Heat never went home. She kissed a reluctant Rook good night, caught a radio car
uptown to West 82nd, and napped on the cracked leather couch in the bull pen break
room. After a brief but deep slumber, she made some coffee and drank it sitting in
her rolling desk chair in front of the Murder Boards. Her grogginess actually helped
her think. Before the snooze, her brain had been a primate house at the zoo,
chattering with details; rowdy thoughts slinging on ropes and jumping from high to
low. The solitude of the bull pen helped Nikki shoo the monkeys. By the time Raley,
Ochoa, Rook, and the others gathered for their early roll call, she had some new
ideas to share with her crew. One of them felt big.
“Tyler Wynn is dead,” she began, then had to pause when Detective Hinesburg
thought it would be cute to applaud. She did so alone, then stopped in the nakedness
of silence and stares. Heat continued, “This time, it’s verified, but we are far
from resolved. In fact, a dying declaration he made to me not only leaves this case
open, it kicks off a new phase that’s going to require doubling our efforts.”
While they stirred their first cups and bit off bagels, they also made notes as Heat
recited the last words of the dead spy. “As frustrating as it is to get left with
more questions than answers, at least he gave us something. It’s up to us to turn
that into enough.” Preemptively, she voiced the questions she knew they were asking
—the same ones Bart Callan had asked her in the ER a few hours before—the same
ones she had been asking herself all night. They were already numbered on the
whiteboard behind her: (1) What kind of terror event? (2) When? (3) Where? (4) Who
is behind it?
“Let’s start with what we know, starting with where.” She block-printed the
initials “NY” beside number three. “Pretty general, but it’s a start. As for the
type of event, calling it bigger than 9/11 and involving mass death broadens the
scope beyond shooters, a car bomb, or the like, although nothing can be ruled out. I
have a notion here that I’ll come back to.” She made eye contact with Rook, who
smiled slightly, knowing she was percolating something.
“Who’s behind it? Who knows? I’ve already briefed the counterterrorism unit,
which tracks foreign and domestic groups. They are on it, but we can’t kid
ourselves. We have our work cut out for us there.” She capped the marker.
“You didn’t address when,” said Rhymer.
“And that is the part that scares me. Let me share some thinking I’ve been doing.
” She came around to sit on a table in front of the boards and dangle her legs,
looking to each of them as they looked back in rapt attention. “It’s safe to
assume the death of my mother came as a result of her uncovering two deadly things:
the existence of some terror plot, and Tyler Wynn’s involvement as a traitor to the
CIA.” She paused to allow the predicate sink in. “Although she was killed, my
mother’s efforts must have been disruptive because it appears she turned a mole in
the terror group, a biochemist, who himself died suddenly weeks later. We’re
awaiting a new autopsy on him, but I’m working from the assumption of an execution.
Everyone on board the ride so far?” They assented. She slid off the table and
walked to the front of the room. “So this plot got derailed for years. We don’t
know why or how.”
Rook said, “Maybe Ari Weiss’s death put a freeze on things. He was definitely a
key man if he’s having secret meetings in cars with Tyler Wynn’s cronies like we
saw in that PI’s picture. That happened a lot in revolutionary groups I’ve
covered. One of the leaders dies or goes to prison, and they have to shut down to
regroup or re-recruit.”