“No, why should I be bugged?”
“Trust me, we had to listen to him. He’s bugged,” said Rales, who then passed the ball to Rook, who flinched instead of catching it.
While Ochoa shagged the ball from under a desk, Rook blurted, “All right, I didn’t go to Ocean Grill. I lost my appetite. A task force, Nikki. How could you go to the DHS Task Force without me?”
“Because it’s restricted.”
“Like that’s ever stopped me.” From anyone else, it would have seemed like an empty boast.
Detective Ochoa said, “My partner and I have been tossing around the idea of this van, the one that had Nicole Bernardin’s blood and traces of lab cleaning solution in it. No sit-down lunch for us, either.”
“What did you come up with?”
“OK, follow this,” said Raley. “Let’s suppose, like you said at the briefing, that Nicole Bernardin picked up some sort of biological toxin on herself while she was checking out whatever Tyler Wynn was into. Whoever caught her snooping around and killed her must have worried her body might register telltale contamination.”
Ochoa picked up. “Which is why they scrubbed her corpse before they dumped it. They didn’t want to set off any alarms.”
“And since Carter Damon’s van had both Nicole Bernardin’s blood and traces of lab cleaning solvent,” continued Raley, “I think it’s a good bet that van got used to transport her body from where she was stabbed and scrubbed to where she got left in the suitcase. So our thinking is, if we can figure out where Damon’s van traveled the night of her murder-”
“-We might just find the bioterror lab she discovered,” said Heat. She added a “might” but liked this feeling, the little spark that could possibly kindle a break.
“But how could you ever learn where the van traveled?” asked Rook.
Detective Feller chimed in from his desk. “Doesn’t Homeland Security have cameras that scan license plates at key intersections and toll plazas so they can track suspicious vehicles that enter and drive around the city?”
“They do. They’d have video archives,” Raley said. “So would NYPD.”
Heat thought about the experience she’d just had in the bunker and said to Roach, “Start with NYPD.”
“Your task force meeting was that good?” said Rook as Raley and Ochoa moved off to work the new lead.
“Shut up,” she said, hiding her smile in her yogurt. “Let a gal enjoy her lunch.”
“Sure. And while you do, let me share some thinking I tossed around with my partner. I’ll admit it’s an imaginary partner, which is why I’m so glad you’re back.”
“Rook, are you having a reality break, or does this have a point?”
“My point,” he said, “is that if Tyler Wynn had so many foreign connections, why didn’t he get out of Dodge instead of hanging around a month after you put the APB out on his traitorous ass?”
“Simple. To see the plot through.”
“That’s where I bump. What was the first thing Wynn said to you after the blast?”
“He asked me if Salena Kaye did it.”
“No, exact quote, please, Detective.”
Heat pictured the old man down on the kitchen floor. It all replayed like a movie. “He said, ‘Was it Salena? Did Kaye find me?’ ”
Rook said, “See, now that’s not just big, that’s an XL.”
“He’s right.” Randall Feller couldn’t resist joining the spitball and came over. “The ‘find me’ part sounds like Wynn was hiding out from his own accomplice.”
Rook continued, “And if Salena Kaye turned on him, and he was still hiding in New York, it suggests that his own organization cut him off and he lost the resources to flee these borders undetected. I’ve seen this before with my European spy friends. One day you’re center car of the motorcade, the next you’re hiding in Dumpsters, afraid to show your face and unable to board an airplane.”
“The question is, why did they all of a sudden want him dead?” asked Feller.
“I hope to find that out,” said Heat. “Maybe because I compromised him by surviving. When I came out of that subway alive, Uncle Tyler got on somebody’s hit list because if we captured him, he might give up his co-conspirators.”
“Good a reason as any,” said Rook. “It also tells you why Salena hung around. To finish him off.”
“And me,” said Nikki.
“There she goes.” Rook winked at Feller, then turned to Nikki. “It’s all about you, isn’t it?”
“Do you think Salena Kaye killed him?” asked Sharon Hinesburg. Randall Feller wasn’t the only detective unable to resist joining the brainstorming session. But such engagement was rare for Hinesburg. Maybe she was trying to turn it around, after all.
“Kaye would certainly top the list,” said Heat.
Feller crinkled his brow. “But isn’t poison her MO of choice?”
Nikki said, “Best choice is the one that’s effective.”
“And we’re sure he wasn’t building a bomb and it went off on him?” asked Feller.
Heat shook no. “There weren’t any bomb-making materials in his apartment.”
“Please,” said Rook in mock indignation. “This is Sutton Place we’re talking about. The condo board wouldn’t have it.”
“Concierge records indicate a package delivered to his apartment,” Heat explained. “Local messenger service, no trace. Probably bogus.”
“So if he wasn’t right beside the blast,” said Rook, “the package probably wasn’t rigged for opening.”
“That leaves a timer or a remote detonation.” Heat did another e-mail scan. “I’m still waiting to hear that determination. Forensics and Bomb Squad are both on that.”
“You’ve got a lot on your plate,” said Detective Hinesburg. “How about if I follow up and see what gives?” Nikki approved of the weak link trying to redeem herself and said sure.
Whether it was old-fashioned Heat Guilt or just to prove to herself that she could juggle it all, Nikki spent the rest of the day chipping away at the Rainbow case. She had finally surrendered to calling it that, which, hours later, constituted the only movement in the entire investigation. Satisfied that her squad remained diligent and engaged in the hunt for Rainbow, Heat allowed herself an indulgence. Like scratching poison ivy, she couldn’t restrain herself, even though she knew the act would likely do more harm than good.
“Hallo, this is Vaja,” said the man on the other end, whose soft voice and Eurasian inflections made her picture him in a Tbilisi coffee house reciting poetry.
“Dr. Nikoladze,” said Heat in a cheery tone, keeping it casual, “Nikki Heat. How’s dog business?” She could hear the breeze off the Hudson against his mouthpiece and the distant kennel sounds of his Georgian shepherds. “Am I going to be seeing you this winter at Westminster?”
“We had this conversation already, Detective. Good evening.” The phone rustled, a dog barked, and the line went dead. “Call Ended.”
She looked up from the blank glass of her iPhone screen, shaken out of her preoccupation by Rook, who had pulled on his sport coat and slung his Coach messenger bag over his shoulder. “I’ve got at least another hour or two to go here,” she said.
“Yeah, I figured.” He adjusted the wide strap of his bag to lie against the soft of his neck at the collar. “I got a call and have a meeting. Cocktails, and it’ll probably turn into dinner.” Nikki’s solar plexus tweaked. In an irrational flash, she envisioned him and Yardley Bell in one of their spots. Boulud, Balthazar, or Nobu. Or, worse, one of the old Jamie-Yardley haunts from when they were a couple. “It’s more magazine business,” he said.
“Good stuff, I hope.”
“We’ll see. My agent has set me up with some movie execs from Castle Rock. Just exploratory, but they want to talk about optioning the Heat pieces for film.”
Nikki would almost have rather it were candlelight and mutually fed strawberries with Yardley. Well, maybe not, but close. “Are you kidding me? A movie? Based on my… pieces?” She spat the word. The bull pen had mostly cleared for the night, but she kept her voice down anyway.
“Come on, this is nothing. You meet, you discuss. It’s a dance. Nothing is set-or will be-without talking it over with you. You have my word as a member of the press.” He laughed, trying to lighten the load with that.