."
"Oh, it's all right." Rosalind managed a small smile. "She's never liked me very much, has she?"
"Detective Maddox doesn't dislike you."
