“I want you to run a check for priors on the truck driver and anyone at the loading dock who had access to that vehicle before it rolled out this morning. That means anyone who cleaned it, loaded it, inspected it, or who could have slipped the suitcase in there before it left the facility.” Hinesburg found a seat and nodded. “Sharon, do you want to write any of this down?”
“No, I got it.” And then, as she processed, Hinesburg added, “If the driver called in the 911, we probably don’t like him as the perp, do we? Isn’t this kind of busywork?”
If thought bubbles were visible in life, the one over Heat’s head would have said, You bet. Nikki had learned the hard way that the best way to contain the damage Sharon Hinesburg caused on a case was to give her assignments where her laziness and sloppy detail work would do the least harm. “Guess we’ll only know after you get busy, Detective.” She scanned the room. “Detective Feller.”
“Yo.” He had been leaning forward, intent, with his elbows on the thighs of his jeans. Hearing his name, he sat tall and poised his pen.
“You’ll work the delivery route. That means not only checking out the workers at the delis and bodegas he hit, but did he stop for gas? Did he leave the truck to use a restroom? Does he have an affair going on the side that made him park for a quickie? Is he skimming food off the books and dropping calamari at his uncle’s with the loading door unlocked? You get the idea.”
“On it.”
“Interface with Raley. As our King of All Surveillance Media he’s going to find all the security cams working the delivery route. And Rales?” The detective raised his chin to her, signaling complete attention. “Of course we’re hoping to score footage of the suitcase and the person or persons who put it on the truck, but also scrub the video for eyewits. Pedestrians, news vendors-you know what I want.”
“Anybody who saw the truck and anything that was happening around it, everywhere it went,” answered Detective Raley, making it sound daunting and doable at the same time.
“Detective Ochoa, you run the fingerprints as soon as we get a set. Also, contact the Real Time Crime Center. See what their database spits out as far as disturbance calls, women screaming, even if they’re classed as domestic disputes.”
“Time frame?” asked Ochoa.
“We can’t fix our time of death until OCME can do some extra lab work after she thaws, so let’s tentatively set the kill zone in the past forty-eight and widen later, if we have to.”
As she noted that on the board, Feller asked, “You think this could be a serial killer? I wouldn’t mind running the MO through the database. Also see how the two kills match up with prison release times, stuff like that.”
“Good idea, Randy, do that.”
“What if it’s just a coincidence?” asked Sharon Hinesburg. The other detectives shifted in their chairs. Ochoa even dropped his face into both hands.
“I believe you know what I think about coincidences, Sharon,” Nikki said.
“But they do exist, right?”
“Come on,” said Feller, unable to contain his contempt. “You mean a different killer with the same MO just happens to defy all odds and put the body in the suitcase owned by the prior vic? If that’s so, I’m buying a lottery ticket.”
As the derisive laughter quieted, Heat said, “Tell you what. Just to cover the base, let’s check out eBay and area thrift shops to see if we get any tracking on the suitcase.” And then, to show how much faith Nikki put in that road, she said, “Sharon, why don’t you work that, too.”
Heat then lowered her gaze to a photo on the table, and when she saw it, the crackling energy she had been running on since her discovery on Columbus Avenue took a slight dip. Then she straightened up, willing herself back to full speed, and held the eight-by-ten for them to see. “This…” she said, then had to come to a full stop, fearing her voice would crack. Something moved in her periphery. It was Rook clasping his hands together and squeezing them before him in a gesture of strength. That small, secret move bolstered her, and Nikki felt a rush of gratitude that she hadn’t kicked his ass out of there, after all. Composed again, she resumed, “This is a detail shot of the bottom of the suitcase.” She posted it on the upper right corner of the Jane Doe board. The silent room creaked with the sound of Sam Browne belts as they all leaned forward for a good look. The ECU camera flash had brightened the suitcase from blue-gray to a sky at high noon. In the center of the shot, two initials were crudely scratched into the case: N H.
While the squad silently absorbed the haunting significance-that the little girl whose hand had marked the suitcase now stood before them-the adult hand of the little girl slapped a duplicate photo of the initials on Murder Board 2. “Here is our connection,” said Detective Heat, accessing a reserve of coolness and control in denial of her emotional turmoil. “Our hot lead runs to the unsolved ten-year-old homicide of Cynthia Trope Heat.” She traced an invisible arc back and forth in the air between the photos of her initials on both boards. “This case is going to help us solve the cold case.”
“And vice versa,” said Roach, in unison.
“Damn right,” said Nikki Heat.
As the group broke up to work its assignments, Detective Feller made his way to Heat through the dispersing crowd. “We’ll crack this one,” he said. “In my mind, this is my only case.”
“Thanks, Randy. Means a lot.” He waited, standing there looking like he wanted to say something else. Once more, Nikki read the unspoken crush on his face. She had seen it there from the first day they had crossed paths the autumn before, when his undercover taxi had been first to respond to her officer-in-distress call. Ever since, this rough-and-tumble street cop melted into the shy kid at the junior high sock hop whenever he was alone with her.
“Listen, I was wondering. If you hadn’t partnered up with anyone yet…” He had let it hang there, leaving her to figure out how to deal with it, when Rook swooped in.
“Actually, I was thinking Detective Heat and I would pair up on this case.”
Feller looked Rook up and down like he had just jumped out of a clown car. “Really.” And then he turned back to Nikki. “I was thinking a veteran detective might work out better than… a ride-along writer. Maybe that’s just me.”
“You mean, the ride-along writer who got shot saving her life?”
Nikki said, “Um, OK, listen.”
“I mean, the veteran detective who got shot saving her life,” said Feller, pulling back his big shoulders and taking a half step to Rook.
“I know how to settle this,” Rook said. “Rochambeau.”
“You’re on.”
Nikki said, “Seriously? No, you two are not doing rock, paper, scissors.”
Rook leaned close to her and whispered, “Don’t worry. I know the type. Macho guys like this always go for the rock.” And before she could protest again, he counted, “One, two, three, shoot.” And put out his flat hand for paper-to Feller’s scissors.
The detective cackled. “Hah-ha. Nice playing with you, Rook.”
“Sorry to throw cold water on this dance of the peacocks,” said Heat, “but Randy, I have plans for you that would put your talents to better use than duplicating effort with me. And Rook? Don’t take this personally, but this isn’t a case I want to be tripping over you every time I turn around.”
“Gee, how could I take that personally?”
Then Captain Irons stepped up from behind them. “Mr. Jameson Rook. Welcome back to the Two-oh.” A chamber-of-commerce grin pulled back the skipper’s fleshy face. He bumped aside Detective Feller reaching to grip Rook’s hand in a damp shake while he clapped his shoulder. “To what do we owe the honor? You writing a new story, perhaps?”
The precinct commander’s shameless attempts at self-promotion were always embarrassing, but clearly not to him. Wally Irons, who once accidentally knocked over a toddler after her AMBER Alert rescue while rushing to get his face in front of a TV camera, lacked the mortification gene when it came to massaging the press. But Jameson Rook had spent a career dealing with his type and didn’t miss a beat. In fact he grabbed the opportunity, for a cause.