“And me,” said Nikki.
“There she goes.” Rook winked at Feller, then turned to Nikki. “It’s all about
you, isn’t it?”
“Do you think Salena Kaye killed him?” asked Sharon Hinesburg. Randall Feller wasn
’t the only detective unable to resist joining the brainstorming session. But such
engagement was rare for Hinesburg. Maybe she was trying to turn it around, after
all.
“Kaye would certainly top the list,” said Heat.
Feller crinkled his brow. “But isn’t poison her MO of choice?”
Nikki said, “Best choice is the one that’s effective.”
“And we’re sure he wasn’t building a bomb and it went off on him?” asked Feller.
Heat shook no. “There weren’t any bomb-making materials in his apartment.”
“Please,” said Rook in mock indignation. “This is Sutton Place we’re talking
about. The condo board wouldn’t have it.”
“Concierge records indicate a package delivered to his apartment,” Heat explained.
“Local messenger service, no trace. Probably bogus.”
“So if he wasn’t right beside the blast,” said Rook, “the package probably wasn
’t rigged for opening.”
“That leaves a timer or a remote detonation.” Heat did another e-mail scan. “I’m
still waiting to hear that determination. Forensics and Bomb Squad are both on that.
”
“You’ve got a lot on your plate,” said Detective Hinesburg. “How about if I
follow up and see what gives?” Nikki approved of the weak link trying to redeem
herself and said sure.
Whether it was old-fashioned Heat Guilt or just to prove to herself that she could
juggle it all, Nikki spent the rest of the day chipping away at the Rainbow case.
She had finally surrendered to calling it that, which, hours later, constituted the
only movement in the entire investigation. Satisfied that her squad remained
diligent and engaged in the hunt for Rainbow, Heat allowed herself an indulgence.
Like scratching poison ivy, she couldn’t restrain herself, even though she knew the
act would likely do more harm than good.
“Hallo, this is Vaja,” said the man on the other end, whose soft voice and
Eurasian inflections made her picture him in a Tbilisi coffee house reciting poetry.
“Dr. Nikoladze,” said Heat in a cheery tone, keeping it casual, “Nikki Heat. How
’s dog business?” She could hear the breeze off the Hudson against his mouthpiece
and the distant kennel sounds of his Georgian shepherds. “Am I going to be seeing
you this winter at Westminster?”
“We had this conversation already, Detective. Good evening.” The phone rustled, a
dog barked, and the line went dead. “Call Ended.”
She looked up from the blank glass of her iPhone screen, shaken out of her
preoccupation by Rook, who had pulled on his sport coat and slung his Coach
messenger bag over his shoulder. “I’ve got at least another hour or two to go
here,” she said.
“Yeah, I figured.” He adjusted the wide strap of his bag to lie against the soft
of his neck at the collar. “I got a call and have a meeting. Cocktails, and it’ll
probably turn into dinner.” Nikki’s solar plexus tweaked. In an irrational flash,
she envisioned him and Yardley Bell in one of their spots. Boulud, Balthazar, or
Nobu. Or, worse, one of the old Jamie-Yardley haunts from when they were a couple.
“It’s more magazine business,” he said.
“Good stuff, I hope.”
“We’ll see. My agent has set me up with some movie execs from Castle Rock. Just
exploratory, but they want to talk about optioning the Heat pieces for film.”
Nikki would almost have rather it were candlelight and mutually fed strawberries
with Yardley. Well, maybe not, but close. “Are you kidding me? A movie? Based on my
… pieces?” She spat the word. The bull pen had mostly cleared for the night, but
she kept her voice down anyway.