“That phrase is so 1980s,” he said. And then added a barb. “Like Sting.” He speared a tentacle and continued, “No, I see this more like making lemonade out of lemons. Or, more appropriately, sauce meuniere out of lemons and butter.”
The first flight they could get to Paris didn’t leave until four-thirty the next afternoon, which worked fine for Nikki. Damn, she needed sleep. The trauma of Don’s awful killing, the chase—correction: chases, if you counted the faux one with Rook—the myriad stresses over her dad, Irons, her forced leave, the unsolved case, and the emotional ups and downs with Rook, had all delivered body blows. Fold into that an all-nighter at the precinct the night before, and Heat checked out as soon as her head hit the pillow at Rook’s, and stayed there until she awoke to a roll of thunder and rain tapping at the glass across the bedroom.
Rook was already up and dressed, flogging his MacBook for a hotel and calling to arrange a meeting with Nicole Bernardin’s parents in Paris. “Want to know where we’re staying?”
“No,” she said, lacing her arms around his neck from behind. “I’m putting myself in your hands. Surprise me.”
“All right. But it’ll be hard to top the one you gave me the other night.” She swatted his shoulder then poured some coffee while she got on the phone to Roach for a case update.
“What happened with the assignment I gave Feller and Rhymer to canvass Nicole Bernardin’s neighbors about the carpet cleaning van?”
“Nothing at first,” said Ochoa. “Her immediate neighbors had zip.”
Then Raley added, “But since her house faced Inwood Hill Park, Rhymer got the idea that exercisers and dog owners might be habitual passers-by and decided to hang out awhile and see who turned up. A lot of zeroes, but they finally scored a woman who power walks Payson Avenue daily. This lady not only noticed the carpet cleaning van, she tried to hire them to do her place around the corner.”
Ochoa picked up the story. “She rang the bell to ask for a brochure and said the guy got all crabby with her and said to forget it, he was booked.”
Nikki said, “Did she get a description of him?”
“Negative,” said Raley. “The guy never opened the door.”
“That’s bizarre,” said Heat. “Did she remember any company name or get the phone number off the van?”
“Nope,” answered Ochoa. “She didn’t bother. Too pissed off.”
A thought occurred to Heat. “Did she say what color the van was?”
“Maroon,” Roach said in unison.
“A van that same color tried to run me and Rook down the other morning.”
Raley said, “You never mentioned that.”
“I never connected it until now. Put it on the Murder Board. There is still one there, I hope.”
“There is, we’ve got you covered.”
Detective Ochoa added, “Along those lines, please know we’re doing all we can to get something to shake loose on this case.”
Raley continued, “Don’t get too excited yet, but before shift this morning, Miguel and I met up with Malcolm and Reynolds. We thought, just to double-check, we’d walk the area around Bruckner where they found the taxi your shooter jacked.”
Detective Ochoa continued, “There was this pile of old tires and paint cans in the flood control drain up the block. We had some rain overnight, so I thought I’d give it a look in case the runoff carried anything there. I found a men’s glove.”
Heat started to pace. “What color?”
“Brown leather.”
“That’s what he had on,” she said, seeing the gloves grip the shotgun.
“It’s a long shot,” said Raley, “because it’s waterlogged and looks like a dog or something turned it into a chew toy. But it definitely has blood traces and gunpowder residue. Lab’s running it now for prints, inside and out, as well as DNA.”
“Good work, you two. Tell Malcolm and Reynolds, also.”
“No,” said Ochoa. “We’re pretty much hogging credit on this one.”