“After you left this morning, I did more tracking and found new information on your mom’s account. Don’t know why, maybe it was a data entry screwup, or it didn’t get posted until after the Thanksgiving holiday, but New Amsterdam Bank filed the rest of her November, ‘99 transactions in December. Check it out.”
Nikki leaned in once again, feeling steadier this time, and read the statement. “It says here the two hundred thousand dollars got withdrawn, as cash, the day after the deposit.” She stood up and turned to Rook, who was still at her elbow. “That would have been the same day she was killed.”
“Remember in the hospital, Tyler Wynn asked if you saw your mom hide anything? Could it be the money someone was after?”
“Could be, but think about it, Rook. Ten years, three killings? Isn’t that a lot of carnage for two hundred grand?”
“Depends,” said Ochoa from his desk. “I know guys who’d gut you for a ham sandwich.”
Raley killed the screen on his monitor and said, “Heads up” just as Captain Irons strolled in.
“Heat? A minute?” Instead of leading her to his office, he beckoned her aside to her own desk and stood there until she joined him. “I don’t know who you’ve been pissing off, but I got a call from the deputy mayor’s office saying there’s a complaint about you harassing people on this vendetta of yours.”
“First of all, sir, it’s a case, not a vendetta. And, second, have you ever been on an investigation that didn’t bruise someone’s toes along the way?”
“Well …”
Seeing him standing there, stumped, reminded Heat that the ex-administrator was pretty much experience-free when it came to working the street. “It happens. Who complained?”
“They didn’t tell me. They just wanted to know if you had a plan or if you were just beating bushes with a stick, and I couldn’t answer because I’m kind of out of the loop.” Behind him, Roach mouthed “Kind of?” and Heat had to look away so she wouldn’t laugh. “That’s gonna change, pronto. I’m going to study your latest Murder Board postings and then I want a full and detailed briefing so I can dig in.”
“But sir, what about tracking down the driver of the truck that delivered the tainted gas to OCME? I thought that was your priority.”
“Not to worry. I delegated that to my secret weapon. Sharon Hinesburg.” Irons strode over to the Murder Boards and camped out with his hands in his pockets as he read them, manifesting Heat’s nightmare scenario. Nikki snagged Rook by the elbow, pulled him into the back hall, and shut the door.
“Cone of Silence, huh? Can you hear me, Chief?”
“Grow up, Rook. We need to do something.”
“Who do you suppose complained? Fariq Kuzbari? Oh, I know! I bet it was Eugene Summers. That snarky butler can dish it out, but he can’t take it.”
“My money’s on The Bulldog, Helen Miksit, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is keeping Irons from meddling in the case more than he already has.”
“How do we do that?”
“No, it’s how you’re going to do that. I need you to distract him.”
“You mean be the rodeo clown again?”
“Yes, put on your red nose and big shoes. Try teasing him with a bogus interview for an article. It worked before.”
“True, although past results are no guarantee of future performance.” She just stared at him. “Perhaps I spent a little too much time watching TV in my rehab.”
Irons looked annoyed when Rook stepped right between him and the board he was reading. “Got a minute, Captain?”
“I’m a little busy, as you can see.”
“Oh, sorry. I just had some thoughts about that article I’m working on, but no problem. Later’s fine.” He’d stepped away precisely two paces before Irons gripped his shoulder.
“Be more comfortable in my office, I think.” He led Rook to his glass box.