“There is, we’ve got you covered.”
Detective Ochoa added, “Along those lines, please know we’re doing all we can to get something to shake loose on this case.”
Raley continued, “Don’t get too excited yet, but before shift this morning, Miguel and I met up with Malcolm and Reynolds. We thought, just to double-check, we’d walk the area around Bruckner where they found the taxi your shooter jacked.”
Detective Ochoa continued, “There was this pile of old tires and paint cans in the flood control drain up the block. We had some rain overnight, so I thought I’d give it a look in case the runoff carried anything there. I found a men’s glove.”
Heat started to pace. “What color?”
“Brown leather.”
“That’s what he had on,” she said, seeing the gloves grip the shotgun.
“It’s a long shot,” said Raley, “because it’s waterlogged and looks like a dog or something turned it into a chew toy. But it definitely has blood traces and gunpowder residue. Lab’s running it now for prints, inside and out, as well as DNA.”
“Good work, you two. Tell Malcolm and Reynolds, also.”
“No,” said Ochoa. “We’re pretty much hogging credit on this one.”
Rook could see the change in her when he came out of his office to join her. “We’re still going,” he said. She told him about the glove and his response was “We’re still going.”
“But I feel like I’m being irresponsible. Like I should stay close in case something breaks.”
“You’re on leave. And what are you going to do, sit outside the door to Forensics, yelling ‘Hurry up’ every half hour?” She chewed at the inside of her lip, unsold. “Nikki, we covered this last night. Remember Boston? We ended up ID-ing Nicole and connecting her to your mom, big-time.”
“All right,” she said. “We’re still going.”
“Excellent. Because the real reason is those tickets are nonrefundable.”
Their overnight flight got them into Paris-Charles de Gaulle at six the next morning. Both slept soundly on the plane, but as a contingency, Rook had reserved and paid for their room from the previous night so they could nap and adjust if they needed to without waiting for afternoon check-in. “Nice,” said Nikki on their ride up in the elevator.
“I know it’s not the George V, and the name Washington Opera doesn’t sound very French, but as boutique hotels go, this is a find.” Rook told her the elegant building was the former town house of Madame de Pompadour, and Nikki couldn’t help but think of her father’s job when he arrived in Europe in his twenties, finding properties just like this to invest in and flip. The thought both comforted and unsettled her. She reflected on her therapist’s message to reconnect to the past she had been avoiding and accepted that this would be a trip of mixed emotions that needed to be felt.
From their room, Rook opened the shutters to show her Paris’s oldest bakery across the street, promising warm croissants and pain au chocolat every morning. “The Louvre is a few blocks that way,” he said, pointing to his left. “The Opera is to our right, and out the back of the hotel, the gardens of Le Palais Royale. Curb your dog, please.”
“If we were here for sightseeing, that would all be splendid,” she said. “Or does this fall under your rather loose definition of Romantic Trip While On The Case?”
“Paris? How can you talk about romance while we’re in Paris? We have work to do. You’ve got the number of Nicole’s parents, and as soon as it’s nine A.M., we’re calling them.”
“That’s a half hour away.”
“Then I say we strip and knock off a quick one.”
“How romantic.”
“Paris, baby,” he said, and they raced each other bare.
NINE
Lysette Bernardin picked up Heat’s phone call sounding wary and frail, which she attributed not to age but to the soul-crushing grief Nikki had heard in the voices of so many families of murder victims over time. The old woman spoke excellent English and brightened when she learned that the caller was the daughter of her dear Nicole’s best friend, Cynthia. Her husband was at a doctor’s appointment for his new hip until early afternoon. Madame Bernardin gave Heat the address on Boulevard Saint-Germain near Rue du Dragon and they fixed two P.M. for a visit.
They took a taxi-a new Mercedes-to the Left Bank and had the driver drop them not far from the Bernardins’ apartment so they could have some lunch before their meeting. Rook had his mind on reliving the Rive Gauche writer’s experience, either at Les Deux Magots or Cafe de Flore. Both were crowded with tourists. Even the iconic sidewalk tables were hemmed in by rolling carry-on luggage. They opted for an open table across the boulevard at Brasserie Lipp, which Johnny Depp had told Rook also once served as a hangout for the likes of Hemingway, Proust, and Camus. “Can you imagine waiting on an existentialist?” asked Rook. “‘What will you have, Mr. Camus, the steak tartare or the escargots?’ ‘Oh… What does it matter?’”
Heat checked her watch. “One o’clock here. In New York, they should be in the precinct by now.” She tapped in the international code and called Raley’s cell.
“Hey,” said the detective. “Or should I say, bonjour? I was just going to call you. How’s your jet lag?”
“I have been living my life jet lagged. I can no longer tell. Why were you going to call?” Heat got out her notepad, hopeful something would be worth writing down.
“I’ll give you the good news first. Forensics called and said they confirmed gunpowder residue on that glove Ochoa found. Also paint particles that may match your front door. The pigment’s right, but they won’t know for certain until this afternoon.”
Nikki covered the mouthpiece and relayed the information to Rook, then said, “OK, Rales, let’s hear the bad news.”
“Hang on.” After some rustling and the sound of a door opening and closing, he continued, accompanied by reverb, which made her picture him seeking privacy in the back hall off the bull pen. “It’s Irons. Now that the glove looks like it might bust a lead, he’s pulled Team Roach off Forensics watch.”
“Please, not Hinesburg.”
“Not that bad, but close. Captain’s taking it over himself. Lab’s still working on finding fingerprints on it, but if they do, the Iron Man is poised for glory.”
Inside, Nikki fumed, but kept a light touch with her detective. “I can’t leave town for one day, can I?” His laugh echoed in the hall, and she said, “Look, it is what it is. Thanks for the update, and keep me posted.”
The waiter had been standing by until she hung up, and when he arrived, Rook gestured to Nikki and said, “Want me to handle this?”
“No, I’ll blunder through.” She turned to the waiter and said flawlessly, “ Bonjour, monsieur. Je voudrais deux petits plats, s’il vous plait. La salade de frisee, et apres, les pommes de terre a l’huile avec les harengs marine. ”
Rook composed himself, muttered “ Deux,” and handed the menus back. “Wow, I had no idea.”
“Once again,” she said.
“Full of surprises.”
“I have always loved the language. They even let me skip French Four in high school. But there’s no substitute for immersing yourself and speaking it with the locals.”
“When did you do that?”
“On my college semester abroad. I had been in Venice most of the time, but Petar and I came here for a month before I went back to Northeastern.”
“Ah, Petar. Shall we set a place for him?”
“God, drop the shoe, Sparky. So you know? Jealousy? Totally unattractive.”
“I’m not a jealous guy, you know.”
“Oh, right. Let’s run down your list of hot buttons: Petar? Don? Randall Feller?”
“OK, now, he’s different. That guy’s name says it all. Randy Feller? I’m just sayin’.”
“I think you’re ‘just sayin” a lot.”
He brooded, fumbling with his silverware, playing one-handed leapfrog with his forks, then finally said, “You named three. Is that about it?”
“Rook, are you seriously asking me my number? Because if you are, that’s going to open up a ginormous subject. That’s defining for a relationship. It’s going to mean talk. Lots and lots of talk. And even if you’re willing to go there right now and put in that work, I’d ask myself one thing, first: How many surprises can you handle in forty-eight hours?”