“I already am. I just lost it. Past history,” she said. “Done.”
Rook studied her as only he knew how, searching Nikki’s eyes with a tender, caring
appraisal that made her feel more human just for his closeness. Satisfied enough
with what he saw, he said, “Truth is, I can stay here and be told to wait in a car,
or spend the evening in my own office pulling together research for a new article I
’m going to pitch Monday morning.” He smoothed a lock off her forehead with his
fingertips. “And take that as a vote of confidence, Detective Heat, that there
will, indeed, be a Monday morning.”
As he walked off, though, he couldn’t resist a parting Rook-shot. “That is, if you
live upwind of New York. I hear Edmonton is lovely this time of year.”
A troop of cyber and bioforensics technicians joined their Homeland Security
counterparts who distributed themselves throughout the house and kennel. They
performed basic searches for material evidence, plus fingerprints, computer
assessment, bioagent and chemical sampling, and photo-documentation. There was even
an expert to blow the safe embedded in the floor of the master bedroom closet.
“By the way, safe’s empty,” Callan told Heat after the all clear. In the second
bedroom, which Nikoladze had set up as a home office, he pointed to the overflowing
wire basket under the shredder. “Motor on that thing is still warm. It appears the
good doctor had a bit of a confetti party before we arrived.”
“Vaja knew we were coming,” said Nikki.
“He sure knew enough to hide in the kennel,” said Bell. She had been keeping her
distance since their altercation, but professionals had a way of clearing air—or at
least setting personal ugliness aside—in favor of a mission. “That could be
because he spotted us, maybe caught a reflection of binoculars from the hill, you
never know.”
“And it is possible he was a compulsive shredder,” offered Callan.
Heat said, “But put both together, and what do you think?”
“I think we keep looking,” said Bell.
The kennel disturbed Heat in a way that caught her by surprise. The Georgian
shepherds all had been rounded up and taken to a local shelter for care and
examination, so the long, vacant barracks with the pea green walls lit by harsh
fluorescents gave off an eerie morgue vibe. It could have been Room B-23 at OCME,
except it was above ground. There was only one cage, in the near corner. The dogs
slept in a series of individual open pens that ran the length of the east wall; each
had a waist-high enclosure that had been left open to give them freedom to roam.
As Heat walked the length of the outbuilding with Callan and Bell, she had the
morose sense that she was retracing the steps of Nicole Bernardin the way she had
only theorized in the bull pen with her squad. On that night a month before, Nicole
would have been alone, snooping for evidence of Tyler Wynn’s deadly plot. It cost
the agent her life. At the far end, they reached a wall of supply shelves full of
dog food, vitamins, and grooming supplies. Beside it sat a bulkhead door. It didn’t
exist in the zoning blueprints they had acquired, and it looked like it led to a
basement. “Sorry, sir… ladies,” said the man in the white biohazard coveralls and
gas mask. “No entry without a moon suit.”
“You guys love your drama,” said Callan. “This what you call an abundance of
caution?”
“Sir, this is what we call saving your life. Our crew down in the basement has
encountered evidence of bioagents.”
“I don’t know about you,” said Heat, “but I’m all for the moon suit.”