He stood watch while I packed up my gear. I thanked him for that, though I knew he was just doing it to make sure I left. And I did. With this cop on the lookout, I couldn’t exactly take off for Cody’s office on the far side of town. And my bruised body was telling me it was ready for bed.

Back at the motel, I grabbed a couple of cookies—one of Paige’s and one from the cult. Paige’s were better, but the others were decent enough. I was pulling off my clothes when my cell phone rang. “Break on Through,” which I’d set as Jesse’s ring tone.

“Yes, I know, it’s late,” he said when I answered. “Did I wake you up?”

“Nope. Just getting ready to turn in.”

“Good. I probably should have just texted, but I found something.” A pause. “Not that you can do anything about it tonight. Never mind. It can wait.”

“Oh, no you don’t. If it’s exciting enough to call me after midnight, I want to hear it.”

He paused. “Okay, so I was going through the files again, making notes, trying to find connections. You know that Alastair Koppel used to live in Columbus, right?”

“He went to high school here, but he never came back after college. His parents moved away ten years ago, when they retired. No other family in town.”

“You’ve done your homework then. Did you notice when he left?”

“Before—no, during college. He was going to college in Portland, so he commuted. That must not have worked out too well. In his third year, he moved out of his parents’ place. Or second year. People weren’t clear on that.”

“It was 1983.”

“Okay, 1983.”

“Anything else happen in 1983?”

“No idea. I wasn’t born.”

“But someone else was. And it seems someone on this investigation is a CSI fan.”

“What?”

“They went a little crazy gathering DNA. They got DNA profiles on Ginny, Brandi, Claire, and just about everyone questioned. Except Cody and his wife, who knew their rights and refused. When I was writing up the file, looking for connections, I saw one, and I faxed the profiles to a buddy to confirm. He just got back to me.”

He stopped. I could feel his excitement buzzing down the line.

“DNA ... 1983 ...” I said. “Shit ... 1983. The year both Ginny and Brandi were born. Our cult leader is Brandi’s father, isn’t he?”

“Not Brandi’s.”

“Ginny’s?”

“Yep. Seems Paula Thompson wasn’t exactly being honest when she said there was no connection between her daughter and Koppel. The cops never noticed it because, obviously, they were only holding the DNA profiles to compare to a potential suspect’s, not crossreferencing—”

My phone blipped, telling me I had an incoming text. It was from Michael.

Lne bsy. Fnd s/t. Cody. Imp. Anyway u can come? 384 SW 3rd Ave. B careful.