Of all the pictures Heat had looked at that day, the one she would have loved to
have taken was of Captain Irons when she told him that she had put out an APB on
Rainbow. Wally’s elation at the news of a break in the case made a hairpin turn
when he learned that the prime suspect was Glen Windsor—the same Glen Windsor whom
the precinct commander had photo-opped himself with at his Roosevelt Hospital news
conference. The New York Ledger’s full-page photo of the grinning Iron Man with his
arm around the rescued victim’s shoulder still sat faceup on his desk,
accidentally-strategically placed for the stray office visitor to notice and inquire
about.
The tabloid hit the captain’s trash can with a shunk that was audible in the bull
pen as Heat left the briefing.
Rook stopped by her desk. “Congratulations,” he said. “You broke it. You ID’d
Rainbow.”
“Congratulations? Rook, I only ID’d him because he wanted me to. And let’s not
forget he’s still out there somewhere and he still wants to kill me. Personally? I
’d hold off on the champagne until we catch him.”
Rook said, “On the plus side, you just saved me three hundred bucks on a bottle of
Cristal.”
“Maybe to bathe in. I was thinking more along the lines of a magnum of the 2005.
That’s going to set you back fifteen hundred.”
“Where does a cop learn about luxuries like that?”
“Hey, I’ve been doing a ride-along, too, you know.”
“Do I ever.” He grinned his dopey grin then noticed on her desk the hard copy of
Glen Windsor’s picture from the iPad. “I’ve been thinking about this guy. Perfect
job for access, huh? A locksmith—I’ll bet that’s how he really got into your
place. That jimmied window was just to throw you off. Plus he installs security
systems. Which is probably why none of the surveillance cams were operating anywhere
he struck.”
“Yeah, trust me, I’ve been thinking about that, too.”
“It makes perfect sense, in hindsight.”
“Hindsight.” Nikki dropped her head and moaned. “The shoe every detective kicks
herself with.”
“Hey, I didn’t see it, either. But then, I’m just a writer boy, not a trained
homicide investigator.”
“Ass.” She poked the Coach bag hanging from his shoulder and made it swivel.
“Where you headed?”
“Magazine stuff. OK, a lunch about another option offer. I’m trying not to put it
in your face.” He reacted to her sniffing the air. “What.”
“Is that pineapple I smell? And chocolate-dipped strawberries? Tell me, Rook, does
George Clooney’s fruit basket taste more vibrant than the ones I get from Whole
Foods?”
“In fact,” he said, “it not only tastes more vibrant, there’s something about a
Clooney kiwi. One bite, and I feel like I can make a difference in this world. And
look damn fine doing it.” He flicked his eyebrows at her and left.
Detective Feller swiveled his chair toward her and said, “Glen Windsor update.
Traffic Department just located his locksmith truck parked a block from his shop.
Forensics is going to scrub it.”
“Good, thanks.” Then, remembering Rainbow’s history, she said, “Randall, run a
check for other vehicles registered to him, out of state. Check Connecticut and
Rhode Island first.”
“This is your King of All Surveillance Media calling,” said Detective Raley.
Heat smiled into her phone at the sound of his voice. “Is that why I don’t see you
at your desk? Are you in your realm?”
“Come hither,” he said and hung up.
Detective Feller snagged her on her way to Raley’s makeshift studio. “You were
right. Got a DMV hit from Connecticut on a vehicle still registered there to Glen
Windsor.” He handed her the DMV fax. She read it and frowned. “What?” he asked.