She tried to draw Kije back to her, but the ignition of his Mercedes was already turning over. “What are some of the extracurriculars you’re talking about?” His bodyguard opened the back door of the car and held it open for him.
The little bear pumped Rook’s hand and gave him a fast back slap. “Boy-O, until next time, right?” And then he bowed to her. “Nikki Heat.”
Doors started slamming on the two Peugeots behind them as the other guards saddled up. Nikki’s frustration mounted as the clock ran out for the second time just when she was so close to getting an answer. Kije hurried to the side of his car. “Anatoly, please. At least give me a direction.”
“I told you. Check the bank,” he said and ducked to get in the backseat.
“I already got that. Give me more to go on. Please?”
He stopped and his head rose up over the open door. The Russian said to her, “Then think of what else I told you. Ask yourself about the new era.” That would be all she got.
The bodyguard shut Anatoly’s door and took the shotgun seat for himself. All three cars drove a semicircle around them, kicking up a rooster tail of dust. The trailing Peugeot slowed to leave a gap for Kije’s Mercedes to fill in the hammock spot of the convoy, and then they sped away with their headlights doused.
Heat and Rook tasted the fine cloud of dirt that swirled around them, illuminated by moonlight and shrouding them in a radiant fog. When it began to vanish, Nikki saw a reflection on the ground near them and found their cell phones stacked there, each with the battery removed to disable GPS tracking. As they reinstalled them and powered up, the helicopter passed and continued on, seeming uninterested and unhurried. Nikki paused to watch it fly, eclipsing the Paris moon. She noticed that at least it was half-full.
Nikki Heat saw the next night’s half moon rise behind Terminal 1 at JFK when she and Rook piled into the backseat of the town car he had ordered for their ride to Manhattan. In spite of Nikki’s misgivings about leaving New York for Paris, Rook had been right. The brief trip had moved both cases forward. Not enough for Nikki—never enough for Nikki—but the tantalizingly incomplete information she’d gotten over there would fill critical spaces on both Murder Boards. What nagged at her was where to go next. One avenue Heat knew she needed to explore pained her, but she took the step to address it right that moment.
“Hey, Dad, it’s me,” she said when Jeff Heat picked up. To put a cheerier spin on things she added, “What are you doing at home on a big Saturday night?”
“Screening my goddamned phone calls so I don’t get any more ass-hole reporters calling for interviews.”
“Oh, no. Has it been that bad?”
“All hours. Worse than the freakin’ telemarketers. Hang on.” She heard ice cubes tink against glass and painted the mental picture of her father situated in his easy chair command post taking the edge off it all with another Cape Codder. “Even that bimbo from the Ledger showed up at my front door the other morning. Must have snuck in behind one of the residents before the gate closed. Those jerks have no regard for privacy.”
“Yeah, we all know reporters are scum.” Rook whipped his head her way. Then, on quick reflection, the journalist nodded his agreement. “Listen, Dad, are you going to be around tomorrow? I wanted to swing by to talk some more. I’ve learned a few things I think you’d be interested in knowing about Mom.” That, along with asking him to go over the box of photos Lysette Bernardin gave her, presented a valid excuse to drop by. But her real plan was to use the occasion to broach another subject best left for face-to-face. They agreed on a time for the visit and said good night. Nikki tapped end, feeling bad for not being straight with him about her ulterior reason for wanting to talk. She wondered if her mother had felt those kinds of misgivings when she withheld information from them. Then she wondered if Rook had been right, after all, about becoming her mother in that regard, too.
Detective Ochoa had left a recent voice mail from his number at the Twentieth Precinct. “Surprised to find you in the pen tonight, Miguel,” she said.
“Someone has to take responsibility for this case while you and Rook drink wine and eat snails, know what I mean?”
“Well, I’m done slacking. We’re back in town and I’m ready to bail you boys out of whatever mess you made of things.”
Detective Raley popped onto the extension and said, “Did you bring me anything?”
“You’re working, too, Sean? I only hope I can get back in there soon enough to watch Captain Irons’s head explode when he sees the OT report.”
“Hey,” said Raley, “the Iron Man actually made an appearance here himself tonight.”
“Irons? On the weekend?”
Ochoa said, “Yeah, he came in with Detective Hinesburg about an hour ago. The two of them closed the door to his office and listened to some audio recording on his speaker phone and rushed out like they were in a big hurry.”
Raley said, “I told Ochoa they were probably calling Moviefone for the show times of Hot Tub Time Machine,” which made them all laugh, but any Irons activity raised a yellow flag for Heat, more so if it involved Sharon Hinesburg.
They ran down the day’s developments for her. “I finally got confirmation from French authorities on that call the Bernardins said they got last Sunday evening from the mysterious Mr. Seacrest,” Detective Raley began. “It came to their number as an international call, but unfortunately, it was a burner cell, so that trail ends there.”
Heat’s disappointment mixed with relief that Emile Bernardin’s story about the call checked out. Of course, she would have preferred that it lead her to Seacrest, but in the end, upholding the credibility of Nicole’s parents pleased her. “Did the glove turn up?”
“Negative,” said Ochoa. “If you promise not to tell, we have a Plan B there.”
“Tell me first and then I’ll tell you whether or not I’ll promise that.”
Ochoa paused then said, “Detective Feller is going off-road. Even though Irons put himself in charge of anything that even smells like it will break the case …”
“Including the glove,” added Raley.
“… Feller is calling in some old IOUs to do some indy snooping at Forensics to see what he can scare up about the fate of that thing.”
Raley said, “You know what Feller is like. All that time on the street with those swinging dicks in the Taxi Unit? He’s not wired to color inside the lines.”
“So he’s ignoring his commander’s direct orders?” asked Heat.
“Yup,” they said in unison.
“It’s a good thing I’m on forced leave. I’d have to do something about that.”
When she hung up, Rook said, “Who’s dissing Wally Irons, and when can I shake his hand?” But before she could answer, he noticed they were pulling off the expressway at the Van Dam exit. “Excuse me, driver? Aren’t we taking the Midtown Tunnel?”
“Closed down. They shut it for earthquake repairs.”
Nikki looked out the back window but saw no cones, no flashing lights or portable orange construction advisory signs. “Are you sure?” The traffic behind them stayed on the LIE and flowed onward, at speed, toward the toll plaza at the mouth of the tunnel.
The driver crossed Van Dam and made a U-turn onto a side street fast enough to pin her shoulder against Rook’s, then hooked another turn onto a service road leading into an industrial zone of double- and single-story auto body shops and warehouses.
Rook asked, “Don’t you want the BQE to the Williamsburg Bridge?”
But the driver didn’t reply. The power locks snapped down, and he made another sharp turn into a driveway and through the open double wide door into the receiving area of a trucking fulfillment depot. The driver got out, leaving them in the car as the steel double doors rolled down behind them, putting the whole place in darkness. Once more, Heat reached for her hip, found it empty, and cursed to herself.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Rook’s voice in the dark. “This is the last time I u
se this car service.”
A single fluorescent lamp blinked on and cast sickly blue light down on two men in business suits who descended the ramp slanting from the back of a cargo trailer across the warehouse. They walked calmly but purposefully in matching cadence to their car. The ghosty illumination of the overhead tube caused the whiteness of their shirts to pop in contrast to their suits and ties. As they neared, the one in the brown suit held up his ID and slapped it against the window for them to see.
It read, “Bart Callan, United States Department of Homeland Security.”
Heat and Rook sat on folding metal chairs in the cargo trailer watching a pair of lab technicians in white coveralls at the deep end of the hold swab the exterior of their luggage with wipes that they placed in portable infrared scanners. After each cloth got electronically sniffed, it was then sealed in an evidence-grade plastic zip bag. The techs had followed the same procedure with the swabbing pads they had run over their hands and shoes. “Not being one to jump at criticizing the federal government,” said Rook, “but aren’t you supposed to do that before we get on the plane?”
Agent Callan turned from the scanning table and strode over to him. He looked like he did triathlons because marathons got too easy. “You can save the snappy one-liners for your next appearance on Anderson Cooper, Mr. Rook. Although you won’t be commenting on this meeting there or anywhere, as it is classified. I have a paper for you both to sign.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels, body language for stud in charge.
Heat turned to appraise Callan’s partner, who sat to the side, observing. There was something the other agent didn’t like in the knowing way Nikki smiled at him, and he averted his gaze. She turned back to the alpha. “What is this about, Agent Callan? I’m sworn law enforcement. You have no reason to detain me.”
“I guess you don’t get to make that determination, Detective Heat.” His tone was matter-of-fact, not threatening. He seemed too secure in himself to bully. He had the sort of authority that came from personal dedication instead of ego. But he also clearly enjoyed dealing the hand from his own deck. “I have some questions I want answers to. We’ll see how satisfied I am and how soon, and we can talk about getting you on your way.”
Rook couldn’t resist. “Good, because I want to get to the Apple store in SoHo before it closes, to see what this new iPad device is all about.”
Nikki gave Callan one of those shrugs that says What are ya gonna do? and the agent acknowledged it with his first hint of a smile. He leaned a hip against the metal task table he had set up as a work space inside the trailer and picked up a file. “Two days in Paris. That’s what I call whirlwind.”
“You said you had a question,” was all Nikki gave back.
“You going to wrestle with me, Detective?”
“Your meeting, Agent.”
Rook rubbed his palms together. “This is so cool. It’s like a mixed martial arts smackdown. We even have folding chairs.”
A standoff followed while Callan assessed her. For Nikki’s part, she normally wouldn’t give so much push-back to a fed, but it felt instinctively right. Aside from lingering annoyance at their kidnapping, she had a protective motive about her mother since hearing the rumor that she might have gone double. And frankly, there was too much she didn’t know. Heat figured that by making the DHS man do some work, she might gain more than she gave.
Bart Callan shifted techniques from chatty open-ended to business-specific. “I want you to tell me who you saw and what you did while you were in Paris.”
“Why?” asked Rook.
“Because I’m asking. And I’m asking her.”
To see what she could draw out of Callan, she said, “Maybe if you could narrow it down for me. Is there someone or something you’re interested in? We packed a lot into two days.”
This had become a chess match between two experienced interrogators, and Agent Callan knew his game had to play up to hers. He tried a new tack, to see how she reacted to being dwarfed by a larger force. Paranoia was a primary tool for bumping interview subjects off base. Casually turning a page in the file, he read, “Subject B: ‘I didn’t kill him. You did. You killed him.’ Subject A: ‘Would you please stop saying that?’ Subject B: ‘But you did. I hope you’re happy now.’” Heat fought making eye contact with Rook because she knew that was the rise Callan wanted. The agent continued, “Subject B: ‘I’d think you’d be ecstatic to learn that not only wasn’t your mom’s double life just your imagination, but it wasn’t because she was having an affair. And—how cool is this?—she was a spy in the family like Arnold in True Lies. No, even better: Cindy Heat was like Julia Child in World War Two when she spied for the OSS.’”
“How dare you,” said Heat. She regretted her blurt instantly but couldn’t help herself. The introduction of her mother was bait and she had chomped it.
Agent Callan rolled on, picking at the sore spot. “Subject A: ‘I agree, that is something.’”
“I knew that cabdriver was skeevy,” said Rook. “What did he do, record us all the way from the hospital?”
The DHS agent smiled and turned to another page. This one, from Brasserie Lipp. “Subject B: ‘Let’s run down your list of hot buttons: Petar? Don? Randall Feller? … You named three. Is that about it?’ Subject A: ‘Rook, are you seriously asking me my number?’” Callan riffled a few more pages and gave Heat and Rook a once-over. “You really think that’s all we have?”
By then Heat had settled down and distanced herself from the personal intrusion to regain ground. “Well, then if you have all you need, you don’t need us.”
“I want to know about all your meetings. What were you doing in the Vincennes Forest last night?”
“So. You don’t have as much as you make out,” she said.
“I am seeking your cooperation. We’re wearing the same uniform, Detective.”
“If we’re on the same team, you give me something. Like, for instance, what was Nicole Bernardin doing before she was killed and who was she doing it for?”
“Not playing that game,” said Callan.
“Who wanted her dead?”
“Give it up, Heat.”
“Who’s Seacrest?”
“I ask the questions.” He used his command voice, but the tell was all over his face when she mentioned the name. A micro flinch of increased vigilance.
“Are you Seacrest?”
“This dog won’t bark.”
“Then we’ll talk when it does,” said Heat. This was the hardest of hardball, but with the stakes she was playing for, Nikki would bare-knuckle it to the bitter end. The agent seemed to get that, and shifted to Rook.
“I’ll ask you. Who did you see and what did you discuss?”
“Those are private matters. I am hereby claiming the protection of my rights as a journalist under the U.S. Constitution.”
He switched back to Heat. “So, for the record, you are refusing to cooperate with an official national security investigation?”
“Of course I’d cooperate with an official investigation,” she said. “But an official, bona fide investigation would walk through the front door, not resort to carjacking and intimidation. This is official? All I see is a rented warehouse and two cowboys in a trailer with a science kit. If this is official, Agent Callan, go through channels at One Police Plaza and I’m all yours. Otherwise, it’s you, me, and a throwdown with some folding chairs.”
Agent Callan closed the file and tapped his thigh with its edge while he chewed the inside of his mouth. He glanced at his partner, who only nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Go.” But as they collected their luggage, he added, “Oh, and Rook. You can claim protection under the Constitution. But let me warn you. Considering what you two are messing in, you may find that protection sorely lacking.”
They decided to eat in that night. Heat wanted to work and they both craved some of Rook’s famous pasta carbonara. As Nikki pored over notes at the dining table in his loft, Rook got to s
licing and dicing on the other side of the counter. “Do me a fave?” he asked. “Careful where you step. My little Scotty dog statuette that lives on the table by the couch may be an earthquake casualty. It’s MIA—Missing in Aftershock.”
“Oh, poor Scotty … I’ll keep an eye out.” She bent and walked the area without finding it, and ended up in the kitchen. “Mm, bacon smells great. How soon?”
“When the water boils. And please, do not watch that pot.”
Too late. She was already reaching for the lid. “Seems like a lot of water.”
“On the Food Network, Alton Brown specifically says not to cook pasta in less than a gallon.” He took the lid from her and replaced it. “Why don’t I grate my Parmigiano-Reggiano while you relax and find a killer. Deal?”
While he cooked, the squeak of her marker on the whiteboard they had nicknamed Murder Board South mixed with the chop of his chef’s knife on the Boos Block. “Pop quiz, Rook. What have we learned from our DHS carjacking?”
“You mean, besides that automobile travel with you is repeatedly fraught with peril? We’ve learned that we are on to something. Otherwise, you don’t get that kind of attention.”
“Including eavesdropping on our conversations and tailing us in Paris. You did recognize Callan’s partner, didn’t you?”
He looked stumped but tried to cover. “Uh, sure. He … I have no idea.”
“Wake up, Rook. He was the guy in the blue suit outside the cafe the other morning acting like he was killing time rolling his own cigarette. Did you see how he looked away tonight when I made him?”
“Ah … sure I did,” he lied.
“Homeland Security is nervous about something. And for all their snooping, our interrogation tells me whatever that is, they still haven’t cracked it.”
“No kidding. Every question he asked told us what they don’t know. And did you see his face when you mentioned Seacrest? And what’s with the swabs?” He looked through the steam rising from the pot to see her circling “DHS Swabs?” on the whiteboard. “So what’s got them operating at DEFCON One?”