So much for that. “Did the blood match the victim’s?”

“We don’t know for sure because the tests are preliminary. But the lab did run a simple ABO—victim’s blood was O, the smear was B. There was nothing else on the plate.” He looked at me. “Any ideas?”

He was giving me a hurdle to jump. I thought about it for a moment. “And the lab didn’t find the B blood type anywhere else on the SUV?”

“No.”

I tapped my foot. “It’s on the screw but not on the license plate.”

“Right.”

Suddenly sparks popped in my brain. “If there were no prints on the license plates, maybe instead of just wiping it down, he wore gloves. Thing is, license plate edges are sharp. Could be the plate cut the latex while he was fiddling with it. Maybe the edge was sharp enough to cut through the latex and exposed part of his fingertip—hence the partial. Maybe it also cut skin. But he didn’t notice it because it was only a few droplets. The blood could have leaked out onto the screw as he attached the plate to the bumper.”

Brill stared at me.

I shrugged. “You asked what I thought. It’s a theory.”

The nod came slowly. “Yeah, it’s a theory.”

That was as much of a concession as I’d get from him.

He gave me a wise-guy smile. “You know what? When I find out more, we’ll discuss it over a cup of coffee.”

Why was it that every time a guy wanted play, he offered me a lousy cup of coffee? What ever happened to dinner and a movie?

“Thanks for filling me in, Detective.”

“We’ll keep in touch, Decker,” he said. “You’re good.”

I smiled. I had so wanted things to work out with Koby. I had genuinely liked the man. But even if I hadn’t, he would have been worth dating just to keep the others off my back.

27

Germando El Paso’s juvenile officer hadn’t returned my call, so I figured I might as well spend another fruitless night following up theories that evaporated like steam. I headed for Boss’s twenty-four-hour coffeehouse, a place that catered to freaks, chumps, hypes, and other ne’er-do-wells who couldn’t hack it in daylight hours. I was hoping to espy “Mr. Tiger Tattoo” himself. Alice Anne had produced a solid hit, so I made a mental note to slip her another ten-spot the next time I saw her.

I was seated by a toothpick of a guy with bad acne who appeared to be coming off a bad jones. Lucky for me, he was the maître d’ and not my server. That position was given to a captivating lady with blue spiked hair who dressed in black vinyl. She had a pierced upper lip and a pierced nose and small silver chain connecting the two metal studs together. I wondered if it hurt when she sneezed.

She poured me some coffee and left me the pot. I had brought the morning paper and was skimming the usual bad news, having made myself comfortable in a torn Naugahyde booth in the far end of the restaurant after sweeping bread crumbs off the tabletop with my hands. I kept a sharp eye out for my prey, and though I saw a good sideshow, Germando wasn’t part of it. I sipped coffee and munched on dry lettuce leaves of what was professed to be a dinner salad. When my cell phone rang, I jumped. I had forgotten to turn it off.