He chuckled. “What do you like? How about ‘Mr. Jones,’ does that work for you?”
The moment she had completed her message and hit Send, Mr. Jones said, “I see we only have a few more moments to spare here, so let me make this as clear as I can. If you continue to press the issue and follow the path you are on, you will be putting Mr. Rook’s life in jeopardy.”
“If he’s alive, prove it. Let me talk to him. Let me see him! Take me to him!”
“You’re not listening. And you’re assuming I have control of the situation. I am trying to share a clear warning. Unless you want to bring him harm, or worse: Stand down.”
Heat’s heart raced. He sounded like he was wrapping up, and she needed to do whatever she could to keep this man engaged—for information and to stall him until backup arrived. “If you don’t have control of him, who does?” She waited and got no reply. Nikki strained to listen carefully, assuming he was, once again, repositioning. “And where is he? Talk to me!” Still no response. “And who do you work for…Mr. Jones?”
Her only reply was the echo of a slamming door, on the far side of the garage and a floor below. The sound was the theft of hope.
When the cavalry arrived, it was too late. Heat gave a report to the First Precinct lead, but they both knew that a neighborhood search without a physical description would be a waste of manpower. And unfortunately, since Heat had parked in a municipal garage, the security cams were blacked out along with the other services compromised by the Free Mehmoud cyber attack.
Heat put her head together with Raley and Ochoa back uptown in the bull pen. “Whoever it was,” she said, “it was the second no-fly warning I’ve gotten. First from Congressman Duer, and now from this ‘Mr. Jones.’”
“So do you think this mystery voice guy is with Duer?” asked Raley.
Nikki shrugged. “Hard to say. But—going purely by gut? He had a fed vibe. If he’s not Homeland or a spook, he could be former.”
“And, therefore, contracted out to anyone from Duer, to Swift, to the Syrians, for all we know,” reflected Ochoa.
“One thing, for sure. He was pro. And tapped in. Literally. As soon as I texted my ten-thirteen, he put a clock on our conversation. Which tells me he had access to my phone.”
Raley folded his arms and fixed her with a look. “So. Does this guy in the garage seriously think you would stand down?”
“Or that we would?” said Ochoa.
“If he does,” she said, “he doesn’t know me—or us.”
Annette appeared in the doorway. “Zachary Hamner is calling. Shall I transfer here or your office?”
Heat bolted up. Zach had promised to call her the instant anything broke about Rook. “Mine,” she said and hurried to the door. On her way out she called to her squad leaders to hang tight.
“Heat.” Hamner said it the way people tell Siri to look up a contact: as a fact. Like everything else about the man, his tone was joyless and impersonal. “This isn’t an easy call to make.”
“Oh, God…”
“You might want to close your door.”
“Zach, don’t torture me. Is it Rook? Just tell me.”
“No, it’s not Rook.”
Gathering herself again from another shot to the ribs, she heard him cover the phone and tell someone that he would call back in three minutes, that he had a thing he had to do. Nikki was too relieved to feel insulted to learn that she was a check-off on someone’s to-do list.
He uncovered the mouthpiece and got back to her. “Here’s where we are. I am calling to feel you out on stepping down from your command.” Nikki stretched the phone cord across her desk so she could close the door. “Are you still there?” he asked.
“Step down?”
“I told you it wasn’t an easy call.”