“No, I’ve got it,” said Raley, volunteering, but with a passive-aggressive bite to it.
Nikki turned to the whiteboard and posted blowups of official-looking ID photos under the police-artist sketches of the goons from the SRO. “We have names now for this unsavory pair.” She markered each name as she said it. “First, is Stan Victor. Mr. Victor left Chelsea last night with a broken nose and some three-inch galvanized framing nails in his wrist. His partner, Roderick Floyd, left in a coroner’s van.” In red marker she printed DECEASED in all caps. “These are the two men Rook, Detective Feller, and I encountered at the flophouse rented by Fabian Beauvais. A third, who also died at the scene, was one Nicholas Bjorklund.”
She posted a third picture, too, beside the others: a photo ID of the man she had claw hammered. She printed DECEASED in red under him, too, and then went back to the podium to refer to notes. All eyes followed her, mindful and—in spite of chafed feelings—respectful of her ordeal battling those formidable men.
“All three have similar profiles,” she said and flipped open her notes. “All were late thirties, all were career military. Victor distinguished himself by receiving a dishonorable discharge in Iraq, citing sadism and cruelty to a Republican Guard prisoner. All three men returned to combat in Afghanistan and, perhaps, Pakistan as contractors—aka: mercenaries—until about a year ago when passport control shows they reentered the United States about the same time. Detective Rhymer. I’d like you to visit the last-known addresses for Victor, Floyd, and Bjorklund. CSU is already at all three places, dusting and tweezing. Make a pest of yourself.”
“Will do.”
She withdrew another blowup from her file and posted it. “We still don’t have anything on the van’s wheelman, but we do have a street-cam capture of the driver of the Impala while demonstrating the urban tactical capabilities of the Heckler & Koch assault carbine.” She posted the photo and somebody behind her, probably Opie, whistled. The picture showed the face of a man she’d nicknamed the Cool Customer illuminated satanically by the brilliant tongue of flame radiating from the G36 as he emptied his C mag at her.
“Does he even have a pulse?” asked Rhymer. “Dude’s laying down lethal fire, but he looks like he’s chilling at the fishing hole.” Cool Customer, indeed.
“We don’t have any ID on him yet, but this photo is circulating now. It’s out to NYPD, Homeland, FBI, DOD, and Interpol.” Heat’s eyes lingered on the eight-by-tens; then she addressed the group. “As we work these guys I want to know a couple of things. What is such a highly trained collection of contractors doing in New York City? And why come after me? And Fabian Beauvais? And Jeanne Capois, if—as I suspect—they also killed them? And who are they working for?” Keith Gilbert’s head shot loomed over her shoulder. “I have an idea, but I want proof. I want to find a solid connection.”
Ochoa raised one finger. “Miguel?”
“Kinda not how you usually go at it, is it.” The detective didn’t make eye contact with Nikki. He remained slouched back in his chair, concentrating on the toes of his shoes as he spoke. “I mean, you always tell us to keep an open mind…”
“…Beginner’s eyes,” added his partner.
“…And now you’re pushing for proof against Keith Gilbert when there’s other leads, too. All I’m saying.”