“And The Texan, and Derek Snow,” added Raley.
“And Soleil Gray. She’s still in the thick of this somehow. Make sure you flash all four of the pictures I put in your files—you never know.” Nikki kicked herself for waiting this long to let the Padilla investigation shift into this mode. Unfortunately, the reality of the job was such that as much as she tried to invest in each case to the eyeballs, at a certain point, it did become a matter of triage. It had to. Cassidy Towne was the high-profile victim, and meanwhile the Esteban Padillas of the world got nicknames like Coyote Man or, worse, slipped through the cracks anonymously. The saving grace, she thought, if there was one, was that Cassidy’s murder might be a step to solving his. That kind of justice was better than none. At least that’s how, if you were a detective with a conscience like Nikki Heat, you lived with it.
“Lauren give you a TOD for the concierge?” said Ochoa.
“Yes, one more wrinkle.”
Raley clutched his heart melodramatically. “I don’t know how many shocks I can take, Detective.”
“Do your best. Derek Snow’s murder was the same night as Cassidy Towne’s. Lauren’s best window is midnight to three A.M.”
“In other words . . . ,” said Raley.
“Right,” Heat answered. “Roughly an hour or two before Cassidy’s.”
“And just after his call to Soleil,” said Rook.
She stood and swirled the last of her coffee in the cup. “Tell you what I’m going to do. While you get to work on Mr. Padilla, I’m going to go have another chat with Soleil Gray and challenge her on her lack of candor.”
“Yes,” said Rook, “she has given us quite a song and dance.”
The others didn’t even bother to groan. They just got up and left him sitting on the bench, alone. A Jack Russell tied to a bike rack, waiting for its owner, looked over at him. Rook said, “Cats, huh? Can’t live with ’em, can’t seem to catch ’em.”
Just minutes later, Heat and Rook approached Soleil Gray’s apartment in a slightly more Village-y block of the East Village. To get there, they walked, passing head shops, tattoo parlors, and a vinyl music walk-down. It was that time of evening when there was just enough light left to see the pink jet contrails overhead in the teal of the gloaming. Dozens of small birds chirped as they found roosts for the night in the canopies of trees set in the sidewalk. In the morning the trees would make excellent platforms for garbage swoops. Threading through a crowd waiting on the sidewalk outside La Palapa, Rook spied some mighty inviting margaritas at the window tables and, for one, brief, impulsive flash, wished he could just lace his arm through Nikki’s and steer her inside for some serious downtime.
He knew better. More to the point, he knew her better.
A housekeeper answered on the squawk box in the vestibule. “Miss Soleil no here. You come back.” Her voice was old, and she sounded sweet and small. Rook imagined that she might even actually be inside the little aluminum panel.
Back down on the sidewalk, Nikki flipped through her notes, found a number, and called Allie, the assistant at Rad Dog Records. After a short conversation, she closed her phone and said as she started walking, “Soleil is at a TV studio rehearsing a set for a guest appearance tonight. Let’s surprise her and see what shakes loose.”
As they strode by, Rook looked longingly at a deuce that had just opened up in La Palapa. Downtime would have to wait. He hurried to catch up with Nikki, who was already at the corner getting out her car keys.
His brake lights turned the weeds red as Raley backed the Roach Coach into the driveway that went nowhere but a small vacant lot between a taqueria and a three-story row house that was listed as Esteban Padilla’s address. “Careful, man, don’t hit that shopping cart,” from Ochoa.
Raley gophered his neck for a better view in the mirror. “I see it.”