Rook said, “Aren’t you going to put her death on the board, too?”
“No. Safe or not, it’s still an assumption.”
“Right.” And then he added, “For you, maybe.”
Raley filled her in on what he had learned about the victim from her coworkers. The whole Sotheby’s office was distraught and shocked by the news. After someone goes missing, you hope for the best, but this was confirmation of their worst fears. Barbara Deerfield had a good relationship with her colleagues, was by all appearances stable, loved her work, seemed to enjoy a happy home life, with kids in college, and was excited about planning a vacation to New Zealand with her husband. “Sounds good to me,” said Raley. “It’s winter there. No unsightly perspiration.”
“Well, check out the family and friends and lovers angles to cover the bases, but my instincts aren’t taking me there, how about you?”
Raley agreed and said so.
Ochoa hung up his phone. “That was Forensics. Do you want the news or the news?” He read Detective Heat’s look and wisely decided this wasn’t the time for screwing around. “Got two sets of results for you. First, the fiber on the balcony is a match for a pair of Pochenko’s jeans.”
“I knew it,” said Rook. “Scumbag.”
Nikki ignored his outburst. Her heart was gaining speed, but she acted as if she was merely sitting through the day’s Tokyo Stock Exchange average while waiting for the traffic report on news radio. She had learned over the years that every case had a life. This one was not near a solve yet, but it was entering the phase where she finally had hard data to sift through. Each piece needed to be listened to, and excitement, especially her own, just made noise.
“And second, you were right. There was a set of prints outside those windows off the fire escape. And we know whose.”
“Duh,” said Rook.
The detective sat and reflected a moment. “OK. So we have one piece of evidence that points to Pochenko tossing Matthew Starr over that balcony, and we have another piece that tells us at some point he tried unsuccessfully to get in a window.” She went back to the whiteboard and wrote Pochenko’s name beside “fibers.” In a blank space, she printed “access?” and circled it.
While she stood there, tossing the marker hand to hand, a new habit she noticed, her gaze went to the photo of the hexagonal ring and then to the bruises on Matthew Starr’s torso. “Detective Raley, how sick are you of screening surveillance video from the Guilford?”
“Like totally?”
She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Then you are going to hate your next assignment.” Then she removed her hand and discreetly wiped it on her thigh.
Ochoa chuckled to himself and hummed the SpongeBob theme.