“And fuel your next Pulitzer—but for now Swift is only top of my list as a person of interest, not as a suspect.” To be honest with him, she had to add, “Yet.”
But something seemed off with this case. Few homicide investigations ever rode an express train from the discovery of the victim to conviction of the murderer, but this one was giving her a particular sense of unease. Heat had a strong sense of an inconsistency trying to bust through the early noise of this investigation. If only she could hear what it was trying to say through the static.
Acquiescing to the pull of her administrative responsibilities, Heat spent the next half hour catching up on paperwork while Rook sat quietly nearby, going over his notes. She put her best foot forward, but it still felt like a chore—and a distraction from the case that was preoccupying her.
It wasn’t all mindless work, however. A red-banded priority bulletin from Commander McMains of the Counterterrorism Task Force flashed on the NYPD intranet alerting all precinct commanders of a credible, nonspecific threat of retaliation sparked by the diplomatic conflict over the arrest of Mehmoud Algafari, the Syrian counterfeiter. Captain Heat issued an email memo to all her department heads in the Two-Oh to brief their personnel on the threat and to report related activity immediately.
On the flip side, however, were the workaday requests for overtime and time off, the usual citizen complaints about noisy nighttime trash collection on Columbus Avenue, and an earful from the businessman Heat phoned to reschedule the breakfast meeting she had postponed that morning. The owner of two Indian restaurants in her precinct insisted on face time to demand that she do something about a rash of bicycle thefts from his delivery men. She booked him again for the following morning, secretly hoping something else would come up.
Detective Rhymer stuck his head in to update her on the other Forenetics whistle-blowers, starting with Abigail Plunkitt, the biomechanical engineer. “According to HR at Forenetics,” Rhymer said, “Ms. Plunkitt resigned her consultancy and told them she was moving to Naples, Florida, to work with a conservation group on saving the manatees. I tried calling her, but she may still be in transit. Meanwhile, I’ll try to get a contact number for her there.”
“And what about the other one, the test driver?”
“Right, Nathan Levy. He is out of town, too, but not for long. Upstate at some private resort that has its own race car track, can you believe it? We’ve texted and will set up a meet when he gets back.”
Just as Rhymer left, Ochoa summoned her to the bull pen with an urgent wave. “Just got a check-in from Detective Feller out on Staten Island.”
Heat made a silent bet with herself about what the report would be. She wasn’t wrong.
“Fred Lobbrecht’s house in Dongan Hills? Thoroughly tossed. Somebody got there first and ransacked the whole joint. Files gone, computer missing, even the telephone. You get the drill.”
Rook sidled up and joined them. “Tangier Swift was with an NYPD captain at the TOD. Guess he has a watertight alibi.”
“Maybe not,” Ochoa said. “A neighbor spotted a cargo van leaving his driveway at…” He surfed his notes. “Eleven-thirty last night.”
“When Lobbrecht was already dead,” Heat said. “Any description of the driver, passengers?” She won another bet with herself when Ochoa shook his head no. “Where’s your partner?” she asked.
“Right here.” They all turned to find Raley occupying an empty desk instead of his usual one in Roach Central.
Rook piped up. “OK, you two,” he said. “Am I going to have to do some couples counseling, or should we just go over to Central Park and let you have a duel?”
His attempt at levity was wasted on them, as it was on Nikki, who knew she would have to confront this rift sooner rather than later. But not right then. “Rales,” she said, “where do we stand on bringing in your gait-analysis suspect?”