“I’m especially interested in this one,” she said, holding up Eric Vreeland’s headshot. Nikki held back his association as Tangier Swift’s fixer, but told Backhouse, “This man was seen in the vicinity of Nathan Levy’s home after his drone attack.”
A look of concern clouded his face. “And this fucker’s out there somewhere? Why don’t you bust him?”
“We did bring him in for questioning. His…um, lawyer got him released.”
“You people are inept.” He gathered his laptop and papers again and opened his door. “You are not making me feel any safer, do you know that?” Then he did a hallway check and strode away before Nikki could give him an answer. Which was just as well, because she didn’t really have a good one.
First thing before she got on the elevator, Heat made another scan of her emails and texts for word on Rook. The passage of time brought a fresh stab of worry with every hour. Knowing that everything that could be done was being done was not enough. On the ride down, Nikki shut her eyes, seeking calm, reminding herself what she and Roach had said in the bull pen, that keeping busy working the homicides was the same as looking for Rook, because she was convinced they were related, even if not sure how.
Armed with new information about Levy’s death threat, Heat speed-dialed Inez Aguinaldo to have her ask Abigail Plunkitt about the incident in Rhinebeck. While the phone rang, the captain decided that, whether it was in her precinct budget or not, she’d put the detective on a plane to Florida that afternoon if her witness was incommunicado somewhere in the middle of the Everglades.
When Detective Aguinaldo answered, there was some urgency in her voice. “I was just taking out my phone to call you, Captain. Abigail Plunkitt is not in Florida. She’s here in New York. Dead.”
The traffic officer recognized Heat’s car as a plain wrap when she pulled up, so without having to badge herself through, Nikki got waved to a spot in front of the coroner’s van on East 3rd Street, down in the Alphabets. A patrolwoman stood at relaxed sentry beside the front door of the apartment building, an unremarkable tan-brick structure sandwiched between a laundromat and a cross-fit gym advertising its grand opening. The uni gave Heat a smart nod as the captain signed in to the crime scene. Following a five-story climb up through the old walk-up, Heat stepped out through the propped-open service door onto the rooftop.
Across the flat expanse, which had been painted white, per the latest eco-trend, Lauren Parry and a crew from the Office of Chief Medical Examiner had set up shop near the victim. Detective Aguinaldo stood with them, taking notes. Nikki paused, performing her usual ritual of respect and remembrance, then let her eyes soak up the area as she approached the body.
Every murder scene is memorable in its own way. The lasting impression made by Abigail Plunkitt was that she didn’t appear dead at all from the rear, but simply like a woman seated in her patio chair, enjoying the view of the Lower East Side. The laid-back quality was furthered by the glass of red wine on the teak end table beside her and the Kindle that lay sleeping on her lap. Only when Heat came around for a front view did it all change. Dried blood formed a line descending from a small hole where her eyebrows met above the bridge of her nose. The rust-colored stream traced the channel formed between her right cheek and nostril, around her mouth to her jaw, then down her throat onto her pale-yellow tee, where it had been absorbed and spread by drizzle two nights before into an oxidized tie-dye. In that sense, this murder scene was not unique at all. “Same COD as Lon King down at the river,” said Heat.
Dr. Lauren Parry peered up at her from her kneeling position beside the corpse. “Normally, I’d say don’t rush to judgment, but I can’t say I disagree.”
“But you’ll need to run your tests.”
“I will.” The medical examiner stood and approached her. “Right now, I’m more interested in you.”