“Yes,” said Rook stepping between them. “Do you validate?”
Rook’s hide was still chapped over Joe Flynn’s come-ons to Nikki when they got back to the precinct. “That guy obviously clocked too much time chasing lotharios and degenerates. You hang out at enough hot sheet motels, sooner or later the bedbugs are going to bite.” Heat ignored his grousing and made a list of the handful of names in Flynn’s file of her mother’s tutoring jobs during his surveillance and apportioned background checks on them around the squad. She didn’t post the list on the Murder Boards; this wasn’t for everybody.
Meanwhile, other results started coming in. Eugene Summers alibied out. Customs confirmed from passport records that he had indeed been in Europe in November of 1999. And the night of Nicole Bernardin’s death, TV’s most famous butler had been in LA on a location shoot at the Playboy Mansion. Also, Malcolm and Reynolds had buttoned down Hank Spooner’s whereabouts in the kill zone. At the time he had confessed to stabbing Nicole in Larchmont, New York, his credit card placed him in Providence, Rhode Island, running an arcade tab at Dave & Buster’s until midnight. The detectives e-mailed Spooner’s mug shot to the manager, who confirmed he’d been there until closing, pestering waitresses.
Armed with Flynn’s short list and some background checks on them to read overnight so she could start interviews the next day, Heat and Rook killed the lights in the bull pen and set out for his loft for some takeout and study.
At that time of night, the half hour before Broadway curtain, it was impossible to get a southbound cab, so they surrendered and took the subway. When their train made its stop at 66th, both of them twisted in their seats to see how repairs were going on the tiles damaged by the quake. Work had stopped for the day but, as they pulled away, behind the caution tape and sawhorses, the mosaic of acrobats and divas was well on its way to restoration. That’s when Nikki turned back and noticed the man watching her. The tell had been his eyes, which darted away when she saw him.
She didn’t say anything to Rook. Instead, two stops later, when the man in the rear of the car remained in her periphery, Heat nonchalantly got out her cell phone and typed a note and held her screen on her lap for Rook to see: “Don’t look. Back of car. Gray suit, white shirt, black beard. Watching us.” Rook, not the best at following instructions, surprised her by not looking. Instead he pressed his thigh against hers in acknowledgment and hummed a low, “Mm-hm.”
The man stayed in position through numerous stops. At Christopher Street, Nikki used the bustle of passengers getting off and on to sneak a peek. When she did, she noticed a bulge in his suit coat at the hip. Heat typed, “Carrying.” That made Rook make a quick scope. As soon as he did, the man stood.
Heat watched him by not watching, using her periphery but letting her hand fall casually across her lap, ready to draw.
At Houston, the man stepped off without a glance.
“What’s your take?” said Rook.
“Maybe nothing. Maybe undercover transit cop watching me because I had a bulge, too.”
“Then why did he get off?”
“Guess we’ll never know,” said Nikki, rising herself as the train slowed at Canal Street. “Ours, right?”
They came up the stairs to the sidewalk and instinctively kept their heads on swivels. The intersection, where West Broadway and Sixth Avenue converged, was busy, as usual, but the sidewalk was clear. Then Rook said, “Heat. Blue Impala.”