“I’ve already asked Forensics to check his F-450 for damage or recent repairs. Why don’t you have somebody up there with you in a bunny suit take a close look at his BMW?”
Aguinaldo called back less than a half hour later. It wasn’t difficult for the CSU tech to note that the M3 had a replacement front spoiler bumper cover and brand-new wheels and tires on the front, as well. There was no other evidence of bodywork. The airbags had not been deployed; however, it did look like the factory glove box door had been replaced. “I searched his desk in the living room and dug out a receipt for the work. It was done last month at a specialty Bimmer shop here in the Bronx. The owner remembered the job and said it was a flatbed truck-in.”
Raley clicked his pen. “From where?”
“I’ve got the address. It’s a wreck-and-tow service up in Peekskill.”
“Hard to ignore how this hooks up,” Raley said when he rushed back into Heat’s office. “Levy’s damaged car gets towed from Peekskill—the town that’s right in-between where the accident happened and the hospital where he dropped into the ER.”
Not yet knowing if this was a meaningful development or just a seductive trail leading into a dead end, Heat was too seasoned to get excited. And yet, she did give herself permission to feel at least intrigued by the news.
“Next step is to get in touch with the tow company,” she said.
“Going to call them now. I just wanted to loop you in first.”
“Hang on.” Nikki had an idea forming and took a moment to reason it through before she spoke it. “I think we need to get some eyes on this situation instead of just calling.”
Raley awakened his phone to check the time. “I could be in Peekskill before lunch. You want me to go up there?”
“No.” When he gave her a puzzled look, she tapped her knuckles on her window. Inside the bull pen, Detective Ochoa turned from the Murder Board and came in. “I want you guys to fire up the Roach Coach for a field trip. Your partner has the details.” She watched the two of them sweep each other with side-glances.
At last Ochoa spoke. “You think that’s a good use of our time?”
Heat already had thought about it. She had witnessed how focusing on the search for Rook had rallied them. Another mission might be just what these two needed: a couple of hours in the car. Together. Raley and Ochoa, just like before. Before her promotion had made them competitors instead of partners, instead of Roach. “Actually, I think it’s the best use of our time.” Then she added, “I want you fellas to do what you do best. Get a sense of things, up close and personal.”
“Oh, I get it,” said Ochoa. “This some takeaway of yours from the cyber attack? Be more hands-on?”
“Something like that.”
On their way out the door, Raley said, “We’re all over this. Like a seagull on a tuna boat.”
“Careful, or I’ll make you take Rook, too,” she called after them.
The young woman with the sad eyes said, “I’m sorry, Nikki, I truly am. You know I’d like to help you, but I can’t.” They were sitting in Lon King’s office. Correction: his former office. Josie Zenger had taken the far end of the couch and twisted to face Heat. The receptionist and office manager for the practice had avoided the shrink’s beige lounge chair on the other side of the coffee table. It remained, and would remain, empty as long as it was there, Heat thought. That was a safe assumption. King’s desktop, always uncluttered, was cleared and dusted, its contents—everything from surface knickknacks to storage drawers—had been boxed and labeled by Josie and now sat in a double row of containers under the window, every one numbered and marked. The books and awards from the shelves must have been in there, too. If it weren’t for the carpet, the room would echo.