“Bold,” said Rook, “going after a cop. And in her own home. Guy must be psycho. I thought so yesterday.”
“Or…,” said Heat, deciding to share the feeling she’d been harboring since she saw Pochenko in her living room holding her gun. “Or maybe somebody sent him to get me out of the way. Who knows?”
“We’ll bag this bastard,” said Raley. “Spoil his day.”
“Damn straight,” from Ochoa. “On top of the all-?points, we’ve notified hospitals to be on alert for anybody whose face is only half-?pressed.”
“Cap said you guys already gave Miric an early wake-?up call.”
Ochoa nodded. “At oh-?dark-?thirty. Dude sleeps in a nightshirt.” He shook his head at the vision, and continued. “Anyway, Miric claims no contact with Pochenko since they got sprung yesterday. We’ve got surveillance on him and a warrant for his phone records.”
“And a tap on his incomings,” added Raley. “Plus we have some blue jeans from both Miric’s and Pochenko’s apartments in the lab now. Your Russian pal had a couple of promising rips on the knees, but it’s hard to know what’s fashion and what’s wear and tear. Forensics will know.”
Nikki smiled. “And on the upside, I may have a match for those grip marks on Starr’s upper arms.” She opened her collar and showed the red marks on her neck.
“I knew it. I knew it was Pochenko who threw him off that balcony.”
“For once, Rook, I’d take that guess, but let’s not jump there yet. The minute you start closing doors this early in an investigation is the minute you start missing something,” said the detective. “Roach, go run a check on overnight retail robberies. If Pochenko’s on the run and can’t go to his apartment, he’ll be improvising. Pay special attention to pharmacies and medical supply stores. He didn’t go to an ER, so he might be doing some self-?care.”
After Roach left for their assignment and as Nikki was downloading a report from the forensic accountants, the desk sergeant brought in a package that had been delivered to her, a flat box the size and weight of a hallway mirror.
“I’m not expecting anything,” said Nikki.
“Maybe it’s from an admirer,” said the sergeant. “Maybe it’s Russian caviar,” he added with a deadpan look and then left.
“Not the most sentimental crowd,” said Rook.
“Thank God.” She looked at the shipping label. “It’s from the Met Museum Store.” She got scissors from her desk, opened the box, and peeked inside. “It’s a framed something.”
Nikki drew the framed something out of the box and discovered what it was, and when she did, whatever darkness she had carried into that morning-?after gave way to soft, golden sunlight, breaking across her face in the reflected glow of two girls in white play dresses lighting Chinese lanterns in the gloaming of Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose.
She stared at the print and then turned herself to Rook, who stood frowning beside her. “There should be a card somewhere. It says, ‘Guess who?’ By the way, you’d better guess me, or I’ll be massively pissed I sprung for next-?day delivery.”
She looked back at the print. “It’s…just so…”
“I know, I saw it on your face yesterday in Starr’s living room. Little did I know when I called in my order it would be a get well gift…. Well, actually more like a glad-?you-?didn’t-?get-?killed-?last-?night gift.”
She laughed so he wouldn’t notice the small quiver that had come to her lower lip. Then Nikki turned away from him. “I’m getting a little glare right under this light,” she said, and all he saw was her back.
At noon she shouldered her bag, and when Rook stood to go with her she told him to get himself some lunch, she needed to go on this one by herself. He told her she should have some protection.