Raley and Ochoa came to her desk, each one trying to get there first.
“Detectives, you’ve got those funny looks again,” said Heat.
“I know you don’t like curse words in the bull pen,” said Ochoa, “but see this
grin? This definitely is my shit-eater.”
Raley said, “We spent all morning over in Long Island City at Bedbug Doug’s HQ.
You should see the place; it actually has a giant metal sculpture of a bedbug on the
roof.”
“Anyway,” continued his partner, “we went there to go over the victim’s
accounting books, like you had us do with Conklin.”
“And you found a connection to one of the other victims?”
“No,” said Ochoa, “but we found something you’d call an Odd Sock. Made us wonder
if it might point to a new victim.”
“These are copies from Douglas Sandmann’s accounts receivable.” Raley held up a
file. “We found a pattern of him performing bedbug checks in buildings, but getting
paid by a third party who has no connection with the buildings Doug inspected.”
Ochoa picked up. “So we asked his wife about it, and she says, ‘Oh, yeah, Doug
made some money on the side from that guy because he could get into buildings and
apartments pretending to do his inspections.’ ”
“But he was really snooping undercover for the guy who paid him. You know, the
third party,” said Detective Raley.
“And here’s what set off the alarm bells in our heads,” continued Ochoa. “Know
that little hand snipped from the oil painting the serial killer left us? This third
party guy is in the art business.”
“I assume you got a name,” said Heat. Raley opened the file. Nikki reeled when she
saw who it was.
By the time Heat, Rook, and the other detectives rolled down to the marina on the
Hudson at West 79th Street, Parks Enforcement had already found Joe Flynn’s body.
It bobbed three feet under the surface of the river, tethered between the marina
dock and the fifty-foot ketch he had lived on. They didn’t need a coroner to know
he was beyond CPR; Flynn’s eyes bulged in their sockets, peering skyward through
the murky water from a swollen face. His body had bloated with gas, and his skin had
changed color to a pallid shade of green.
Distant thunder mixed with the pair of diesel 60s from the harbor unit response boat
that slowed up to kill its wake on the other side of the Boat Basin’s wave wall.
The smooth water in the protected marina broke with the first drops of the
approaching storm. Heat got down on one knee. Through the dimpled river surface she
could see the wooden handle of a small knife, something a painter would use—perhaps
a palette knife—protruding from Joe Flynn’s throat. She also noted that his body
wore no shoes. He had a sock of a different color on each foot: one light, one dark.
“Boat’s clear,” said Detective Feller, climbing from belowdecks to the cockpit.
“Detective Heat?” The slight waver in Randall’s voice made her and all the others
turn his way.
Nikki put on her crime scene gloves and climbed aboard.
Wordlessly, Randall Feller stood aside from the hatch to allow her to pass. To
preserve fingerprints and DNA, Heat avoided touching the polished brass rail as she
descended the teak steps leading below to the main cabin, an opulently appointed
space which functioned as the galley and den. Nikki heard footfalls behind her and
made room for the other detectives and Rook to come below.
The cabin had sufficient height for them all to stand, and there—right before them,
at eye level—an eight-by-ten head shot of Joe Flynn, captured from the Quantum
Recovery Web site, dangled from the ceiling. It hung from a row of equal, six-inch
lengths of colored string: red, yellow, purple, and green. Colors of the rainbow.
Finally, after a few silent moments of watching the latest victim’s photo wave
slightly with the rocking of the boat, Heat said, “Do you all see the pattern?”