“No explanation necessary. I appreciate you making the effort.”
“A number of folks weren’t home. Being that we are so low and coastal, people are heeding the warnings and caravanning to the mainland. The Cross Sound Ferry just announced they’re going to cancel Monday service because of Sandy, and you can imagine the backup of vehicles waiting to get on a boat at Orient Point.” Heat calculated the number of cars she had already seen leaving the day before and could only guess that the exodus now must be looking like the fall of Saigon.
“But I got an interesting piece of news for you. Know how the road forks left to Scallop Pond Road? Of course you don’t, but it’s right near the marina, take my word for it. One of the residents there said that the night we’re talking about, he heard what he thought were kids setting off M-80s, you know, firecrackers.”
“How many?”
“Two. And pretty close together. Bang. And then bang. I asked him to time it out for me.”
Nikki jotted down two bangs. “Is this the right time frame?”
“Perfectly in the hammock.”
“Your witness. Is this person reliable?”
“Solid. Bright guy. Does PR for one of the vineyards on the North Fork.”
“And he didn’t call it in because he thought it was firecrackers?”
“Exactly. You get a lot of that up there, kids being kids. He did step out to investigate, and said he heard two cars speed off, so he thought, why bother, they’re gone anyway.”
Heat tapped her pen on her lips. “He said two cars?”
“I circled back on him to confirm. Definitely two.”
“He say he heard anything else. Voices? Shouting. A cry?”
“I asked. He said that would have made him call it in.”
“Inez, this is very helpful.”
“Not done yet,” said the Southampton detective. “I’ll keep on this, even if I have to put on my waders.”
“Tell me you do not have waders,” said Nikki. She could hear Inez Aguinaldo laughing when she hung up.
Heat spent the next ten minutes in a near-meditative state, sitting in a chair, staring at the Murder Board. The exercise, which she employed whenever she felt “this close” and yet “that far” from a solution helped her clear away the noise of a case and let the graphic elements before her eyes speak to her. Well, she hoped they would. They didn’t always. In fact, sometimes they downright mocked her.
“Detective Rhymer,” she said when she’d had enough and stood to stretch.
“What’s up?” Opie asked, crossing over from his desk to join her.
She tapped a blank spot amid the riot of pictures and notations. “There’s too much white on my whiteboard.” There was a name above the open space. “You were checking on the whereabouts of Alicia Delamater, right?”
“With no joy. Same as last update. No customs dings, not using her credit cards, her cell phone, nothing.” Nikki beckoned him to her desk and he followed, waiting while she went through her notes. She found what she was looking for, copied it onto a pad, and handed the page to him.
“What’s this?”
“Alicia Delamater’s home number in Southampton. Call it and leave a message.”
“All right…” he said tentatively and turned the paper around and around between his forefinger and thumb. “What makes you think she’s going to call me back?”
“Because you are not Detective Rhymer, NYPD. You are the new senior manager of the marketing firm that just won the account to reboot Sean Combs’s White Party at The Surf Lodge in Montauk—And you want to interview Alicia about a job to be the event planner.”
He grinned. “Always thought I would make a good creative type.”
“I have nothing but faith,” she said. “Make us proud.”