“Aw, you scared him off?” said Rook. “Too bad. I wanted to get on the line and thank him for the swell barge ride.”
Detective Feller, hearing the conversation, ambled over to Rook’s desk. “Do you think it was a real threat? Like an actual death threat?”
“Mmm—no. It wasn’t specific. Legally, he could defend it as just being a pissed-off dude expressing frustration,” said Heat. “I didn’t realize the forensic accountants had started work yet. A heads-up would have been nice.”
Randall was a dog with a bone. “Screw legally. If he threatened you, we should do something about that. I dunno, maybe send Rook over to give him a Dutch rub, or something.”
“Highly amusing, as always, Detective.” Then Rook turned to Nikki. “Couldn’t we at least use that to bring him in and…”
“And what?” she said. “Tangier Swift would just come sit here with his hot bench of attorneys and say nothing. It would feel good but only create friction.”
“You do realize you are talking about two of my favorite things. Feeling good and friction.”
“Outta here,” said Feller, walking out with both hands raised. Ochoa, clearly on a mission, brushed by him on his way to Heat.
“OK, got something here on how Nathan Levy got to the ER, etcetera.”
“You guys talk to your guy in Peekskill?” she asked.
“Dooley. I did. Raley’s off on that special assignment you gave him.”
“Yes, herding cats.” Heat noted Rook’s confusion. “I’ll explain later.”
“The flatbed driver says he hooked Levy up with a car service in Peekskill.” Detective Ochoa held up his yellow lined pad for reference. “Triplex Limo.”
Rook furrowed his brow. “There’s a Triplex in Peekskill?”
Miguel chuckled. “I asked the same thing. It’s Peekskill, Croton, and Haverstraw. I called the limo service and they checked the records. The driver took him to the ER and waited, then dropped him at an address in Astoria. I looked it up the old-fashioned way, in the reverse directory. It’s a commercial space leased to Forenetics, LLC.”
Rook got out his cell phone. “We should call Forenetics and see what it is.”
Heat shook her head. “No, let’s not light up the radar.”
“Absolutely, let’s not call Forenetics and see what it is,” said Rook, pocketing his phone.
Ochoa asked, “Want me to go over there and check it out?”
“I need you here to hold the fort,” said Heat. “I think I’ll—”
“Shotgun,” said Rook.
“I mean we’ll—pay a visit to Queens.”
On the drive over, Rook used the time to listen to himself spinning the various ins and outs of the case. He had stayed pretty much on the rails lately, not veering into his comfort zone of tinfoil-hat conspiracy theories. Nikki took it all in stride as his version of meditating at the Murder Board and, therefore, listened carefully to what he threw out there. “OK, so here’s where I land. Hiding that fatal car accident is a perfect motive for Nathan Levy to kill Lobbrecht and Lon King in order to hush it up. With me so far?”
“So far. But let me riddle you this, Batman. Why go after Abigail Plunkitt and Wilton Backhouse?”
“All right,” he said. “Fair enough. Because…Because maybe Fred Lobbrecht told them about the accident. Or else, maybe Levy confided it to his Splinter Summiteers, then regretted it after. That fits.”
There was always a gridlock situation on the way out of Queensboro Plaza, but when the officer stationed there picked out Heat’s car as undercover, she halted cross traffic, waving her through.
“Your theory fits,” Heat said, giving a smile and a wave to the cop, “but it fits only up to a point. That only covers King and Lobbrecht. Who killed Nathan then? And why? And why is someone still trying to kill Wilton Backhouse?”
“I’ll admit my theories are at the nascent stage, but getting there, wouldn’t you say?”