“Yes. See who’s out of prison, any recent activities, especially around the
areas the victims lived or were found.” When she said it, his face lit up. Heat
would have felt better about this bolstering if he weren’t her precinct commander.
“On it,” he said as she left.
When Heat returned, she didn’t find Yardley Bell at her desk anymore. But she saw
the agent across the bull pen, standing in front of her Tyler Wynn–Salena Kaye
Murder Board, studying it. Rook came up behind Nikki wrapped in a smog of artificial
cinnamon, stirring his oatmeal. “Hey, look who’s here.” Then his brow creased. “
You two aren’t going to have a duel or anything, I hope.”
“No, we’ve sort of buried that hatchet. But still, I am not too crazy about her
hanging out, surfing our board, looking over our shoulders, you know.”
“You still hate her.”
“Not at all—Much—A little. She’s just sort of an uncomfortable presence. In
here. Right now. Think you could—?”
“Done.” He took a few steps and circled back. “You sure you don’t mind that I—?
”
“Go.”
With mixed feelings, Nikki went to her desk, watching Rook chat up his ex: Why,
Agent Bell, can I interest you in a hearty breakfast? I can zap one of these for
you. Mm. Now, instant oatmeal may not be as memorable as pain perdu at Charbon
Rouge, but it’s a damn sight better than those mutton-fat pies we gagged down in
Chechnya.
As they walked out, chuckling, Yardley asked, “So how’s it going with the new
article? I saw on your Twitter page you’re getting offers from Hollywood…”
Heat made a survey of the Murder Board to see if anything was up there she hadn’t
shared with DHS, so she wouldn’t be accused of withholding. Satisfied, she decided
to check in with Ochoa. Earlier she’d instructed him to call the bank that held the
credit card Salena Kaye tried to use at Surety Rent-a-car. Ever since, he had been
studying Kaye’s account, tracking her spending for tips to her whereabouts or
anything else that would shake loose a much needed clue as the terror deadline
closed in.
Detective Ochoa handed Heat a printout he had made of Salena Kaye’s credit card
history. “I heard Rook and that DHS babe. Man, what’s wrong with my life? Eight
years of dog hours, a joke paycheck, deadheads either barfing on my shoes or
shooting at me… Writer dips his toe in for a couple months, and George Clooney’s
sending him fruit baskets.”
“You realize you are talking about my boyfriend.”
“Awkward. Sorry. Just thinking out loud.”
Heat started to open the file and then closed it. “George Clooney sent Rook a fruit
basket?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
Nikki dove into the file again, changing the subject. “What did you hear from
Salena Kaye’s bank?”
“She opened the credit card account two months ago under her alias with a cash wire
transfer to fund it as a pay-as-you-go. Banker told me, in this economy a lot of
lenders are offering those for new cardholders or folks rebuilding damaged credit.
You can see that the only charge on it was for the attempted truck rental. I checked
out the Virginia billing address for the card. It’s for an accountant. I use the
term loosely. It’s basically a skeevy mail drop.”
“Dead end?” said Heat, closing the file.
“On to the next,” he said as he moved back to Roach Central.
Pushing forward was all a detective could do. Especially when confronted by brick
walls, you kept moving until you broke through. In that spirit Heat picked up her
phone and called Benigno DeJesus. “Detective,” he said cheerfully, “how are you
this morning?”
“I am in a forensics state of mind.” Nikki asked him to summarize the work he had
done on Salena Kaye’s hideout. She had to force herself to recall that all that had
happened less than twenty-four hours before. Such was the toll of a blended day
after a lost night in Hastings.