“I remembered hearing something nasty about Hays’s group, so yesterday I reached out to a source of mine at The Hague from a piece I did on Slobodan Miločević’s, air-quotes, heart attack right before his verdict. Score. Check it out.” He pointed to his laptop screen and quoted, “ ‘An international human rights watchdog group filed suit to have Lancer Standard brought to the World Court on charges of abuses by its contractors in Iraq and Afghanistan involving sex shaming, waterboarding, and... ,’ wait for it: ‘torture through use of transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation, or TENS.’ ” He looked up at her and said, “And where have we heard of that before, boys and girls?”
“Nice one,” she said. “Definitely has my interest.” Heat continued with her A-list. “Horst Meuller... Our German male dancer threatened Graf, and he took a bullet for some reason. Even if it was intended for me, I want to know why he ran; Alejandro Martinez... That was his dirty druggy money stashed at the rectory, I want to know why; Justicia a Garda... militant with a violent revolutionary pedigree and, don’t forget, Father Graf was last seen with them. Emma... I don’t know who Emma is — never got a chance to find out — but Graf had a purged e-mail file with her name on it. Emma makes my list. Tattoo Man... A John Doe seen on security cam with one of the domme’s roommates. A loose end I can’t let go of. Captain Montrose... OK, two ways to look at him. First, his suspicious behavior before he died links to Graf. What was he up to and why? Second, his so-called suicide. I don’t buy it.” She capped the marker and stepped back from the easel.
“That’s narrowing it down?” said Rook.
“Hey, you don’t know the stuff I’ve left off. For instance, besides the physical evidence Forensics is running, I am very curious about two odd socks from the rectory: the prescription in Graf’s medicine cabinet, and what’s the significance of that missing St. Christopher medal?” She wrote “Rx” and “St. Christopher” on the board, then Nikki tapped her temple with the cap of the marker.
“Well, this is plenty to get started on,” said Rook. “Nice job, you.”
“You, too.” And then she couldn’t resist tossing a little barb. “By the way, Rook, I’m not going to be seeing any of this in the newspaper, am I?”
“Hey...”
“Come on, lighten up, I’m kidding.” He looked at her askance. “. . . Well,” she admitted, “half kidding.” Rook considered a moment and grabbed her coat off the bar stool. “You’re throwing me out?”
But then he grabbed his, too. “No, we’re both going out.”
“Where?” she asked.
“To fix the half that isn’t kidding.”
Riding up in the elevator at the Midtown offices of the Ledger, Heat insisted the trip was not necessary. “Take a joke and let it go. I told you I trusted you.”
“Sorry. I can tell you still haven’t made peace with believing me. I want both. Trust and belief. And peace.”
Nikki shook her head. “Pulitzer, huh? For writing?”
The elevator let them out at the sixth-floor home of the Metro Section, a fluorescent-bright, open-plan sea of cubicles filled with men and women keyboarding at computers or talking into phone headsets, or both. Except for the fact that the space was about half a city block in size, the din of activity reminded Nikki of the bull pen at the Two-oh.
Tam Svejda gophered up at the far end of the room and waved both arms over her head as soon as she saw them. When they arrived at her corner cubicle, she yanked off her headset, sang out a “Hi-ee,” and threw a big hug on Rook. Nikki both enjoyed and did not enjoy watching the Bouncing Czech kick her right heel up behind her during the embrace like starlets do when they greet the hosts on late night talk shows. Heat was relieved to get a simple handshake, however distracting it was to have Tam beam at Rook during it.
“I got so excited when you said the both of you were coming up. What’s this about? Please tell me you have some more inside stuff.”
“Actually, we’re here about the other inside stuff,” said Rook. “Nikki... Detective Heat says you told her you got it from me.”
“That’s right,” Tam said.
Nikki arched a brow at him then turned away to survey the busy newsroom as Rook squirmed. “Well, that’s a bit hard to imagine,” he said. “Since we never spoke about any of this. In fact, when you asked me the other day on the phone, didn’t I specifically say I couldn’t give you any help?”
“That’s true... ,” said the reporter. That brought Heat’s attention back to the cubicle.
Rook said, “Then how could you say it was me?”
“I,” muttered Heat under her breath to the writer.
“Simple.” Tam sat and swiveled to her computer. After a few keystrokes her printer started spitting out pages. She handed the first one to Rook. “See? This is the e-mail you sent me.”
Heat moved close to him and they read it at the same time. It was an e-mail addressed from Rook to Tam. The subject line read, “The Two-oh, Inside.” What followed was a single spaced, full page of notes detailing facts about the troubled Graf case as well as the controversial problems surrounding Captain Montrose. The next three pages finished printing and she handed them over to Rook, too. He just skimmed, but the last paragraphs were all about the conflict surrounding Montrose’s funeral. Rook lowered the pages and felt Nikki’s stare. He said, “This looks a lot worse than it is.”
“Wanna bet?” said Heat.
Magoo was waiting for them in the vestibule of the loft when they got back to Tribeca. If Rook’s computer guru wasn’t college age, he was close to it, pear-shaped, about five-two, and had one of those sparse, curly beards, with only a promise of a mustache, that made Nikki wonder, why bother? His pale, earnest face was dominated by black-framed glasses with lenses as thick as they come, eliminating any doubt how Don Revert got the nickname Mister Magoo. The question, which would remain unasked, was why he kept it.
“You didn’t waste any time getting here,” Rook said as his consultant snapped open a hard-shell rolling equipment case and began to set up shop on the desktop in the office.
“You shine the Bat Signal in the sky, I must answer.” Magoo pulled out cables and diagnostic equipment — small black boxes with meters — and set them beside Rook’s laptop. During his setup, he looked up from time to time at Heat, treating her to glimpses of eyes made giant by his thick glasses.
“That’s a nice case,” she said, not knowing what else to offer.
“Oh, yeah. It’s the Pelican Protector. Of course, I got it with the foam lid liner and padded dividers. As you can see, I can pretty much use the Velcro tabs to custom configure it for any load.” Nikki was pretty certain that had just constituted foreplay.
Rook explained to his personal nerd the e-mail Tam Svejda received and then showed him the hard copy. “The thing is, I never sent it.” He said this as much for Magoo’s information as for reiteration to Heat.
“Yessss,” said Magoo. “Come check this out.”
He and Nikki both came around to flank him, but Rook’s laptop screen was filled with an intimidating string of code and commands that made no sense to either of them. “You’re going to have resort to plain English, my man,” said Rook.
“All right, how about, ‘Dude, you’ve been owned.’ Is that vanilla enough?”
“Getting warmer.”
“OK, layman’s terms. You know those ads on TV and radio for the services that allow you to subscribe to RDA? Remote desktop access?”
“Sure,” said Nikki, “you pay a fee and they set you up to be able to access your work computer from anywhere. Especially geared for traveling businesspeople. You go online from a laptop in your room at the Cedar Rapids Holiday Inn and you can do work and transfer files on your office computer in New York or LA.... That it?”
“Absolutely. It’s basically an access account that lets you make any remote computer you designate do what your other computer tells it.” He turned from Heat to Rook. “Somebody broke into your laptop and installed their own RDA account.”