“Great,” said Rook. “Then lunch after?” Boxed into the obligation, the
famous butler gave Rook his trademark Summers Stare, then said yes.
On the elevator down from his loft, Heat said, “Tell me something, Rook, is
everything in my life all about helping you write your next article?”
“That? That’s not for any article. Here’s what I’m thinking. If I can get a line
on a few of Tyler Wynn’s personal tastes and buying habits, we might be able to
track him down through his purchases.”
The doors opened in the lobby and Nikki said, “That’s a horrible idea.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t think of it.” Then she stepped out ahead of him, hiding her
grin.
The bull pen sounded like a telemarketing boiler room when Heat came in from her
meeting with Eugene Summers. All the detectives were either working their phones or
at the Murder Boards conferring on leads they’d checked out. Except, of course, for
Sharon Hinesburg, whom Nikki glimpsed shoe shopping on Zappos before she boss-
buttoned the screen to an NYPD internal site.
Raley and Ochoa were saddling up for Sotheby’s, to interview a contact that they
met last summer when they solved the murder of one of the auction house’s art
appraisers. Raley said, “If anyone could tell us what oil painting this hand
belonged to, she could.” That made Heat think of Joe Flynn. A top art recovery
specialist like him would also be a great resource. As Roach left, she even scrolled
her iPhone for his number. But before she pressed Call, Nikki remembered her last
visit to Quantum Recovery, and his needy, longing looks. She put her phone away.
Flynn could wait until Sotheby’s had a shot.
Heat checked in with the Sixty-first Precinct over in Brooklyn to get an update on
their search for Salena Kaye spottings. After getting bounced to three different
voice mails, she hung up, called over Sharon Hinesburg, and assigned her to head out
to Coney Island and conduct a search herself. “It’s early in the season for
tourists, so hit the hotels and, especially, the by-the-week apartments.”
The detective gave Heat an exasperated look. “Shouldn’t I be working the serial
killer instead of pounding the pavement on this?”
“Nothing wrong with pounding the pavement.” Nikki couldn’t resist a shot. “I’m
sure you’ve got the shoes for it.”
Early in the afternoon, her cell phone vibrated. Greer Baxter of WHNY, by the caller
ID. Heat let it dump to voice mail, then listened back. “Detective Heat, Greer
Baxter, Channel 3 News. Have you forgotten that I need you on my live segment? We’d
love to hear what’s happening with our serial killer.” Then the news anchor paused
for effect and added, “Unless, that is, you’re hoarding this story for your
boyfriend’s exclusive. Call me.”
Heat felt a brief swell of light-headed rage. At the dig, at the manipulation, at
the distraction. She set the phone gently on her desk and rested her eyelids to
collect herself. “Detective?” She opened her eyes. Feller stood over her, looking
ready to burst. “I got one. I just found the coolest connection between our
victims.”
SEVEN
Detective Feller wanted to show, not tell. Nikki followed him to his desk, where he
gestured her to sit. “Like you told us to, I’ve been drilling down on our three
victims, searching for anything that ties them together.” He reached for the mouse
on the desktop and double-clicked. An image loaded on the monitor, of Maxine
Berkowitz seated on a kitchen floor in sweats and Uggs, surrounded by puppies.
“Been going over all her social media and found this Facebook posting she made
three years ago.” Nikki’s heart grew heavy, as it always did, at the sight of the
joyful smile of a murdered young woman beaming at a camera. “Note the beagle pups,
” said Feller.