“Counselor, what a pleasant surprise. Business so tough you’re defending
Sons of Anarchy now?”
Helen Miksit, nicknamed the Bulldog for both her physical appearance and
interpersonal skills, reacted sourly to seeing Heat. “More like son of Manhattan’s
top cosmetic dentist, not that I owe you that explanation. In fact, thought I’d get
in and out of here without having to deal with you.”
“Do you ever return phone calls, Helen?”
The lawyer paused, annoyed, then shouted through the open door to her client,
“I’ll be right in. Howard, say nothing. You hear me? Say nothing.” Miksit pulled
the door closed and turned to the uniform who had warned Nikki. “He have to stand
here?” Heat gave the officer a smile and he moved on. “Detective, you’re a
fucking pest. Two calls a day, sometimes more.”
“All I want to do is have a short interview with Mr. Barrett.” Algernon Barrett,
the self-made millionaire who’d emigrated from Jamaica and made his fortune as the
chef-founder of Do the Jerk chicken rubs and spices, had also been one of Nikki’s
mom’s piano clients. “Barrett may be able to help me locate two dangerous suspects
I’m tracking down.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Heat. You remember when I was a DA and we worked together? I
kicked cops with weak links like that out of my office on a daily basis so we wouldn
’t have the judge kick me out of court.”
“I’m not any cop, Helen, and I know you remember that.” Nikki saw that register
with the lawyer and pressed her case. “I want two minutes to show some pictures.
Look at the upside. I’ll stop calling you.”
Helen Miksit pressed her lips together, as close as she ever came to a smile.
“Tomorrow.” She stepped into Interrogation One. As the door closed, she said from
inside, “Call first.”
Heat found Rook and Detective Rhymer in the temporary command center they had set up
for themselves in the booth Raley used for video screening. The two of them worked
phones, calling retailers of the signature goods favored by Tyler Wynn. When Nikki
asked how it was going, they looked up at her with the vacant stares of galley
oarsmen.
Rook said, “You know, it’s funny. A good idea seems so damned invigorating—until
you actually have to do the work.”
“It’s tedious, but we’ll get there,” said Rhymer, ever Opie in his optimism.
“Let me catch you up,” said Rook. He moved to the giant presentation pad he had
set up on an aluminum easel—complete with a status grid for each item. “So far,
his bespoke shoemaker in Paris says Monsieur Wynn is not due for a new pair for
about a year, according to his buying cycle. C’est dommage. The Barbour coat
department at Harrods is checking with management before they will share customer
information.”
“I’ll call New Scotland Yard, if we need help,” said Heat.
Rook’s eyes lit up. “Scotland Yard? God, I love this work.” As he continued with
his list, he explained they were starting with calls to Europe and the US East
Coast. They planned to work their way west along with the time zones. California, he
observed, was still in bed.
“I should point out one thing before you get in too deep,” she said.
“Am I going to hate this?” asked Rook.
“He may be ordering under an alias.”
“I do. I do hate that.” He turned to Rhymer. “And I was so happy up till Scotland
Yard.”
On her way out, Heat said, “We’ve got a couple of Wynn’s AKAs in his jacket, but
I’d also call your best friend the butler. Find out what other names he might have
used.” She opened the door and pulled in Raley, whose hand gripped the knob from
the hall.
“It’s him,” he said, nearly breathless. “Your serial killer’s on line two.”
She raced for her desk and grabbed the line lit by the blinking red dot. “Heat.”