folders with a thump. “As you know, I was skeptical of your research.”
“You sound like my editors.”
“The DNA test, however, convinced me.”
“DNA?” Rominy asked.
“Yes, Miss, it’s been so long since Mr. Hood’s death and his family history is so truncated—goodness, such tragedy—that a mere genealogical table wasn’t going to convince me an heir still existed. That’s when Mr. Barrow suggested the use of DNA evidence, which is surprisingly quick and affordable. We had a rather gruesome relic . . .” He paused, looking at Barrow.
“A finger.” The reporter shrugged. “It must have meant something, because Hood kept it in his safety deposit box after he lost it from his hand.”
“He was attached to it,” Dunnigan said, smiling. Apparently, bankers in Concrete possessed quite the wit.
“Wait a minute,” Rominy said. “You matched my DNA to his?”
“Yes, dear. An impossibility for earlier generations, but science marches on.”
“But how did you get my DNA?”
Dunnigan looked surprised at the question and turned to Jake. He in turn looked uncomfortable.
“How did you get my DNA, Barrow?” Rominy asked again.
He cleared his throat. “Saliva.”
“Saliva? When? ”
“I got it off a Starbucks cup. I fished it out after you left a store.”
“Are you joking? When was this?”
“A week ago.”
“You’ve been following me to get my saliva?”
“To let you inherit, Rominy,” he said patiently, as if she was a little dense.
“That’s illegal . Isn’t it? ”
“My bank cannot condone anything improper,” Dunnigan added.
“Of course it’s legal,” Barrow said blandly. He turned to the banker. “My newspaper’s lawyers checked this out. As long as you’re not taking samples from a person’s body without permission—like clipping their hair—it passes the test. We’ve done this before. It’s fine, so long as it’s from discarded organic material.”
Dunnigan frowned, then shrugged.
“Discarded like a Starbucks cup,” Rominy said.
“Yes.”
“That’s sick.”
“Do you think you would have let me run a swab inside your mouth?”
“Maybe, if you’d ever explained yourself in a normal way.”
“I had to be sure or you would have run like a rabbit. ‘Hi there, you might be due a missing inheritance so do you mind if a run a Q-tip?’ It sounds like molestation. You would have dumped espresso down my pants and been furious if it wasn’t a match. So I did something that didn’t disturb you one iota, and we compared Hood’s finger to the saliva you left on the cup.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Maybe so, but because of it you’re sitting in a bank about to get a look into Benjamin Hood’s safety deposit box. How many times do I have to tell you I’m trying to help you?”
“You’re trying to help yourself.” She closed her eyes, momentarily wishing she could will this day away. But when she opened them they were both still looking at her with troubled and not unkind expressions. There was sympathy there. And Jake did have that compelling little scar. She sighed. “The DNA shows this Hood character and I are related?”
“Yes,” Dunnigan said, visibly relieved she wasn’t going to throw a fit.
“What happened to all the other descendants? After three generations, there should be a zillion of them by now.”
“Only children after mysterious accidents to their mothers,” Jake said. “A drowning, a car crash. Nobody ever put it all together because of the changes of names and growing fear of even discussing the Hood relationship, I’m guessing. Nobody put it together until I did. And I realized there was one final survivor: a survivor because she was left in a campground, adopted by strangers, a girl who knew nothing of her own past.”
Had her real parents been protecting her? Had they known they were about to die? Were they being chased? “And you think this was somehow the work of Nazi fanatics, leftovers from World War
“You sound like my editors.”
“The DNA test, however, convinced me.”
“DNA?” Rominy asked.
“Yes, Miss, it’s been so long since Mr. Hood’s death and his family history is so truncated—goodness, such tragedy—that a mere genealogical table wasn’t going to convince me an heir still existed. That’s when Mr. Barrow suggested the use of DNA evidence, which is surprisingly quick and affordable. We had a rather gruesome relic . . .” He paused, looking at Barrow.
“A finger.” The reporter shrugged. “It must have meant something, because Hood kept it in his safety deposit box after he lost it from his hand.”
“He was attached to it,” Dunnigan said, smiling. Apparently, bankers in Concrete possessed quite the wit.
“Wait a minute,” Rominy said. “You matched my DNA to his?”
“Yes, dear. An impossibility for earlier generations, but science marches on.”
“But how did you get my DNA?”
Dunnigan looked surprised at the question and turned to Jake. He in turn looked uncomfortable.
“How did you get my DNA, Barrow?” Rominy asked again.
He cleared his throat. “Saliva.”
“Saliva? When? ”
“I got it off a Starbucks cup. I fished it out after you left a store.”
“Are you joking? When was this?”
“A week ago.”
“You’ve been following me to get my saliva?”
“To let you inherit, Rominy,” he said patiently, as if she was a little dense.
“That’s illegal . Isn’t it? ”
“My bank cannot condone anything improper,” Dunnigan added.
“Of course it’s legal,” Barrow said blandly. He turned to the banker. “My newspaper’s lawyers checked this out. As long as you’re not taking samples from a person’s body without permission—like clipping their hair—it passes the test. We’ve done this before. It’s fine, so long as it’s from discarded organic material.”
Dunnigan frowned, then shrugged.
“Discarded like a Starbucks cup,” Rominy said.
“Yes.”
“That’s sick.”
“Do you think you would have let me run a swab inside your mouth?”
“Maybe, if you’d ever explained yourself in a normal way.”
“I had to be sure or you would have run like a rabbit. ‘Hi there, you might be due a missing inheritance so do you mind if a run a Q-tip?’ It sounds like molestation. You would have dumped espresso down my pants and been furious if it wasn’t a match. So I did something that didn’t disturb you one iota, and we compared Hood’s finger to the saliva you left on the cup.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“Maybe so, but because of it you’re sitting in a bank about to get a look into Benjamin Hood’s safety deposit box. How many times do I have to tell you I’m trying to help you?”
“You’re trying to help yourself.” She closed her eyes, momentarily wishing she could will this day away. But when she opened them they were both still looking at her with troubled and not unkind expressions. There was sympathy there. And Jake did have that compelling little scar. She sighed. “The DNA shows this Hood character and I are related?”
“Yes,” Dunnigan said, visibly relieved she wasn’t going to throw a fit.
“What happened to all the other descendants? After three generations, there should be a zillion of them by now.”
“Only children after mysterious accidents to their mothers,” Jake said. “A drowning, a car crash. Nobody ever put it all together because of the changes of names and growing fear of even discussing the Hood relationship, I’m guessing. Nobody put it together until I did. And I realized there was one final survivor: a survivor because she was left in a campground, adopted by strangers, a girl who knew nothing of her own past.”
Had her real parents been protecting her? Had they known they were about to die? Were they being chased? “And you think this was somehow the work of Nazi fanatics, leftovers from World War
Similar Books
