This exercise of hers, patiently waiting out the Murder Board to reveal a solution or, at least, a connection, usually paid off. Far from metaphysical, there was no incense or any incantations involved. And it wasn’t like playing Ouija, either. The practice was simply a means of quieting her mind and studying the puzzle pieces to let her subconscious find a fit. And, indeed, something up there was trying to speak to Nikki, but it eluded her. What was she missing? Heat began to blame herself for not having a quiet mind, but she stopped. “No self-reproach,” she whispered. If Nikki Heat had one ally she needed to rely on and keep positive, it was herself.
Heat needed to keep her focus, even amid the storm.
That was the beauty of the wall Rook derided. Rook, grousing about her ability to compartmentalize when that very skill was what made her so successful at clearing cases in a whirlwind. She tried to put Rook out of her mind. What she did not need right then was distraction. Want to know what a real wall is, Mr. Rook? Check this out.
Her solitude got broken by a loyal squad. Detective Feller rolled in an hour and a half early, just behind Raley and Ochoa, whom she had said good night to at her apartment at two that morning. Randall Feller had already put out personal calls and texts to his undercover pals in the NYPD Taxi Squad to be extra vigilant looking for the missing cab with the front-end damage and two bullet holes in the windshield. So far, no sighting. Roach checked for any call backs on the advisory they had posted overnight to hospital ERs, walk-in clinics, and pharmacies about gunshot victims or bleeders purchasing first aid or painkillers in quantity.
Soon the entire squad gathered for an early showing; everyone except Sharon Hinesburg, who was late again. As they assembled around the boards for an update, Heat checked out the glass office but found Captain Irons inside, going over CompStat sheets with a red pencil. Maybe, she decided, the Iron Man had dropped off his punch at a farther corner that morning. Nikki began without her, knowing they’d manage.
Heat began with Don’s murder, which they all knew about, so she gave it a quick summary. Nobody asked questions. They all knew the sensitivities and, like Nikki, were eager to move on to other matters.
Uniforms working Nicole’s Inwood street said neighbors saw a carpet cleaning van there recently. “The eyewits couldn’t recall a company name, but since it coincided with the search and time of death, I want Feller and Rhymer to go there for follow-up interviews. Just get what you can. Color of van, lettering, anything.
“Still waiting on toxicology,” she continued, putting another question mark on the board beside it. Underneath, she erased “Fingerprints” (which was still blank, but moot now that they had positive ID) and printed “Inwood Carpet Cleaners.”
Raley reported no leads off Nicole Bernardin’s headhunter business. “The NAB Group is registered with Better Business and a few trade organizations, but aside from fully paid dues, not much to say. No complaints against her about executive searches and placements mainly because there seems to be no record of any. The woman gives discreet a whole new meaning.”
Malcolm and Reynolds reported no fencing or stolen property receipts for a laptop belonging to Nicole Bernardin. Nikki told them to send e-mails to pawnshops and check eBay. Detective Rhymer said he was still working with the IT geeks on her Web data storage. “No hits, but they emphasize ‘yet.’ IT is totally intrigued by the challenge. Plus they want to know if you’ll autograph your cover shot of Rook’s First Press issue to hang.”
“Sure,” she said. “As long as it’s not in the bathroom.”
Rhymer smiled. “No, I’m pretty sure these guys will take turns bringing it home.”
Nothing new from the French consulates, according to Detective Reynolds, who had also run Nicole Bernardin through Interpol. But her name didn’t light anything up there. However, he did say that Nikki was right, he did get a green light on her at the New York Road Runners Club. “She had a lifetime membership.”
“Ironic,” said Feller, who couldn’t resist.
“Nicole participated in their summer evening training runs in Central Park, did the Fifth Avenue Mile, and a lot of 10Ks, but had no social profile there,” said Reynolds. “Basically, she was a bib number.”
And so it went through all their reports. Information, but nothing that led anywhere. Even Rhymer, who on his own had checked with amateur orchestras and the musicians union to see if Nicole, the former NEC violin prodigy, had any affiliations there, came up empty. All the work they did just took them nowhere; like Nicole’s summer loops around the park, it all ended right back where they’d started.
As the group dispersed, Nikki found herself, by reflex, turning to Rook’s empty chair to get his off-the-wall take. Before the thought of him pushed her into a tar pit of vulnerability, she got busy at her desk. In all, she counted herself fortunate that the hour had passed without gossipy whispers or needing to confront the controversy of her personal life in that bull pen. Then Detective Hinesburg breezed in and a new hour began.
“I heard all about last night. You OK?” asked Sharon, standing over her more than a bit too much. But respecting personal space was not her thing. “Had to be awful, right there in your place.” She leaned down and lowered the volume only slightly. “And it was your boyfriend. Nikki, I am so sorry.”
“He was not my boyfriend.” Heat wished she hadn’t even engaged.
“Sure, whatever you say. It had to be so traumatic. Truthfully, I didn’t think you’d be in.”
Heat drew back her watch cuff. “Clearly, you didn’t. Where were you?”
“On the assignment Captain Irons gave me.” At first, Nikki thought she was lying, but that would be too easy to check, so she moved on to annoyance that the precinct commander had gone around her, poaching squad members without consultation. But then Heat considered which one he had poached. And hadn’t it been a better morning without Sharon there? Hinesburg crossed over to her desk to thunk down her monstrous purse and said, “I would have been in earlier, but you know how he’s watching OT. So since I had to drive last night to Scarsdale, he told me to come in late today to make up.”
Nikki’s breath caught. She strode over to Hinesburg’s desk and invaded her space for a change. “What were you doing up in Scarsdale?”
The other detective let out a low whistle. “Hoo boy. Honest. I really thought he told you.”
It hit Nikki like a backdraft and made her reel. “You went to see my father? On assignment?”
Before she could answer, Heat was already on her way to the captain’s office. Hinesburg called out, feebly, “Yes, but not as a suspect. Purely a person of interest.”
Heat slammed his door with such force, half the building must have thought they were witnessing another big aftershock. And if they had been inside Irons’s office, they would have been.
“Holy crap, Heat, what the hell?” Wally Irons had not only jolted upright in his chair Roger Rabbit-style, he’d retreated on his rollers, heels kicking at the plastic floor mat, eyes wide and mouth slack. They were good instincts to follow. Detective Heat advanced on his desk as if she intended to come right over it at him.
“What the hell, is right. What the hell are you doing, sending Sharon fucking Hinesburg to my father’s home?” Heat seldom swore, and if the entrance wasn’t sufficient to indicate her upset, the f-bomb was. “My father’s home, Captain!”
“You need to settle yourself right down.”
“The fuck I do. Answer my question.”
“Detective, we all know about the stressful night you had.”
“Answer me.” When he just stared at her, she picked his half cup of cold coffee off the coaster and poured it on his CompStat printout. “Now.”