“Affirm,” said Rales. “If Rook—or anyone—taps an ATM for his cash, we’ll know in seconds and have cars and a chopper swarm it. We’re sending a detective from the First Precinct to check out Rook’s loft in case there’s been a forced entry or signs of it being tossed.”
Flywheels were spinning so fast in Nikki’s head that, in her impatience, she started to read ahead on the board so she could assess the coverage without waiting through Raley’s recitation. The list felt comprehensive: Run silver minivans through the DMV. Check for minivans reported stolen, starting in the last twenty-four hours (painstaking without access to the database, but they would assign the manpower to do it by hand). Assign an administrative aide to call the Crime Stoppers anonymous tip line every half hour. Get in touch with 911 Dispatch for any calls reporting fights or…gunshots.
With that the to-do list had taken a sharp left into corrosive areas. Nikki’s mouth went dry, and she crossed her arms so she could wedge her hands into her armpits and hide how much they were shaking. At the end of his bullet points, Raley concluded with, “That’s one front we’re hitting.”
“But we’re hitting a second front just as hard,” continued Ochoa. “And that’s to step it up and push harder on the Lon King and Fred Lobbrecht murders.” He must have caught Heat’s reaction to that and started to explain. “Our theory is—”
“The murder case is tied in to his kidnapping,” Heat said, interrupting. “Solving that case equals saving Rook.”
“Exactly. We don’t know how—”
“But we know they’re linked,” said Raley. “So the last thing we can afford to do is drop the ball there.”
Heat nodded. “Agreed. The clock is running.”
Detective Ochoa indicated the busy squad room. “That’s why we called in extra investigators from Robbery-Burglary. So our squad can keep flogging the homicides. Meantime, everyone has canceled their lives for this. We are going to find him, Captain.”
“And if we don’t have solid leads—” added Raley.”
“We are going to follow up on every single weak one no matter how tangential it looks until we get Rook back safe and alive,” finished Ochoa.
The alternative sickened Heat, so she told herself for the hundredth time that there was no alternative. “Keep it rolling, bring him home,” she said. The thank-you was implied; making it explicit would only cause them to lose a step in a fast race. But on the way to her office, Nikki paused for the briefest second to appreciate the fact that her squad co-leaders had set aside whatever differences they had for the sake of the mission. The fact that they were back together working as the Roach machine gave her heart hope that they actually might find Rook.
Heat closed her office door and placed another call—one that pride had made her procrastinate over, but pride would not help find Rook. It went to the 703 area code, and the operator in the big glass building in the woods Nikki pictured outside Washington, DC, answered on the first ring. After a short interval—mercifully without lite jazz—there came a double click and a single electronic purr. “You’ve reached voicemail for Senior Agent Bell. You may now leave a message.”
Figuring that the encrypted line would be secure enough, Heat left a lengthy message describing Rook’s kidnapping to Yardley and urging her to call so they could talk more about Tangier Swift. Trying to keep the throat squeeze of desperation out of her voice, she said, “It’s ten past one A.M., but call anytime with anything.” Before hanging up, she added for emphasis, “Anytime.”
So much for hiding her desperation.
Lon King, PhD
Counseling Transcript
Session of Mar. 21/13 with Heat, N., Det. Grade-1, NYPD
LK: You’ve been away for some time.
NH: Not so long.
LK: You canceled your last session. And the makeup one, as well.
NH: Best of intentions, but real life intervenes. Casework, the usual. You know.
LK: It wasn’t discomfort over our prior conversation?