But Rook picked on her. Why? Because he knew Nikki well enough to short-circuit her guilt reflex with false scorn. One of the first things he had picked up on his ride-along the summer before was how cops deal with emotion by going against it with sarcasm. The first thing he had said to her after he came out of his recent coma was how pissed he was for not catching the bullet in his teeth, like the superhero he was, and spitting it back at the bad guy. Now, in the back seat of the E-320, Rook was lightening her up by accusing her with his tongue firmly in his cheek.
On the Avenue de New York they passed by the Alma Tunnel, and as Heat gazed at the perennial scattering of bouquets and melted candles offered in memory of the princess who met her fate there, she ruminated on secrets—especially the ones that died with those who were privy to them. Her reflection brought her to remind herself that in her world, every event had a cause, and coincidence was simply cause and effect, in hiding.
Until she exposed it.
The death of Tyler Wynn was, foremost, a tragedy for him and, for her, one too many deaths to witness in one week. Beyond that, its acutely untimely nature sealed a door that had only half opened to Nikki. Fulfilling the cruelest—and truest—definition of the word “tantalizing,” Heat had learned just enough to torment her about everything else that remained out of reach.
Rook said, “I guess my wack job conspiracy theories aren’t so wack, after all.”
“Listen, pal, before you spike the ball and do your end zone salsa dance, may I remind you of what they say about broken clocks?”
“You mean that they’re not only right? But beautifully right twice a day?”
“Oh, please.”
“Riiight. That’s such a refreshing word, isn’t it? Come on, Detective, admit it. I called it. Uncle Tyler was a spy.” The driver’s eyes suddenly appeared in his rearview. Rook leaned forward, playing with him just like he goofed with cabbies in New York. “Tell her to admit it.” The driver averted his gaze and quickly adjusted his mirror so all they could see was the widow’s peak of his jet-black hair.
Rook slid back and shifted in the seat to face her. “I don’t get the gloom, Nikki. Especially now. This is definitely a glass-half-full moment—unless, of course, you’re Tyler Wynn.” He observed a brief pause to acknowledge him but then got right back to it. “Look at all the answers you got this morning. I’d think you’d be ecstatic to learn that not only wasn’t your mom’s double life just your imagination, but it wasn’t because she was having an affair. And—how cool is this?—she was a spy in the family like Arnold in True Lies. No, even better: Cindy Heat was like Julia Child in World War Two when she spied for the OSS.”
“I agree, that is something.”
“Damn right. The way I see it, we did Dickens one better. Paris gave us a tale of two Cindys.”
This time it was Nikki who scooted up to the driver. “You want to put him out right here?”
Across the Atlantic, New York had awakened for its day by the time they got back to their hotel, and Nikki worked her phone while Rook hit the streets to forage for lunch. Detective Ochoa took her call solo. His partner Raley was tied up checking on one of the dozens of anonymous tips the squad had received since Hinesburg’s leak to the Ledger. “It sucks, I gotta tell you,” he said. “We have enough legitimate stuff to check out on our own, but since this hit the media, we’re choking on tip pollution. That article slowed the whole case down.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, Miguel.”
“I know, but you’re in Paris with Rook and I want to do what I can to screw with your good time. Hey, maybe I can get Irons to bench me, then Lauren and I can go somewhere fun. There’s an Elvis convention in Atlantic City. I could rock my whole Elvez gig.”