“Thanks, Professor,” said Heat. “I’ll do some independent study. Count on it.”
Discord has a sound: a tense whispering. Captain Heat could hear it the moment she stepped into the Homicide Squad Room back at her precinct. Each unhappy workplace sounds unhappy in its own way, thought Nikki, adapting a maxim from one of her favorite novels, as she surveyed the bull pen.
Her team’s body language told her everything that no one was saying out loud. Detectives Feller, Rhymer, and Aguinaldo looked up as she entered. But Raley and Ochoa not only both kept their gaze down, they had shifted their chairs apart from the side-by-side position they usually adopted for a squad briefing. There it was: Trouble with the Roach. A split of the Spliff.
For now, Heat decided to ignore whatever beef Sean and Miguel were dealing with. “Quite a day in the great outdoors,” she said when she got up to the Murder Board.
Feller said, “Yeah, understand you took up a new hobby.”
“Dodgedrone,” added Rook as he rolled over his orphan chair with the crappy wheel.
During the chuckles that followed, Heat turned to write “Drone” on the whiteboard under the “Lon King’s Mode of Death” heading but saw that it had already been posted in Ochoa’s handwriting. She made a quick scan of the boardscape and saw that Miguel had updated numerous items. There was no visible ink from Detective Raley, his squad co-leader. She tapped the MOD entry and said, “As usual, I see Roach is way ahead of me. Nice going, you two.” Both nodded joylessly. “Of course it’s not a lock yet, but a shot from the drone logically tops the list.”
Detective Aguinaldo said, “Plus that would account for the mystery lubricant on the deck of the kayak. I called Forensics, and they said it could definitely be a match for the weight and viscosity of oil used on a quadcopter to lube motor bearings and the driveshaft.”
“Mmm,” said Rook. “Lubricant.”
Heat gave him an admonishing glance. “Rook.”
“But I’m talking about shafts.”
Without missing a beat, Feller and Rhymer chimed in with, “Then we can dig it.”
Their laughter faded to background noise for Nikki, whose memory of her own encounter with the drone that day made her reflect upon the last moments of Lon King’s life. She imagined him alone, enjoying a splendid evening on the water, seeking that elusive equipoise, the state in which a tranquil outdoor setting matches a feeling of inner peace. Then the quiet hum of the drone. Soft, as it approached. A strange sight, at first. Then, knowing Lon King as she did, he would not feel fear but an odd fascination as he watched the craft draw nearer and nearer to him and hover a few feet from his face. Heat saw in her mind’s eye the small muzzle beside the camera lens and wondered if he had even heard the shot that killed him.
Nikki briefed her team on the events in Washington Square and her interview with Wilton Backhouse, who had accepted a patrol to monitor his apartment and workplace. “Detectives Raley and Ochoa,” she said, seeming to startle them both. “Did you make contact with the remaining members of Backhouse’s so-called Splinter Group whose names I texted you?”
“In process,” said Raley.
“Speed it up. They are likely under threat, so offer protection. I’d also like them interviewed, and soon. Also make the usual checks of drone sales and local quadcopter clubs. See if any familiar names stand out.”
“All over it,” said Ochoa, jumping in ahead of his partner, as if they were in some sort of competition for Heat’s attention. Raley lowered his head and gave it an exasperated shake.
“So what do you think?” asked Detective Rhymer. “Is this smelling like a contract hit from that software developer to keep the whistle from blowing, or what?”