“Nikki, Nikki!” cried Rook.
Heat slammed on her brakes, getting the finger from the driver of the gypsy cab she had just nearly rear-ended at a red light near Chelsea Piers. “Sorry about that.” She laughed it off. “Last thing I need is to requisition yet another car.” Nikki drove on, a lot more carefully, but still distracted. The puzzle pieces—“the jigsaw,” Rook had called it—were still not speaking to her. It all still felt like the early part of the investigation instead of the homestretch, but patience always served her well. Pushing evidence to suit a theory only resulted in dead ends and time lost, not saved. This, like most murder cases, was one she had to loosen the reins on and ride to see where it led. Her challenge would be to get there in one piece.
The man in cargo shorts and a beard that might be described in Brooklyn’s outré circles as hipster-ironic pushed through the glass doors of the Hudson College Practical Science and Engineering Annex on Thompson Street and brushed past Heat and Rook without a glance of recognition, snapping as he went by, “Follow me, four paces, no closer.” He walked briskly, his long black hair brushing his shoulders as he led them past a twenty-four-hour underground garage, two Thai restaurants, a classic-vinyl-and-video shop, and The Little Lebowski, a paraphernalia and souvenir shirt boutique dedicated to The Dude, distinguished by a life-sized cutout of Jeff Bridges abiding on the sidewalk. He headed north at a brisk pace, rapidly traversing the block and a half to Washington Square Park, where he chose a spot on the convex curve of a serpentine stone bench that angled him toward the fountain. He crossed his bare legs and adopted an impatient pose while he picked something out from between his big toe and the footbed of one sandal.
“Nikki Heat, meet Wilton Backhouse,” said Rook.
She held out her hand, but he didn’t shake it. Instead, he remained intent on Rook. “I told you last time I didn’t want you coming to my office.” Then he seemed to become aware of Heat. He dropped the unidentified sandal matter he was twirling between his thumb and forefinger and shook her hand. Nikki resisted wiping the dampness off her palm afterward. It wasn’t easy. She noted that Backhouse’s forehead glistened at the hairline and that he had half-moon sweat marks under the arms of his red Cornell Engineering tee. Maybe, for him, it wasn’t too chilly for shorts. He appraised her briefly and announced his finding. “Yep. Cop.”
Since he wasn’t going to invite her to, Heat sat on the bench beside him. But not too close. It wasn’t hard to profile Wilton Backhouse in return: a lab geek with poor socialization. “Glad to meet you, Dr. Backhouse. And, as for dropping into your turf like this, that’s on me, not Rook.” He listened to her, studiously—that would be the word, Heat thought. But in spite of his rapt attention, he gave no interpersonal feedback, no clue as to what direction his response would take.
“You should drop the ‘Mr. Rook’ shit. It’s not like I can’t tell you’re sleeping with him. Just so you know, I don’t care either way. I just don’t like artifice. It’s insulting.”
Rook chuckled. “Well, we’re getting to know each other pretty quickly, aren’t we?”
“Why?” he asked.
“I’m not sure you heard this, but apparently one of your colleagues—”