Later that afternoon, back in the bull pen, Detective Heat wheeled her chair over from her desk and stared at the Murder Board hoping it would speak to her. It didn’t happen in every investigation, but with uncanny frequency, if she was focused enough, quiet enough inside, and alert to the right questions to ask herself, all the disconnected facts — the squiggled notes, the timeline, the victim and suspect photos — they wove together in a harmonious voice that spoke to her of the solution. But they did it on their schedule, not hers.
They weren’t ready yet.
“Detective Hinesburg,” she said, still facing the board. When she heard the footfalls draw up behind her, Heat stood and pointed to the blue printing that said, “Graf Phone Records.” There was no check mark beside the notation. “Wasn’t that your assignment?”
“Yeah, well, in case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve got a number of assignments to clear.”
“When?” was all Nikki said. It was all she had to. Hinesburg saluted in a way that irritated the piss out of Heat and returned to her desk. Heat turned back to the board, this time not seeing anything on it, just needing someplace to look while she let her temper subside.
Raley hung up his phone and crossed over with the cap of his pen in his teeth and a notepad in his hand. “Got some info on the Mad Dad,” he said, referring to the altar boy’s irate parent. “Lawrence Joseph Hays. One aggravated assault in ’07 against a neighbor with a barking dog, in his neighbor’s apartment building. Charges suddenly dropped at the request of the complainant. Doesn’t say why.”
“That’s his only prior?”
“Affirm.”
Heat said, “We should pay him a visit this afternoon.”
“That’ll be tough. I already called his office to set a meet — didn’t say why, of course. He’s in Ely, Nevada, on business.” Before Nikki could ask, he said, “I was wondering where it was, too. Ely’s like this teensy dot on the map in the middle of the desert.”
“What kind of business is he in?” she asked.
“He’s the CEO of Lancer Standard.”
“The CIA contractors in Afghanistan?”
“The one and only,” said Raley. “Black helicopters, freelance commandos, and saboteurs for hire.”
Heat said, “Ely must be their training center.”
“I’d tell you you’re right, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Hilarious, Rales. Find out when Hays gets back. I want to talk with him myself.”
Ochoa called in to report that his visit to the domme’s roommate was fruitless. “Got here, and she’d cleared out. Building super said she rolled out a couple of suitcases last night.”
“Did she leave a forwarding?” asked Heat.
“Not that lucky, I’m afraid. I did call the hotel in Amsterdam her roommate listed with Customs, just in case she knew where she was headed. Front desk says Andrea Boam is still checked in but hasn’t been around for two days. He thinks she and some guy hooked up.” He chuckled. “Interesting choice of words, considering she’s in bondage.”
“Nice to know if we don’t clear this case, Miguel, at least you’ve got some material for the Christmas talent show.” Heat saw the lights flicker on in Captain Montrose’s office and a small butterfly beat its wings in her chest. “Look, I have to go. But Forensics is done with Graf’s computer. When you get back, see what you can find on it.”
Detective Heat kept herself at a discreet distance but saw that Montrose was back but he wasn’t alone. He was behind closed doors with two serious suits she didn’t recognize. It did not look like a happy gathering.
Later, after they had spent some time going through Father Graf’s com puter, Roach came over to Heat’s desk in tandem. “So what do you make of the suits?” said Ochoa. “Internal Affairs?”
Raley said, “My money’s on Men in Black. If there’s a big flash of light, put on your sunglasses.”
To Nikki, the look and the soberness screamed IA. But there was enough gossip floating around the Twentieth without adding to it, so she kept it on point and asked what they’d learned from the computer. Roach led her to the timeline on the Murder Board. “First thing we learned,” said Ochoa, “was that priest needed a new computer. That fossil took ten minutes just to boot. First we opened up his History and Bookmarks.”
“Always telling,” Raley added.
“Nothing shocking there. A few Catholic sites, Public Television, online booksellers — all mainstream, no erotica. According to his recommendations and recent purchases, he was nuts for mysteries...”
“. . . Cannell, Connelly, Lehane, Patterson...”
“There were other favorite sites,” Ochoa continued. “A number of charities and human rights organizations. One Chinese, most Latin American.”
Raley said, “That’s where we might have some traction. We opened up his Outlook to check his calendar.”
“He never used it,” Ochoa chimed in.
Raley picked it up with “So we checked out e-mails. He had a message about an urgent meeting from an activist group he was involved with, Justicia a Guarda.” Nikki’s gaze went to the picture at the top of the board, of Graf at the protest rally.
“Literally, ‘Justice to Guard,’ ” translated Ochoa. He pointed to the timeline. “The meeting was ten-thirty the morning he disappeared.”
“Right,” said Nikki. “The housekeeper said the last time she saw him, Father Graf broke routine and left right after breakfast for somewhere unknown.”
“I think now we know,” said Raley.
“It took him two hours to get to a meeting? That’s another time gap,” she said. “Either way, the folks at Justicia a Guarda may have been the last to see Father Graf alive. Boys, take the Roach Coach and go see what they know.”
Just after 6 p.m., Rook breezed into the bull pen and turned in a circle. “My God, I have been away too long. It’s like coming back to visit my old grammar school. Everything looks smaller.”
Nikki rose from her desk and made a quick check of Montrose’s office, but he had shut the blinds for his IA meeting long before. “Rook, do you even own a phone?”
“You know, there’s a pattern here. Nikki Heat is a woman who doesn’t love surprises. Duly noted. Remember that on your thirtieth birthday, OK?”
He held out a garment bag to her. “What’s that?” she asked.
“At the risk of offense, another surprise. On the news it looked like you might need a change of clothes. Something a little less, shall we say, Type-A Positive?” He handed her the garment bag by the hanger loop. “There’s a Theory store down Columbus. This may be a little stylish for taking down cold-blooded killers, but they’ll just have to adjust.”
She wanted to hug him but let her grin say it. Then, what the hell, she kissed his cheek. “Thanks. I love surprises.”
“Woman, you have my head spinning.” He took a seat in his old chair from his ride-along days. “We don’t have to go now if you’re busy.”
“Busy hardly describes it.” She looked around to make sure she wasn’t broadcasting. “Things are even tougher between me and Montrose.” She drew closer and whispered, “He’s got Internal Affairs in there for some reason. Plus, I had one of my borrowed detectives from Burglary transfer out today. In a huff.”
“Let me guess. Rhymer. What a weasel. I never bought that whole Opie act.”
“No, Rhymer’s solid. His partner, Gallagher, quit.”
“In a snit?”
“Stop it.”
“Or I’ll get hit?”
“Count on it.”
“No... kidding?” While they chuckled, his cell phone rang. He made a puzzled look at his caller ID. “Don’t let me hold you up, I’ll take this.” As he left the room, she heard him exclaim, “Oh my God. Is this Tam Svejda, the Czech who loves to bounce?”
He took Nikki to Bouley in Tribeca, still one of the greatest meals in a city of great meals. Roach phoned just as they were entering, and Heat and Rook stopped while she took their call in the vestibule — not the worst place to wait, surrounded by walls that were decorated by shelves of aromatic fresh apples.