The bodyguard shut Anatoly’s door and took the shotgun seat for himself. All three cars drove a semicircle around them, kicking up a rooster tail of dust. The trailing Peugeot slowed to leave a gap for Kije’s Mercedes to fill in the hammock spot of the convoy, and then they sped away with their headlights doused.
Heat and Rook tasted the fine cloud of dirt that swirled around them, illuminated by moonlight and shrouding them in a radiant fog. When it began to vanish, Nikki saw a reflection on the ground near them and found their cell phones stacked there, each with the battery removed to disable GPS tracking. As they reinstalled them and powered up, the helicopter passed and continued on, seeming uninterested and unhurried. Nikki paused to watch it fly, eclipsing the Paris moon. She noticed that at least it was half-full.
Nikki Heat saw the next night’s half moon rise behind Terminal 1 at JFK when she and Rook piled into the backseat of the town car he had ordered for their ride to Manhattan. In spite of Nikki’s misgivings about leaving New York for Paris, Rook had been right. The brief trip had moved both cases forward. Not enough for Nikki—never enough for Nikki—but the tantalizingly incomplete information she’d gotten over there would fill critical spaces on both Murder Boards. What nagged at her was where to go next. One avenue Heat knew she needed to explore pained her, but she took the step to address it right that moment.
“Hey, Dad, it’s me,” she said when Jeff Heat picked up. To put a cheerier spin on things she added, “What are you doing at home on a big Saturday night?”
“Screening my goddamned phone calls so I don’t get any more ass-hole reporters calling for interviews.”
“Oh, no. Has it been that bad?”
“All hours. Worse than the freakin’ telemarketers. Hang on.” She heard ice cubes tink against glass and painted the mental picture of her father situated in his easy chair command post taking the edge off it all with another Cape Codder. “Even that bimbo from the Ledger showed up at my front door the other morning. Must have snuck in behind one of the residents before the gate closed. Those jerks have no regard for privacy.”
“Yeah, we all know reporters are scum.” Rook whipped his head her way. Then, on quick reflection, the journalist nodded his agreement. “Listen, Dad, are you going to be around tomorrow? I wanted to swing by to talk some more. I’ve learned a few things I think you’d be interested in knowing about Mom.” That, along with asking him to go over the box of photos Lysette Bernardin gave her, presented a valid excuse to drop by. But her real plan was to use the occasion to broach another subject best left for face-to-face. They agreed on a time for the visit and said good night. Nikki tapped end, feeling bad for not being straight with him about her ulterior reason for wanting to talk. She wondered if her mother had felt those kinds of misgivings when she withheld information from them. Then she wondered if Rook had been right, after all, about becoming her mother in that regard, too.
Detective Ochoa had left a recent voice mail from his number at the Twentieth Precinct. “Surprised to find you in the pen tonight, Miguel,” she said.
“Someone has to take responsibility for this case while you and Rook drink wine and eat snails, know what I mean?”
“Well, I’m done slacking. We’re back in town and I’m ready to bail you boys out of whatever mess you made of things.”
Detective Raley popped onto the extension and said, “Did you bring me anything?”
“You’re working, too, Sean? I only hope I can get back in there soon enough to watch Captain Irons’s head explode when he sees the OT report.”
“Hey,” said Raley, “the Iron Man actually made an appearance here himself tonight.”
“Irons? On the weekend?”
Ochoa said, “Yeah, he came in with Detective Hinesburg about an hour ago. The two of them closed the door to his office and listened to some audio recording on his speaker phone and rushed out like they were in a big hurry.”