“Look, we covered that. He lost his temper. He was the lion protecting his cubs. In fact, that’s why I’m calling.”
Here it was, thought Nikki. Never failed, the cream center in the Oreo cookie of a peacemaker’s phone call. “He wanted me to ask where you stood with that stalker of his.”
The question, not to mention the thin pretext for the call, irritated her, but Nikki actually sympathized with it. The kid from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, might be a millionaire, but Toby Mills was a dad whose family was harassed. “I’ve got a detective assigned to that, and we’re working with two other precincts to find him. Tell your client we’ll let you know whenever we turn up anything.”
“Appreciate that,” he said. And, having delivered his message, he made a quick good-bye.
Rook stood in the Observation Room of Interrogation 2, holding two cups. One was steaming and the other was sweating chilled condensation onto his fingers as he looked through the magic glass at Raley and Ochoa, who had commandeered the mini conference table for their paper chase. He set down the cold cup so he could open the door, then made sure to put a smile on and entered to join them.
“Hey, Roach.”
The two detectives didn’t look up from the phone records spread before them, nor did they address Rook. Instead, Raley said to his partner, “Look who just gets to roam free around the building now, unsupervised.”
Ochoa glanced at the visitor. “Not even wearing a leash, what’s that about?”
“Well,” said Raley, “he is paper trained.”
“That’s funny from you.” Ochoa chuckled. “Paper trained. Clever.”
Raley looked up from his work, at the other cop across the table. “Clever?”
“Come on, Rales, he’s a writer. ‘Paper trained’?”
Rook laughed. It sounded a little forced because it was. “My God, is this Interrogation 2, or have I stumbled into the Algonquin Roundtable?”
Roach put their noses back into their printouts. “Help you, Rook?” said Ochoa.
“Heard you guys were flogging the paperwork pretty hard, so I brought you some refreshment.” He set a cup beside each. “One coffee, hazelnut creamer for you, and for Detective Raley, some sweet tea.” He noticed an eye flick from Raley to Ochoa. It transmitted some disdain, low-grade stuff, like the vibe he had gotten from them since his return. After both muttered absent “Thanks, man”s and just kept reading, he almost left. Instead, he sat.
“Want a hand with this? Maybe spell one of you?”
Raley laughed. “Hey, the writer say he wants to spell us, that’s clever, too.”
Ochoa gave him a flat stare. “I don’t get it.”
“Forget it, just forget it.” Raley turned sideways in his chair and stewed.
Ochoa enjoyed his moment of busting his partner’s chops and then air slurped his coffee, which was still too hot to drink. He set down his cup and then rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands. Poring over phone records was just one typical donkey chore in a detective’s day. But Esteban Padilla had had several phones and made a lot more calls than they had anticipated for a produce truck driver, and this task, after so much seatwork looking through limo manifests, was making both cops paper blind. It was why they had moved the chore to Interrogation. Not just for the table space, but for the peace. And now, here was Rook. “OK. Want to tell us what this is about? The waiting on us, the ‘Howya doin’, Roach,’ the offer to help with all this?”
“All right,” said Rook. He waited for Raley’s attention, which he got. “Yeah, it’s sort of . . . Call it an olive branch.” When neither detective responded, he continued. “Look, you know and I know there has been an undercurrent of tension since the moment I saw you in the kitchen at Cassidy Towne’s. Am I right?”