Underneath, she erased “Fingerprints” (which was still blank, but moot now that they had positive ID) and printed “Inwood Carpet Cleaners.”
Raley reported no leads off Nicole Bernardin’s headhunter business. “The NAB Group is registered with Better Business and a few trade organizations, but aside from fully paid dues, not much to say. No complaints against her about executive searches and placements mainly because there seems to be no record of any. The woman gives discreet a whole new meaning.”
Malcolm and Reynolds reported no fencing or stolen property receipts for a laptop belonging to Nicole Bernardin. Nikki told them to send e-mails to pawnshops and check eBay. Detective Rhymer said he was still working with the IT geeks on her Web data storage. “No hits, but they emphasize ‘yet.’ IT is totally intrigued by the challenge. Plus they want to know if you’ll autograph your cover shot of Rook’s First Press issue to hang.”
“Sure,” she said. “As long as it’s not in the bathroom.”
Rhymer smiled. “No, I’m pretty sure these guys will take turns bringing it home.”
Nothing new from the French consulates, according to Detective Reynolds, who had also run Nicole Bernardin through Interpol. But her name didn’t light anything up there. However, he did say that Nikki was right, he did get a green light on her at the New York Road Runners Club. “She had a lifetime membership.”
“Ironic,” said Feller, who couldn’t resist.
“Nicole participated in their summer evening training runs in Central Park, did the Fifth Avenue Mile, and a lot of 10Ks, but had no social profile there,” said Reynolds. “Basically, she was a bib number.”
And so it went through all their reports. Information, but nothing that led anywhere. Even Rhymer, who on his own had checked with amateur orchestras and the musicians union to see if Nicole, the former NEC violin prodigy, had any affiliations there, came up empty. All the work they did just took them nowhere; like Nicole’s summer loops around the park, it all ended right back where they’d started.
As the group dispersed, Nikki found herself, by reflex, turning to Rook’s empty chair to get his off-the-wall take. Before the thought of him pushed her into a tar pit of vulnerability, she got busy at her desk. In all, she counted herself fortunate that the hour had passed without gossipy whispers or needing to confront the controversy of her personal life in that bull pen. Then Detective Hinesburg breezed in and a new hour began.
“I heard all about last night. You OK?” asked Sharon, standing over her more than a bit too much. But respecting personal space was not her thing. “Had to be awful, right there in your place.” She leaned down and lowered the volume only slightly. “And it was your boyfriend. Nikki, I am so sorry.”
“He was not my boyfriend.” Heat wished she hadn’t even engaged.
“Sure, whatever you say. It had to be so traumatic. Truthfully, I didn’t think you’d be in.”
Heat drew back her watch cuff. “Clearly, you didn’t. Where were you?”
“On the assignment Captain Irons gave me.” At first, Nikki thought she was lying, but that would be too easy to check, so she moved on to annoyance that the precinct commander had gone around her, poaching squad members without consultation. But then Heat considered which one he had poached. And hadn’t it been a better morning without Sharon there? Hinesburg crossed over to her desk to thunk down her monstrous purse and said, “I would have been in earlier, but you know how he’s watching OT. So since I had to drive last night to Scarsdale, he told me to come in late today to make up.”
Nikki’s breath caught. She strode over to Hinesburg’s desk and invaded her space for a change. “What were you doing up in Scarsdale?”
The other detective let out a low whistle. “Hoo boy. Honest. I really thought he told you.”
It hit Nikki like a backdraft and made her reel. “You went to see my father? On assignment?”
Before she could answer, Heat was already on her way to the captain’s office. Hinesburg called out, feebly, “Yes, but not as a suspect. Purely a person of interest.”
Heat slammed his door with such force, half the building must have thought they were witnessing another big aftershock. And if they had been inside Irons’s office, they would have been.
“Holy crap, Heat, what the hell?” Wally Irons had not only jolted upright in his chair Roger Rabbit-style, he’d retreated on his rollers, heels kicking at the plastic floor mat, eyes wide and mouth slack. They were good instincts to follow. Detective Heat advanced on his desk as if she intended to come right over it at him.
“What the hell, is right. What the hell are you doing, sending Sharon fucking Hinesburg to my father’s home?” Heat seldom swore, and if the entrance wasn’t sufficient to indicate her upset, the f-bomb was. “My father’s home, Captain!”
“You need to settle yourself right down.”
“The fuck I do. Answer my question.”
“Detective, we all know about the stressful night you had.”
“Answer me.” When he just stared at her, she picked his half cup of cold coffee off the coaster and poured it on his CompStat printout. “Now.”
“You are totally out of line.”
“I am just starting-Wally.”
She loomed there, panting as if she had run a sprint. But he could see she could easily go a few more laps, and he said, “All right. Let’s talk it out. Have a seat.” She didn’t budge. “Come on, will you sit?”
While she pulled a chair up, he took out his handkerchief to dam the flow of creamy decaf rolling off the desktop into his trouser cuffs, all the while keeping an eye on her. “All right,” she said. “Sitting. Start talking.”
“I made a determination… as commander of this precinct,” he added weakly, “to open a new line in this investigation in order to get things moving.”
“With my dad?” She side-nodded to the bull pen through the glass. “With her? Come on.”
“You’ll show some respect, Detective.”
She slapped her hand on the desktop. “Person of interest? My father? A: That man was cleared ten years ago. And B: In what world is it OK for you to send someone-anyone-to interview him without letting me know first?”
“I am the precinct commander.”
“I am the Homicide Squad leader.”
“Leading a stalled investigation. Look, Heat, we talked about this yesterday after this ended up in the Ledger. After a decade, it’s time for a fresh champion.”
“Uh-huh… Have you been polishing that quote for the next article? While you compromise my case and damage my relationship with my family?”
“My determination is that you are too involved. You have a potential conflict of interest. I think what I’m seeing here bears that out.”
“Bullshit.”
“I sent Detective Hinesburg because I feel her talents are underutilized.”
“Hinesburg? Five bucks says she spent more time at Westchester Mall last night than she did with my father.”
“And,” he held up a finger as if hitting an imaginary pause button on her, “I felt we needed some objectivity, not some lone wolf on a vendetta.”
“We don’t need a witch hunt, either. Witch included.”
“You’re out of control.”
“Trust me, you’d know that if you saw it.”
“Like the other night in Bayside when you violated procedure and entered the hatch to that basement alone because of your obsession with this case?”
“You need some time in the field, Captain. You might understand actual police work.”
“You know what you need? Some time out of the field. I’m benching you.”
“You’re what?”
“Nothing personal. Even after this… encounter. In fact, I’m a big enough man to see all this as your reaction to post-traumatic stress.”
“Like you’re qualified to know that.”
“Maybe not. But the department has psychologists who are. I’m enforcing your mandated psychological evaluation following the murder of your boyfriend and your shooting of the fleeing suspect.” He stood up. “Get yourself shrunk, then we’ll talk about putting you back on duty. This meeting is over.” But he was the one to leave. And he got out of there in a hurry.
