"You'd better," said the editor. "Listen, I have to run, too. But you saved me an e-mail. Your manuscript is due back from copyediting next week. I'll ship it as an attachment as soon as it comes in, OK?"
"Sure thing." They embraced again, and the woman ran off to join her companions, who were holding a cab at the curb.
When Rook turned back toward Nikki, she was gone. He scanned the lobby, and his stomach tightened as he saw her over by Security, reading the building directory.
"You have an editor here?" she said as he approached. "I see a lot of book publishers in the building, but I don't see a listing for First Press magazine."
"Ah, no. They're in the Flatiron."
"No Vanity Fair, either."
"They're in the Conde Nast. Off Times Square." He touched her elbow. "We should get up to the precinct, huh?"
Heat ignored his prod. "So why would you have an editor here if it's all book publishers? Do you write books?"
He rocked his head side to side. "In a manner of speaking, yes."
"Now, that woman, Terri-your editor-got on at the ninth floor, as I recall."
"God, Nikki, do you always have to be such a cop?"
"And according to this"-she ran her finger along the glass covering the building directory-"the ninth floor is Ardor Books. What would Ardor Books be?"
The security guard at the counter beside them smiled and said, "Ma'am? Ardor Books is a romance fiction publisher."
Nikki turned back to Rook, but he wasn't there. He was speed-walking to the Fifth Avenue door again, thinking he had a chance in hell to escape.
Chapter Twelve
Coming into the bull pen with Rook twenty minutes later, Nikki thought there must be a SWAT operation or another suspicious vehicle discovery the way everyone was crowded around the TV. But that didn't seem likely, because she would have certainly picked up the chatter on the TAC frequencies during the drive up from the publishing house.
"What's the big news?" she asked anyone in the room. "Somebody else get fed up with the strike and set their trash on fire?"
"Oh, major story," said Detective Hinesburg. "All the TV choppers are on it. ACC has a coyote cornered at the north end of Inwood Park."
"That critter gets around," said Raley.
Rook stepped to the back of the circle rimming the TV. "Do they know if it's the same one that went after Coyote Man?"
Ochoa turned his way. "Hey, man, don't call him that, OK?"
Through split screens showing simultaneous aerial and telephoto ground video, they watched live as an animal control officer prepared to fire a tranquilizer dart at the coyote. Nikki, never one to be glued to a TV except for the major shared moments of truly breaking news, experienced an odd moment of being transfixed by the trapped animal, hunkered, peering out of the thicket above Spuyten Duyvil Creek. The ground-level camera was shooting from a distance, so the picture was wavy from air distortion and magnification, but the angle wasn't so different from the one she had had looking at the coyote that one morning in front of Cafe Lalo. That moment, unsettling as it had been, was for Nikki Heat rare contact with something wild, an untamed animal finding its way in a city alone. And, mostly, unseen. Yet here it was now; its life and existence couldn't be more public. Nikki was the one staring at it now, and she understood too well what she saw in its eyes this time.
The coyote shivered when the dart struck its coat, but then it immediately ran off, disappearing in dense brush on the steep hill. The news reporter said the dart hit and either glanced off or didn't stick. The aerial camera panned fruitlessly.
Detective Heat killed the TV with the remote, eliciting mock moans and protests as the squad gathered for the morning update.
Nothing connecting the three victims had yet surfaced from the CSU sweep of Derek Snow's apartment. Forensics was still running prints and samples, just to be sure. Nikki reported on her encounter with Soleil Gray at Later On, as well as the confirmation from a segment producer on the show that Cassidy Towne was at work on a tell-all scandal book. Rook cleared his throat, and she gave him a look that said, Don't you dare. She turned back to the squad. "That information was deemed credible based on a meeting Rook and I just had with the book editor. However, he claims not to know the subject of the book and says he doesn't have a manuscript."
"Bullshit," said Hinesburg.
Nikki, who heard enough profanity on the street not to enjoy it in the office, turned to the detective. "Sharon, I believe you're saying what we're all thinking." And then she smiled. "The rest of us had the poise just to think it."
When the laughs died down, Raley asked, "What about a search warrant?"
"I plan to look into that, Rales, but even with some of the more sympathetic judges we know, my gut says that's a tough one to get because of First Amendment issues. The whole idea of police looking through files at a book publisher conjures some unpleasant totalitarian connections for some people, go figure. But I'll try anyway."
Roach made their report on the Padilla ground they had covered. Ochoa said that for something that had looked like it might be nothing but dead ends because nobody would talk, they had ended up finding something pretty intriguing. "Our nobody produce truck driver was actually a former limo driver. Frustrating that it took so long for that to pop. Maybe one day the city can get all the systems so they talk to each other."
"Then what would we do?" said Nikki, her sarcasm eliciting a few chuckles.
"Anyway, we ran him through TLC," continued Raley, "and got the name of his old employer."
Ochoa picked up. "We also got with his produce truck boss. He says that Mr. Padilla had gotten an attorney and filed a wrongful dismissal suit against the limo company. Figured we'd check out the lawyer first before we hit the limousine dudes. That way we'll know what we're walking into."
"Know who the attorney is?" asked Raley. "None other than Ronnie Strong."
The whole room groaned and then began a unison, albeit ragged, chorus of the tagline from the sleazy lawyer's local TV commercials. "Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong!"
"Nice work, Roach," Heat said. "Absolutely, get over and see that attorney. Judging from his commercials, I'd bring some hand sanitizer." And as she gathered up her files, she added, "And if either of you comes back here wearing a neck brace, you're dead to me." Detective Heat had a gift waiting for her when she got over to her desk. An encrypted e-mail from the FBI agent at NCAVC in Quantico. It was from the data analyst she had befriended the night before, and when she clicked the e-mail open, the top half of her screen filled with a color photograph of the Texan. The police sketch Nikki had provided was underneath and it was nearly an exact match. She stared at both and then had to remind herself to breathe. Nikki wasn't sure if her reaction was due to the memory of his assault or the excitement of zeroing in on him. Either one was enough to kick her heart rate up a notch.
A brief note from the NCAVC analyst said, "I'd like to take credit for the quick ID, but this is what happens when cops give good data. Your counterparts around the country could take a lesson, Detective Heat. You can thank me by bringing this one down." Nikki scrolled to read the sheet the agent had put together for her.
His name was Rance Eugene Wolf. "Male, cauc, forty-one. 6?-1? 160. Born/raised in Amarillo, TX, by his father after the disappearance of his mother when subject was in middle school. Local police investigated the mother's sudden miss-pers on a drive to Plainview to visit relatives with the son/subj., who was found alone in a motel room off Hwy 27. Husband was cleared and case went cold as unsolved/runaway. Interesting to note the son/subj. was questioned five times over two years, including by a psychologist. No comments, no disposition.