Raley said, “I told Ochoa they were probably calling Moviefone for the show times of Hot Tub Time Machine,” which made them all laugh, but any Irons activity raised a yellow flag for Heat, more so if it involved Sharon Hinesburg.
They ran down the day’s developments for her. “I finally got confirmation from French authorities on that call the Bernardins said they got last Sunday evening from the mysterious Mr. Seacrest,” Detective Raley began. “It came to their number as an international call, but unfortunately, it was a burner cell, so that trail ends there.”
Heat’s disappointment mixed with relief that Emile Bernardin’s story about the call checked out. Of course, she would have preferred that it lead her to Seacrest, but in the end, upholding the credibility of Nicole’s parents pleased her. “Did the glove turn up?”
“Negative,” said Ochoa. “If you promise not to tell, we have a Plan B there.”
“Tell me first and then I’ll tell you whether or not I’ll promise that.”
Ochoa paused then said, “Detective Feller is going off-road. Even though Irons put himself in charge of anything that even smells like it will break the case …”
“Including the glove,” added Raley.
“… Feller is calling in some old IOUs to do some indy snooping at Forensics to see what he can scare up about the fate of that thing.”
Raley said, “You know what Feller is like. All that time on the street with those swinging dicks in the Taxi Unit? He’s not wired to color inside the lines.”
“So he’s ignoring his commander’s direct orders?” asked Heat.
“Yup,” they said in unison.
“It’s a good thing I’m on forced leave. I’d have to do something about that.”
When she hung up, Rook said, “Who’s dissing Wally Irons, and when can I shake his hand?” But before she could answer, he noticed they were pulling off the expressway at the Van Dam exit. “Excuse me, driver? Aren’t we taking the Midtown Tunnel?”
“Closed down. They shut it for earthquake repairs.”
Nikki looked out the back window but saw no cones, no flashing lights or portable orange construction advisory signs. “Are you sure?” The traffic behind them stayed on the LIE and flowed onward, at speed, toward the toll plaza at the mouth of the tunnel.
The driver crossed Van Dam and made a U-turn onto a side street fast enough to pin her shoulder against Rook’s, then hooked another turn onto a service road leading into an industrial zone of double-and single-story auto body shops and warehouses.
Rook asked, “Don’t you want the BQE to the Williamsburg Bridge?”
But the driver didn’t reply. The power locks snapped down, and he made another sharp turn into a driveway and through the open double wide door into the receiving area of a trucking fulfillment depot. The driver got out, leaving them in the car as the steel double doors rolled down behind them, putting the whole place in darkness. Once more, Heat reached for her hip, found it empty, and cursed to herself.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Rook’s voice in the dark. “This is the last time I use this car service.”
A single fluorescent lamp blinked on and cast sickly blue light down on two men in business suits who descended the ramp slanting from the back of a cargo trailer across the warehouse. They walked calmly but purposefully in matching cadence to their car. The ghosty illumination of the overhead tube caused the whiteness of their shirts to pop in contrast to their suits and ties. As they neared, the one in the brown suit held up his ID and slapped it against the window for them to see.