“Nice to know when Rook’s not here there’s somebody to pick up the know-
it-all slack,” observed Raley.
Since Detective Feller had demonstrated a special interest, Heat assigned him to
make checks of area hobby, craft, hardware, and toy stores to see if they had any
customers worth checking out. “Detective Rhymer, you assist. I’m sure this string
is also available on the Internet. Find out who sells it and contact those sites for
customer records.”
A civilian aide came in from the front office and handed a message to Heat, who
digested it and addressed her crew. “A foot patrol making checks of trash cans
discovered a three-foot coaxial cable not far from the Eleanor Roosevelt statue.
Forensics has it now. It’s only prelim, but there appear to be traces of makeup in
the center of the cord.” Heat reflected on the tissues she saw protecting Greer
Baxter’s collar from her TV makeup and said, “That would be consistent with our
strangulation.”
“What about the Rollerblade wheel?” asked Rhymer.
“Strange, isn’t it?” said Heat. “The strings are plenty creepy, but the
Rollerblade is weird, too. Forensics says it’s a brand-new, standard polyurethane
inline skate wheel, no prints, no wear. It’s straight from the package.” She
reflected a moment and said, “Sharon?” Detective Hinesburg sat up like she’d been
poked with a stick. “I’d like you to team with Raley and Ochoa and run the skate
wheel.”
That evening, when the shift had ended and Heat had the bull pen to herself, she
embraced the stillness to contemplate the Murder Boards and let her instincts talk.
The case work had not yielded any new clues, and her cop sense told her that the
elimination of the few leads they had was not a negative but a means to an end. For
instance, both George Putnam and his wife’s alibis had been confirmed. Similarly,
Roy Conklin continued to check out as a man who was easy to love but difficult to
investigate for that very reason.
Nikki sat on her desktop, letting her eyes drift from board to board, letting the
known elements speak the mind of a serial killer over the low hum of fluorescent
tubes. String. String was the literal common thread. What else? Oddball props. A
dead rat. An inline skate wheel. How were they connected? Or were they at all?
Geography. The obvious. Both victims had been found on the Upper West Side, in
particular, the Twentieth Precinct—a self-canceling clue because it meant the
killer lived or worked there, or else traveled there to kill away from his home
base.
Minutes passed, maybe even an hour. When Nikki got into this flow, she not only lost
time, she hid from it. She reached for her notebook and wrote one word: “Jobs.”
What came to her was more than just that both victims had been either mutilated or
killed by an instrument related to their work: the restaurant inspector by an oven;
the TV reporter by a coaxial cord, the kind used to connect cable TV. Those
similarities were already top-lining the squad conversation. This was something not
as obvious, but close enough. She called Roach, Feller, and Rhymer back to the
precinct.