“Jesus, how did that happen? She’s a nun for Christ’s sake.” His chuckle was a rasp that ended in a coughing fit. “A little nookie in the confessional? Ya think?” He took a swallow from his cup. “What’s with you guys, eh? Always with the nuns or priests.”

“Father John was not a priest,” Montoya said, referring to an earlier case where a serial killer dressed in priest’s vestments had terrorized New Orleans.

Brinkman’s leering grin showed he didn’t acknowledge that fact, but then Brinkman never agreed with anyone. Basically, he was a prick.

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Bentz said, not amused or sidetracked.

“How about blood type of the fetus?”

Brinkman had their attention now.

He clarified, “B neg.”

“Meaning?” Montoya asked.

“A lot.” Brinkman smirked. “The mother, Camille Renard, A pos. So the nun’s baby daddy gotta be negative to start with. That narrows the field.”

Santiago eyed Brinkman. “Not just negative,” she pointed out. “If the baby’s B neg, the father’s gotta be B or AB neg. Both rare types. Around two percent of the population or less, I think.”

Brinkman didn’t care that Santiago had one-upped him with her knowledge of biology. He was still proud of himself. “Oh, and the blood on the priest’s smock or whatever the hell they’re called: A positive, too.”

“A cassock.” Santiago was clearly annoyed. It was obvious Montoya’s small office forced her to get too close to Brinkman.

Montoya didn’t care. “A pos? Like the vic’s? So, maybe Frank’s not the father?”

Brinkman winked, beads of sweat visible on his high forehead. “Bingo! Looks like we have ourselves a winner!”

Montoya thought that over. “Wish we could speed up the DNA. Any news on the tox screens?”

Brinkman shook his head. “Too early.”

“How do you know anyway?” Santiago demanded.

“Checked before I came upstairs.” He grinned, loving to have the upper hand.

Montoya said, “Is that it? All you’ve got?”

“Not quite.” Brinkman’s grin widened, showing off teeth that were stained from years of coffee and cigarettes. His eyes glittered with a hint of malice. “There’s a guy downstairs who wants to talk to you. Making a helluva ruckus, too.”

“Who?” Montoya had a bad feeling about this. Something about Brinkman’s smug attitude smelled like trouble.

“Yeah, a real rabble-rouser. He’s really pissing off the receptionist. She knew you were busy but flagged me down as I started up the stairs.”

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Montoya said, noticing that a light on his desk phone was flashing, indicating messages. “So who is it?”

“That’s the hell of it.” Brinkman positively beamed, enjoying the moment, stretching it out. Another warning signal. He sipped from his cup again, but his gaze was trained on Montoya. “Says his name is Cruz. Cruz Montoya.”