Raley said, “My money’s on Men in Black. If there’s a big flash of light, put on your sunglasses.”
To Nikki, the look and the soberness screamed IA. But there was enough gossip floating around the Twentieth without adding to it, so she kept it on point and asked what they’d learned from the computer. Roach led her to the timeline on the Murder Board. “First thing we learned,” said Ochoa, “was that priest needed a new computer. That fossil took ten minutes just to boot. First we opened up his History and Bookmarks.”
“Always telling,” Raley added.
“Nothing shocking there. A few Catholic sites, Public Television, online booksellers—all mainstream, no erotica. According to his recommendations and recent purchases, he was nuts for mysteries . . .”
“. . . Cannell, Connelly, Lehane, Patterson . . .”
“There were other favorite sites,” Ochoa continued. “A number of charities and human rights organizations. One Chinese, most Latin American.”
Raley said, “That’s where we might have some traction. We opened up his Outlook to check his calendar.”
“He never used it,” Ochoa chimed in.
Raley picked it up with “So we checked out e-mails. He had a message about an urgent meeting from an activist group he was involved with, Justicia a Guarda.” Nikki’s gaze went to the picture at the top of the board, of Graf at the protest rally.
“Literally, ‘Justice to Guard,’ ” translated Ochoa. He pointed to the timeline. “The meeting was ten-thirty the morning he disappeared.”
“Right,” said Nikki. “The housekeeper said the last time she saw him, Father Graf broke routine and left right after breakfast for somewhere unknown.”
“I think now we know,” said Raley.
“It took him two hours to get to a meeting? That’s another time gap,” she said. “Either way, the folks at Justicia a Guarda may have been the last to see Father Graf alive. Boys, take the Roach Coach and go see what they know.”
* * *
Just after 6 p.m., Rook breezed into the bull pen and turned in a circle. “My God, I have been away too long. It’s like coming back to visit my old grammar school. Everything looks smaller.”
Nikki rose from her desk and made a quick check of Montrose’s office, but he had shut the blinds for his IA meeting long before. “Rook, do you even own a phone?”
“You know, there’s a pattern here. Nikki Heat is a woman who doesn’t love surprises. Duly noted. Remember that on your thirtieth birthday, OK?”
He held out a garment bag to her. “What’s that?” she asked.
“At the risk of offense, another surprise. On the news it looked like you might need a change of clothes. Something a little less, shall we say, Type-A Positive?” He handed her the garment bag by the hanger loop. “There’s a Theory store down Columbus. This may be a little stylish for taking down cold-blooded killers, but they’ll just have to adjust.”
She wanted to hug him but let her grin say it. Then, what the hell, she kissed his cheek. “Thanks. I love surprises.”
“Woman, you have my head spinning.” He took a seat in his old chair from his ride-along days. “We don’t have to go now if you’re busy.”
“Busy hardly describes it.” She looked around to make sure she wasn’t broadcasting. “Things are even tougher between me and Montrose.” She drew closer and whispered, “He’s got Internal Affairs in there for some reason. Plus, I had one of my borrowed detectives from Burglary transfer out today. In a huff.”
“Let me guess. Rhymer. What a weasel. I never bought that whole Opie act.”
“No, Rhymer’s solid. His partner, Gallagher, quit.”
“In a snit?”
“Stop it.”
“Or I’ll get hit?”
“Count on it.”
“No . . . kidding?” While they chuckled, his cell phone rang. He made a puzzled look at his caller ID. “Don’t let me hold you up, I’ll take this.” As he left the room, she heard him exclaim, “Oh my God. Is this Tam Svejda, the Czech who loves to bounce?”
* * *