“Will I?” said Summers. In spite of the fact that Rook was an unabashed fan
of the reality star (or maybe because of that), his idol seemed less than thrilled
to see him again. But the Maven of Manners, as the network promos and billboards
advertised him, shook pleasantly nonetheless and gestured them to the living room,
where he had set out warm croissants and jam beside a porcelain coffee service.
Back in the mid-1970s, then-twentysomethings Eugene Summers and Cynthia Heat had
operated as spies for Tyler Wynn’s CIA operation in Europe. They both had been part
of his team, nicknamed the Nanny Network because Wynn’s moles gained access to the
homes of intelligence targets by working in domestic service. Heat’s mom worked
undercover as a piano tutor; Eugene, as a butler. That connection was why Rook had
proposed that morning’s visit to Nikki: to find out if the Nanny Network had a
secret code.
Initially she was opposed. Sharing the existence of the code with Rook had been a
giant step. Widening the circle of awareness—especially to someone once handled by
Tyler Wynn—represented great risk. But Rook’s calling out of the truth, that they
were stuck, led her to agree. As long as they agreed to back-door the subject and
not reveal they were personally in possession of the coded message.
“What brings you here so urgently, Detective?” asked the butler, politely waiting
until after he’d poured their coffees and sat. His posture was perfect, and when
Rook got appraised by the star’s TV trademark Summers Stare, he rose up out of his
slouch. And smiled.
She began her lie with “Just routine, really. As you must have heard, Tyler Wynn is
still at large. We’re just doing our diligence, following up with everyone who knew
him.”
“I had heard.” Summers placed a palm against his top vest button and continued, “
And I read the account of your horrible ordeal in Mr. Rook’s Web article.
Terrifying and heartbreaking.” He paused, and she nodded to acknowledge his
sympathetic look. “But I honestly don’t know if I can be of use. The man certainly
hasn’t been in contact with me.”
“Naturally that’s one of my questions,” said Heat. “Thank you.”
“Good java.” Rook set his cup down, sounding as offhanded as possible. “Some of
Tyler Wynn’s other acquaintances may have received communications from him.”
“May have?” Eugene had smarts. They could see the granules of each sentence
getting sieved and sorted behind his frameless glasses. “You aren’t sure?”
“We’re wondering, that’s all,” said Heat. “As we go through some of the effects
of Tyler’s accomplices, it occurs to me that there might be messages in code that
we would never recognize as such.”
“You want to know what you’re looking at,” said the butler. “For clues.”
“Precisely,” said Rook.
“Did you ever use a code in Wynn’s network?” asked Heat.
Summers shook his head. “The closest we came were the drop boxes I told you about
last time. We only put plain messages in them. Handwritten, and certainly not in any
code.” He grinned. “We were all a bit too rowdy and undisciplined to learn codes,
let alone use them.”
“What about Tyler Wynn?” she asked. “Did he use a code?”
“That I don’t know. You could ask me anything else about Tyler Wynn. I could tell
you his favorite wine, where he got his shoes custom made, the shop where he bought
his Brie de Meaux. But as far as his means of encrypted communication, I’m sorry.”
Nikki stared down at the coffee she’d let grow cold. Just as she put away her
notebook, lamenting the trip and the exposure that had come with it, Rook spoke.
“Eugene,” he began, “something you said just gave me an idea. Tyler Wynn is a man
of specific tastes, right?”
“Oh, please, you have no idea how particular.”
“If you would indulge me some time, could I take a few hours to pick your brain
about some of his habits, his likes and dislikes? It would really help me color my
next article about him. You know, the American James Bond with his custom shoes and
his personal fromage.”
“A couple of hours… I have an interview with Lara Spencer this morning.”