She didn’t wait for Irons’s permission. Nikki opened the door to the hallway where a pair of uniforms waited on post. “Take my prisoner down to Holding.”
It felt like any normal workday in the bull pen, except it was coming up on two A.M. on the biggest night of Heat’s career as a detective. Nikki had Ochoa hitting the phones, extending her initial APB on Tyler Wynn to CIA, DHS, and Interpol, as well as making sure the spy’s name and image made all airport checkpoints plus Amtrak police and Port Authority PD. She’d sent Feller and Rhymer to search Petar’s apartment with special instructions to quarantine all documents, receipts, photos, and computer data. Detective Hinesburg was MIA again, so Heat put Detective Raley on scrubbing those OCME security tapes that had been sitting around to see if they could get a face to go with the gas truck driver who’d sabotaged the toxicology test. No detail of the case existed in isolation for her anymore. Every thread they could eventually connect to Petar would keep him from walking.
Rook came over to Nikki’s desk when she hung up her phone. “Malcolm and Reynolds checked in while you were on your call, so I took the message for you. Let’s see if I got all this. They said they’re glad you’re not dead…. At least I think that’s what they said.” He shrugged. “Oh, well. And then they gave me an update on the Forensics work at Carter Damon’s storage unit. How’m I doing?”
“Ass like yours, you could be my personal secretary anytime. What’s up with the van?”
“They found a set of work boots in it. Size eleven, same as the kind that stomped through Nicole’s apartment. Lab will check them for a carpet fiber match.”
Nikki moved over to the Murder Boards, where she made a notation for the boots next to the other data for the Bernardin apartment. “What else?”
“Traces of blood in the cargo area inside the van. Malcolm said he knew you’d be all over that, and assured you that DeJesus is handling that personally.” He waited while she logged “Blood/DNA” on the board, and then he continued, “Finally, they have good lifts off all surfaces and door handles. They’re running fingerprint IDs now.”
When she capped her marker, he asked, “So who were you on with so long?”
“Prefecture of Police in Paris, France.”
“That’s a toll call, you know.”
“Worth every penny.” He followed her back to her desk and she picked up her notes. “Get this. No record of any attack on Tyler Wynn. No record of his death. No record of him being in the Hopital du Canard. No record of him leaving the country.”
Rook stroked his chin. “Were we even there?”
“No. Not according to hospital records or detectives in Boulogne-Billancourt. They never spoke to us. It never happened.” She tossed her notes on the desk.
“How are you bearing up?”
“It’s like a Road Runner cartoon. I’m fine, as long as I don’t stop and look down.” She touched his arm. “And how about you? How’s your poor wrist after grinding on that bolt half the night?”
“Hey, five more minutes and I would have cut through that thing. How do they make it look so easy on Storage Wars?”
“Real life is never like TV,” she said.
“Especially reality shows.”
Nikki’s phone rang and she picked it up. “Homicide, Detective Heat.” The color left her face. She dropped the phone on her desktop and rushed to the door.
Rook chased after, “What’s wrong?”
“Everything.”