Killing Time by Linda Howard

half. Again came the quiet click and the lights flashing as the self-test ran again.
    “Snazzy gadget,” he finally said. “What’s it supposed to do, other than look impressive?”
    “I told you, it’s a DNA scanner. It can recognize and process DNA. If you’re in the data banks, the way I am, it’ll give you my name, address, any prior arrests and convictions, where I work, where I live, my genetic heritage.”
    “How does it work?”
    “It’s sensitive enough to pick up DNA from skin cells that humans shed everywhere they go, and lead you to the sample. Since I’m sitting right in front of you, you won’t have to go to that much trouble. To get a reading, just press it to my skin or clothing, and push the round green button.”
    “But you could already have programmed whatever information you wanted into this gizmo, couldn’t you?” Smiling, he pressed it to his own hand and pushed the green button.
    The lights danced, and information flashed on the three-by-two-inch screen. The scanners used one dimension instead of three, because that way the system was less complicated—and less expensive—for field work. It was the same video technology that was available to him, unchanged over two centuries. When something worked, like the wheel, it lasted, while other technologies fell by the wayside.
    “ ‘Subject unknown,’ ” he read. “ ‘Genetic structure compatible with that of the northern European areas, specifically the ancient Celtic tribes, and to a lesser extent the Cherokee tribe of North America. Subject has blue eyes and brown hair. Require additional data for identification.”
    He stared at the little screen for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “How do I clear this?”
    “Either scan something else, or close the lid. The information has been saved unless you push the delete button, which is the orange one next to the green.”
    He deleted his reading from the scanner, then silently put it against her cheek and pressed the green button.
    “ ‘Stover,’ ” he read. “ ‘Nikita Tzuria. Age thirty, sixty-seven inches or 1.7179 meters in height, current weight unknown.’ ” He paused, eyed her up and down, and said, “I put you at around a hundred and thirty, maybe thirty-five, depending on how muscled you are.”
    Nikita couldn’t help smiling, because the last time she’d had a physical she had weighed in at one thirty-three. That had been over a year ago, but her clothes still fit, so she imagined she weighed roughly the same now as then.
    He continued reading. “ ‘Subject has been employed by the United States Department of Justice, investigative branch, specifically the Federal Bureau of Investigation, for six years. Subject resides in Des Moines, Iowa. Genetic heritage, in order of influence: northern European, southern European, Chinese, Middle Eastern, Slavic, and the Aztec tribe of Central America.’ ” He glanced up at her. “That’s quite a list.”
    “What can I say?” She hitched one shoulder; with her hands cuffed behind her that was all she could manage. “My ancestors got around.”
    “Middle Eastern.” His gaze bored into her. “Where in the Middle East, specifically?”
    “Israel. Tzuria, my middle name, is Hebrew. I don’t know what it means.”
    “Your first name is Russian.”
    “Blame my mother. Her name is Nicolette, and she thought Nikita was a nice match. But I guess it sort of fits, since I have some Slavic heritage.”
    “How about the Chinese part?”
    “That would be my . . . I forget how many greats. Six or seven, I think.”
    “Greats?”
    “As in generations. My great-great-great-great-and-so-on-grandfather. That came about during the Chinese Revolution.”
    “I see.”
    Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. He was staring at her as if she had two heads. “And the Aztec?”
    “I can’t explain that one. Since it’s the last one listed, the genetic influence is so small it’s statistically unimportant.”
    He scratched his