Later that afternoon, back in the bull pen, Detective Heat wheeled her chair over from her desk and stared at the Murder Board hoping it would speak to her. It didn’t happen in every investigation, but with uncanny frequency, if she was focused enough, quiet enough inside, and alert to the right questions to ask herself, all the disconnected facts—the squiggled notes, the timeline, the victim and suspect photos—they wove together in a harmonious voice that spoke to her of the solution. But they did it on their schedule, not hers.
They weren’t ready yet.
“Detective Hinesburg,” she said, still facing the board. When she heard the footfalls draw up behind her, Heat stood and pointed to the blue printing that said, “Graf Phone Records.” There was no check mark beside the notation. “Wasn’t that your assignment?”
“Yeah, well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve got a number of assignments to clear.”
“When?” was all Nikki said. It was all she had to. Hinesburg saluted in a way that irritated the piss out of Heat and returned to her desk. Heat turned back to the board, this time not seeing anything on it, just needing someplace to look while she let her temper subside.
Raley hung up his phone and crossed over with the cap of his pen in his teeth and a notepad in his hand. “Got some info on the Mad Dad,” he said, referring to the altar boy’s irate parent. “Lawrence Joseph Hays. One aggravated assault in ’07 against a neighbor with a barking dog, in his neighbor’s apartment building. Charges suddenly dropped at the request of the complainant. Doesn’t say why.”
“That’s his only prior?”
“Affirm.”
Heat said, “We should pay him a visit this afternoon.”
“That’ll be tough. I already called his office to set a meet—didn’t say why, of course. He’s in Ely, Nevada, on business.” Before Nikki could ask, he said, “I was wondering where it was, too. Ely’s like this teensy dot on the map in the middle of the desert.”
“What kind of business is he in?” she asked.
“He’s the CEO of Lancer Standard.”
“The CIA contractors in Afghanistan?”
“The one and only,” said Raley. “Black helicopters, freelance commandos, and saboteurs for hire.”
Heat said, “Ely must be their training center.”
“I’d tell you you’re right, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Hilarious, Rales. Find out when Hays gets back. I want to talk with him myself.”
* * *
Ochoa called in to report that his visit to the domme’s roommate was fruitless. “Got here, and she’d cleared out. Building super said she rolled out a couple of suitcases last night.”
“Did she leave a forwarding?” asked Heat.
“Not that lucky, I’m afraid. I did call the hotel in Amsterdam her roommate listed with Customs, just in case she knew where she was headed. Front desk says Andrea Boam is still checked in but hasn’t been around for two days. He thinks she and some guy hooked up.” He chuckled. “Interesting choice of words, considering she’s in bondage.”
“Nice to know if we don’t clear this case, Miguel, at least you’ve got some material for the Christmas talent show.” Heat saw the lights flicker on in Captain Montrose’s office and a small butterfly beat its wings in her chest. “Look, I have to go. But Forensics is done with Graf’s computer. When you get back, see what you can find on it.”
Detective Heat kept herself at a discreet distance but saw that Montrose was back but he wasn’t alone. He was behind closed doors with two serious suits she didn’t recognize. It did not look like a happy gathering.
* * *
Later, after they had spent some time going through Father Graf’s com puter, Roach came over to Heat’s desk in tandem. “So what do you make of the suits?” said Ochoa. “Internal Affairs?”