“Just driving down to the OCME wondering what you discovered in the last hour and a half.” Heat didn’t do so well at keeping the irritation out of her voice, but it annoyed her to have to chase her detective down for a simple update. One of Sharon Hinesburg’s dubious qualities was that a fair amount went over her head, and if there was any sting on Heat’s comment, she didn’t seem to notice.
“What are you going to say to that writer bastard?” said Hinesburg. “Guy screws with me, he doesn’t get an encore, hear what I’m saying?”
Heat wanted to shout loud enough to make her ear bleed. Instead, she counted to three and calmly said, “Sharon? The housekeeper?”
“Right. Mrs. . . .” Pages flipped.
“Borelli,” prompted Nikki. “What did Mrs. Borelli tell you about the missing objects?”
“Quite a bit, really. She’s something else. Treats the job like a mission. Knows every inch of this place like she was running a museum.” On the other end, Hinesburg turned more pages. “So the bottom line so far is a missing medal from a jewelry box.”
“What kind of medal?”
“A holy medal of some kind.” There was muffled talk as Hinesburg covered the mouthpiece, then came back on. “A St. Christopher medal.”
“And that’s the only thing she says is missing?” ask Heat.
“So far. We’re still doing inventory together,” Hinesburg added, making sure to sound busy. “But the other thing is, Mrs. B. says things are a little off here. Small things. Drawers with shirts and socks not stacked neatly like she does, books slightly out of alignment, a china cabinet closed but not closed all the way.”
Nikki was beginning to get the picture and it was no small thing. It was sounding like someone had done a search of the rectory for something, and it was methodical, not a tear-apart job like she saw most of the time. This was starting to feel careful. Professional, maybe. Her thoughts ran to Montrose. Would he have done a search like that?
“Sharon, keep an inventory, even though Evidence Collection is doing the same. Include a list of anything that’s moved or broken. However minor, understand?” Heat scoped the dashboard clock. “Doesn’t look like I can get up there for a while, so do a sit-down with Mrs. Borelli, if she’s up to it. Get anything about Father Graf that raises a flag. Unusual habits, arguments, visitors, you know what to ask.”
There was a pause. “Sure, sure,” came Hinesburg’s distracted reply. Heat regretted not sending Detective Ochoa like she’d planned. Lesson learned. She made a decision to stop by personally to conduct her own interview of the housekeeper.
* * *
Traffic was miserable all over the city. More people in more cars was a reliable by-product of any sort of weather, especially a bitter cold morning dipping to single digits with a swirling wind. It also made parking a challenge. The “Sorry Full” signs were out at all the NYU Med Center garages adjacent to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. On her cruise up First Avenue Detective Heat could see even the courtesy spots at the entrances were already taken by other cop cars. At 34th she circled back to her secret weapon, the fenced-in Bellevue Hospital lot sandwiched under the FDR. It meant a block’s walk in the arctic blast, but it was her only choice other than circling. The lot manager was too snug in his kiosk to step out when he saw her pull up. All she saw was fingers through his frosted window waving her in.
Before she got out of her car, Heat stared at her smart phone. She scrolled through e-mails again. No, she hadn’t gotten one from Rook and missed it. Once more, she told herself, only once more. Heat pushed send/receive and watched the icon swirl. When it was done all it said was that she was still in emotional limbo.