“Carter Damon. He was lead on my mother’s case.”
“Oh yeah, I remember him. From the Thirteenth.” Irons surveyed the crime tape and the fractured planter beside Nikki’s tipped-over chair. “Let me ask you this. He ever show up?”
“No, sir.”
“You find that curious?” He inclined his head to Rook and muttered, “You should be getting some of this down.” Rook just winked and tapped his forehead with his finger.
Nikki said, “I found it curious enough to call the One Twenty-second in Staten Island to send some uniforms to drop by his house.”
“Already? Quick thinking,” said Irons, which only made her fume. She was so close to insubordination, it was lucky he spoke again before she could. “They get him?”
“No. And there’s an accumulation of mail and newspapers at his door.”
“Want me to put out an APB for Carter Damon?”
“Already done, sir.”
“Well, then.” The captain stood jangling pocket change, then pulled back his cuff to see his watch. “You know, Rook, since everything’s in hand here, we could—”
“Thanks the same, but you’ve already given me a lot to think about for one night. And I should probably hang out with Detective Heat.”
“Sure thing,” he said. The captain waited an awkward moment then got in his car. After he put it in gear, he powered down the passenger window and called across the front seat, “Alert me, twenty-four-seven, if there are any developments.” Then he drove off.
“Who talks like that?” said Heat.
“A man hoping to be quoted.”
She hated leaving Rook, so warm and naked under those sheets the next morning. He didn’t make it any easier. “Sure, use me and go to work. I feel so cheap.” And then he added, “There’s a twenty on the dresser. Get yourself something nice.” That’s when the pillow landed on his face.
Before Nikki got into the shower, she did her ritual check of personal electronics. She came back into the bedroom holding her cell phone. “Rook, listen to this. I got a text from Carter Damon at four-fifteen this morning. It says, ‘Heat. I am so sorry.’”
“For setting you up to be killed?” He looked at the text and handed the phone back to her. “Who says manners are dead?”
Nikki had already put in a good two hours when Rook strolled into the bull pen at nine. “Just got word from Detective Malcolm on Nicole Bernardin’s cremation,” she said. “Order came in from a mortuary that went out of business last year.”
“Let me guess. Seacrest Mortuary?”
“No, but I hear what you’re getting at. How bad is it, Rook, when even your wack conspiracy theories are nothing compared to this case?”
“Guess I just need to get wackier.” He handed her a Starbucks. “Here. Now try not to get a bullet hole in this one.”
“You know, I’m not one to give anyone the finger, even in jest, but I’m considering breaking my rule. You’re just that special.” She took the cup and saluted him with it. “What’s the story in Tribeca?” she asked.
“Fingerprint techs were still dusting my loft when I split. They’ll be most of the morning, but basically, they’re telling me not to hold my breath. Except for one set of yours, from opening it, there are no prints to get off the filing cabinet.”
“Wiped?”
“With extreme prejudice—a phrase that now seems apt. Same with the front doorknob and the door to the office. No prints even to lift.”
“I’m trying to reconstruct the pictures in that box to figure out what someone would want, but I’m drawing a blank. I should have kept them in a safe.”