“Yes, and write this down.” She waited for her to get her pen poised, then said, “Something useful.”
“Got it.” Hinesburg laughed and moved off to make her call to Nevada.
Nikki picked up a marker and squeaked the date of the Texan’s return onto the time line on the whiteboard. When she was done, she took a step back to look at the collage of victim pictures, dates, times, and important events swirling around the three homicides. Rook watched but kept his distance. He knew her and knew from shadowing her on the Matthew Starr murder case that Nikki was undergoing an important ritual in her process . . . quieting all the noise, staring at all the disconnected elements to see if the connection was up there yet . . . sitting on the board, waiting to be seen. He remembered the quote of hers he’d used in his “Crime Wave–Heat Wave” piece: “It only takes one weak thread to make a case unravel, but it also only takes one tiny thread to pull it all together.” And as he studied Nikki from behind, words failed him. Then as Rook was enjoying his view, she turned, almost like she knew what he was doing. Busted, he felt his face flush and words failed him again. “Some writer” was the only thought that came to mind.
Nikki’s desktop telephone rang, and when she answered, it was a kinder, gentler Jess Ripton than she had crossed sabers with a few hours before at the stadium. “It’s Jess Ripton, how you doing?”
“A little busy,” said Heat. “You know, fighting crime . . . looking for my next publicity opportunity . . .”
“That was a cheap shot and I apologize for it. Seriously. And think about it. Considering how I make my living, is there any chance I’d see getting whatever exposure you can get as a bad thing?”
“No, I guess not,” she said. And then waited. This was his dime and she was curious about his mission. Guys like Ripton didn’t do anything just because.
“Anyway, I thought I’d let you know that I talked to Toby about the limo driver you wanted to know about.” Nikki actually shook her head at the mentality of handlers like this. Working the wealthier streets of the Upper West Side over the years, she had seen it so many times. The entourages and insulators who think speaking on behalf of an interviewee precludes the need for her to ask the questions herself.
“I wanted you to know Tobe doesn’t recall having any beef with a driver. And I believe him.”
“Gee,” she said, “then what more do I need?”
“All right, all right, I hear you. You’re going to want to talk to him yourself, I know that. And, like I said today, we’ll work out a time. But I’m trying to not be a dick here. Not so easy, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“So far, so good.” She kept it offhand. No sense engaging The Firewall’s firewall.
“I’m trying to get you what you want and, at the same time, get my guy some breathing room to man up for his return to the mound.”
“No, I get it. But you’re right, Jess, I am still going to want to talk to him myself.”
“Sure, and if you can wait a day or two,” he said, “I’ll be in your debt.”
“So what does that get me? Cover of Time? Person of the Year issue?”
“I’ve gotten similar for lesser people.” He paused, and then sounding almost human, he said, “Listen, it’s been on my mind since you took that parting shot at me at the Stade. About keeping my eyes open about Toby?” This is another place where experience had taught the detective to work the silence. She waited him out and he continued. “I don’t worry about him. Like when he says he had no problems with any drivers? I don’t blink. He’s got that common touch, you know? Drivers, waiters, his house servants, all love him. You should roll with him. Treats them right, big tipper, gives ’em gifts. Toby Mills is just not what I’d call a big trouble guy.”
“And where does kicking in Cassidy Towne’s door fit on that good-guy scale?”