“Half hour ago, homes,” said Ochoa as he approached. “Shoulda seen Rhymer
after his sip. Opie hit the deck bucking and snorting.” He smiled. “That frothing
was inspired.”
Rook said, “What is it about cop humor? So dark. So inappropriate. So awesome.” He
had learned from day one of his ride-along with Heat that cops responded differently
to sadness and stress than most folks. They hid their emotions in opposites. All
this joking, acting out false poisonings, was more than grabass or gallows humor; it
carried a message of affection that said, I’m worried you almost got killed. Or, I
care. Rook figured it was in the same realm as why the Three Stooges never hugged.
Ochoa wagged his notebook, signaling business. “Just hung up with a detective from
the Seventieth over in Flatbush. She’s in the ball field where your chopper set
down in South Prospect Park. Good thing you held fire. There was a passenger aboard.
Some fashion CEO coming in from the Hamptons. He never got a chance to unbuckle his
seat belt when they touched down and got skyjacked.”
“Technically, if they were on the ground, wouldn’t that be ‘hijacked’?” asked
Rook. He felt their glares. “Please. Proceed.”
“The fashionista says Kaye speed-dialed a call while they were still over the
river.” Detective Ochoa knew better than to drag out suspense and flipped a page to
the witness’s quote. “She said, ‘Dragon, it’s me,’ then something he couldn’t
make out that sounded like ‘busted play.’ Kaye never said anything else, just
listened, then hung up. Five minutes later she was booking east across the empty
Parade Grounds while he sat there with the rotors still spinning.”
Ochoa peeled off to his desk, and Rook said, “I have to shake my head about Salena
Kaye. To think of all the time that woman spent in my apartment giving me physical
therapy. I have to say—helluva massage.” He paused, cheesily relishing something
private, then grew serious. “Of course it kinda spoils the mojo, knowing she was
really only there to plant listening devices for Tyler Wynn.”
Just the sound of his name sent a twinge through Heat. Not just because it reminded
her of the betrayal by the man behind her mother’s death. The CIA traitor still had
some reason to want Nikki dead, and he’d sent his lethal accomplice Salena Kaye to
poison her latte. If Nikki could keep herself from getting killed, she might even
find out why.
That sunny thought filled her head as she gathered her squad around the Murder
Board. “Don’t bother sitting,” Heat said as she block printed “DRAGON” in all
red caps across the top of the display. “We have an apparent code name for Salena
Kaye’s controller.”
“Isn’t that Tyler Wynn?” asked Rook.
“We assume, yet never assume. You know that by now.” Nikki then turned her
attention to Detective Hinesburg. She figured a straightforward task would be
Sharon-proof, so she assigned her to run Dragon and any variations through the
database at the Real Time Crime Center downtown. “When you’re done with that, see
if it lights up anything at Homeland, Interpol, or DGSE in Paris.” She put
Detective Rhymer on checking the cellular carriers to see if they could slurp a
number off any towers near the river at the time of Salena Kaye’s phone call. Heat
bet Kaye had used a burner cell, but she had to be thorough.
Rhymer, as good-natured as his Virginia hometown, smiled and nodded. “Good as done,
” said Opie.
Next she posted a Google Map enlargement of the Brooklyn neighborhood where the
Sikorsky landed. “It’s not likely the suspect had time to arrange a pickup. And
good luck hailing a cab in an outer borough, right? But look here.” Heat pointed to
the map. “The Church Avenue subway station is in the direction of her escape.
Raley, get on the blower to the MTA. Start pulling security cam video from Church
Ave to see if she got on a train and, if so, which direction. Then check pictures
from stops along the line to see where she got off.”