“Fred was a tough nut to crack. He was extremely reluctant to talk with me. Even off the record. As a reporter, I’m used to that, but he was skittish and high-strung, lots of insecurities—said he’d talk, then would cancel, that sort of thing. Week before last, he calls me up with a proposal. Would I consent to sit down with his shrink and let him sort of couples-counsel us through the process of making him feel OK about spilling secrets to a journalist?”
As one stunning piece of the puzzle fell into place, the connection between Rook and the two victims, Nikki felt a tiny spark of exhilaration. This was the first moment on this case when she had felt a sense of traction, even if she was still far from closure. Then came a second thought. “I just hit my first bump. Why was an auto-safety expert seeing a police shrink?”
“Because,” said Rook, “Fred Lobbrecht was an ex-cop. He retired a couple months ago from NY State Police, where he was on the force’s top Collision Reconstruction Unit—you know, the CRU, the Forensics squad that investigates accidents. And, I guess you didn’t know—why should you?—Lon King had contracts to provide counseling services to the NYPD, Port Authority PD, and to NY State, plus Westchester and Nassau counties.
“At first, I worried that Lobbrecht was just a neurotic flake and that this would be the unraveling of my story. But when I got into sessions with him and Lon King, it was clear he was solid and knew his shit. He was jumpy because he was a man with a code. And spilling secrets to me would be a violation of that code.”
“I understand that,” she said. “Even for the greater good. It’s a tough call.”
“Agreed,” said Rook.
But, thought Heat, it was clear that Rook only understood that code in the way all non-cops do.
“By our second session,” Rook continued, “I had gained his trust, just about come to a breakthrough. Then Lon King washed up in his kayak.”
“And his files were stolen, A through M, which includes—”
“Lobbrecht,” said Rook. “Notes and transcripts of our sessions, plus whatever else he told Lon King before I came into the picture.” He grimaced. “Day before yesterday, he told me to come to the proving ground on Staten Island and bring my digital recorder.”
Nikki thought about the timeline, since it was possible, given the TOD window, that Lobbrecht could have been killed before her shrink. “Did you call Fred to confirm your meeting after we found Lon King’s body?”
“Thought about it. Then I decided, no, it might give him a chance to cancel. So I just showed up.” He gave her a conciliatory look. “And now you know.”
Heat amended that. “And now we’ve started. I want to meet your whistle-blower. Now.”
“Hey, come on, he’s my secret source.”
“Whose life may be in danger, did you think of that?” She stood, preparing to go. “Besides, I want to question him myself. And because you’ve had the good sense to cooperate, Rook, you can come along.”
They drove to meet the whistle-blower in the new vehicle the motor pool had issued Nikki. After she adjusted the mirrors and the seat, Rook said, “So you get, what, a new car every day for life? Is this like winning the lottery?”
“Oh, yeah. And the department is very pleased I’m eating up the transpo budget.” When she had signed for it, the motor sergeant had told her that replacing flat tires was no sweat, but that they couldn’t have a captain driving the city in a vehicle with “Snitch Bitch” etched into all four doors.
Heat turned her replacement car onto the ramp for the West Side Highway, but not without craning to look over the concrete guard wall of the traffic circle to see the banks of the Greenway, which showed no sign of the previous morning’s crime scene shutdown.
“Funny thing,” said Rook, who was also rubbernecking the Hudson’s edge. “Just a touch more breeze from the north, or a skosh more ebb tide, and that kayak would have made landfall downriver in the Eighteenth or maybe the Tenth Precinct, and this would never have been your case.”