“Hard to miss,” said Ochoa. “Each color of string corresponds to the string
found with one of the victims.”
“And there’s a new string,” said Feller, speaking for the first time with a voice
that sounded thick in his throat. They all followed him behind the photo. Taped to
its back, a new color—orange—was strung like a clothesline to the forward cabin,
where its end disappeared around the bulkhead door.
Together, Roach moved to the forward compartment to see if it linked to some clue to
the killer’s next target. They were only gone a moment.
Both detectives returned looking ashen.
NINE
“I’m ordering protection for you, Heat. Trust me, this asswipe isn’t going to get
near you.” The springs of the executive chair creaked under Captain Irons as he
rocked back and crossed his arms in front of his belly. She tried to ignore the fact
that his hands could barely meet and he had to be satisfied lacing his fingers.
“I certainly appreciate the support, Cap, but—”
“No buts. I can’t have the NYPD’s cover girl killed on my watch.” So nice to
know, she thought, that his concern for her safety was really just the flag Wally
wrapped around his worry that her murder could be a career hindrance. Nikki would
push back on the round-the-clock detail he had proposed, and win. But even she had
to admit how deeply unsettling it had felt to follow the orange string into the
forward cabin of that boat and see it link from the latest victim to her own
picture. The captain’s cover girl ref wasn’t lost on her, either. The serial
killer’s photo of choice was a printout of her cover shot from Rook’s
FirstPress.com article.
“With all due respect, sir, risks like this come with the job. I’m armed, trained,
and this guy’s worst nightmare. Plus with two big cases in my lap, there’s no way
I can be hamstrung in my investigations by tripping over a detail of unis or grade-
threes who can’t keep up.” Or worse, Sharon Hinesburg, she thought but had the
restraint not to mention.
“Not making me feel any better here, Heat. You’ve not only got two cases going,
but two death threats. I’d say wake up and smell the coffee, but there might be
cyanide in it.”
“Hilarious, sir.”
“You know damn well what I mean.”
Since Heat couldn’t convince her precinct commander with logic or bravado, she
played her ace: fear. “Your call, Captain. Which is why it’ll be too bad when the
media gets word that you did something to slow me down and impede progress on these
cases.”
“Who would say something like that?”
She shrugged. “Things get out. You know that.”
He paused and signaled his surrender by telling her to watch her ass and to call in
backup even if she heard an alley cat screech. Heat left his office feeling
relieved. Good thing she didn’t tell Irons about the return call she’d just gotten
from her NCAVC friend in Quantico. The FBI analyst told Nikki she had gotten two
hits when she added the terms “law enforcement outreach” and “electronic voice
alteration” to her database search for multiple unsolved homicides. In each case a
suspect claiming to be a serial killer had made anonymous contacts with detectives,
in Bridgeport, Connecticut, in 2002 and Providence, Rhode Island, in 2007.
Both detectives were dead.
Heat called Helen Miksit to tell her she’d be a half hour late for the appointment
she’d made with Algernon Barrett that day. Predictably, the Bulldog bristled,
accusing Nikki of playing a mind game to throw her client off balance. “Counselor,
if I wanted to play a mind game, I wouldn’t have made this courtesy call. I would
have left you sitting there wondering where the hell I was.”