refined operatives who ate sushi, did yoga, and hacked what they needed from underground computer nerve centers.
But Kije survived, if uncertainly. The bloated hide of his face told her he coped with his unsure future in the world order by cracking open a bottle of Stoli. Heat was more interested in the information she needed. “What do you mean by other entities?”
“I would say, ask Nicole Bernardin. But you can’t, can you?”
“What do you know about Nicole Bernardin?”
“I know that, just like your mother, Nicole became involved with people outside the strict margins of her government’s scope.”
Rook jumped in again. “For argument’s sake, what if her mother had turned?” He could almost hear the adrenaline rising in Nikki’s veins, so he added, “Or if it just looked like she had-would CIA act on that?”
“Not likely,” said the Russian. “Well, not on American soil.”
“Who would?” asked Heat, aware of the possibility it could have been the man standing right in front of her.
“Kill her?” He shrugged. “As I said, these are changing times. It wouldn’t have to be a government at all, would it?”
“Could it be the same as whoever hit Tyler Wynn?” asked Rook.
“Who knows? Either way, it’s a sad lesson about the nature of the trade. You can never really retire. I, myself, tried retiring once. It went poorly. That is why I have to meet people like this.” He gestured to the forest and the night.
“Even old friends?” asked Rook.
“You kidding, Boy-O? It is old friends who can be the most lethal of all.”
Nikki said, “You must know some of the projects my mother was working on. Nicole, too.”
She had conducted enough interrogations to tell by the way his eyes rose in his lids, to ponder, that he did know, and he was weighing how much to reveal to this friend of Jameson Rook-and daughter of a CIA operative. Then she lost his attention.
Kije cocked an ear to the darkness. Soon the bodyguards did, too, straining at the horizon as wolves did for signs of food. Or danger. Heat and Rook also listened, and soon heard them muttering, “ Beptopet. ” Rook translated for her, but by then, Nikki heard it herself. Helicopter.
She tried to draw Kije back to her, but the ignition of his Mercedes was already turning over. “What are some of the extracurriculars you’re talking about?” His bodyguard opened the back door of the car and held it open for him.
The little bear pumped Rook’s hand and gave him a fast back slap. “Boy-O, until next time, right?” And then he bowed to her. “Nikki Heat.”
Doors started slamming on the two Peugeots behind them as the other guards saddled up. Nikki’s frustration mounted as the clock ran out for the second time just when she was so close to getting an answer. Kije hurried to the side of his car. “Anatoly, please. At least give me a direction.”
“I told you. Check the bank,” he said and ducked to get in the backseat.
“I already got that. Give me more to go on. Please?”
He stopped and his head rose up over the open door. The Russian said to her, “Then think of what else I told you. Ask yourself about the new era.” That would be all she got.
The bodyguard shut Anatoly’s door and took the shotgun seat for himself. All three cars drove a semicircle around them, kicking up a rooster tail of dust. The trailing Peugeot slowed to leave a gap for Kije’s Mercedes to fill in the hammock spot of the convoy, and then they sped away with their headlights doused.
Heat and Rook tasted the fine cloud of dirt that swirled around them, illuminated by moonlight and shrouding them in a radiant fog. When it began to vanish, Nikki saw a reflection on the ground near them and found their cell phones stacked there, each with the battery removed to disable GPS tracking. As they reinstalled them and powered up, the helicopter passed and continued on, seeming uninterested and unhurried. Nikki paused to watch it fly, eclipsing the Paris moon. She noticed that at least it was half-full.
Nikki Heat saw the next night’s half moon rise behind Terminal 1 at JFK when she and Rook piled into the backseat of the town car he had ordered for their ride to Manhattan. In spite of Nikki’s misgivings about leaving New York for Paris, Rook had been right. The brief trip had moved both cases forward. Not enough for Nikki-never enough for Nikki-but the tantalizingly incomplete information she’d gotten over there would fill critical spaces on both Murder Boards. What nagged at her was where to go next. One avenue Heat knew she needed to explore pained her, but she took the step to address it right that moment.
“Hey, Dad, it’s me,” she said when Jeff Heat picked up. To put a cheerier spin on things she added, “What are you doing at home on a big Saturday night?”
“Screening my goddamned phone calls so I don’t get any more ass-hole reporters calling for interviews.”
“Oh, no. Has it been that bad?”
“All hours. Worse than the freakin’ telemarketers. Hang on.” She heard ice cubes tink against glass and painted the mental picture of her father situated in his easy chair command post taking the edge off it all with another Cape Codder. “Even that bimbo from the Ledger showed up at my front door the other morning. Must have snuck in behind one of the residents before the gate closed. Those jerks have no regard for privacy.”
“Yeah, we all know reporters are scum.” Rook whipped his head her way. Then, on quick reflection, the journalist nodded his agreement. “Listen, Dad, are you going to be around tomorrow? I wanted to swing by to talk some more. I’ve learned a few things I think you’d be interested in knowing about Mom.” That, along with asking him to go over the box of photos Lysette Bernardin gave her, presented a valid excuse to drop by. But her real plan was to use the occasion to broach another subject best left for face-to-face. They agreed on a time for the visit and said good night. Nikki tapped end, feeling bad for not being straight with him about her ulterior reason for wanting to talk. She wondered if her mother had felt those kinds of misgivings when she withheld information from them. Then she wondered if Rook had been right, after all, about becoming her mother in that regard, too.
Detective Ochoa had left a recent voice mail from his number at the Twentieth Precinct. “Surprised to find you in the pen tonight, Miguel,” she said.
“Someone has to take responsibility for this case while you and Rook drink wine and eat snails, know what I mean?”
“Well, I’m done slacking. We’re back in town and I’m ready to bail you boys out of whatever mess you made of things.”
Detective Raley popped onto the extension and said, “Did you bring me anything?”
“You’re working, too, Sean? I only hope I can get back in there soon enough to watch Captain Irons’s head explode when he sees the OT report.”
“Hey,” said Raley, “the Iron Man actually made an appearance here himself tonight.”
“Irons? On the weekend?”
Ochoa said, “Yeah, he came in with Detective Hinesburg about an hour ago. The two of them closed the door to his office and listened to some audio recording on his speaker phone and rushed out like they were in a big hurry.”
Raley said, “I told Ochoa they were probably calling Moviefone for the show times of Hot Tub Time Machine,” which made them all laugh, but any Irons activity raised a yellow flag for Heat, more so if it involved Sharon Hinesburg.
They ran down the day’s developments for her. “I finally got confirmation from French authorities on that call the Bernardins said they got last Sunday evening from the mysterious Mr. Seacrest,” Detective Raley began. “It came to their number as an international call, but unfortunately, it was a burner cell, so that trail ends there.”
Heat’s disappointment mixed with relief that Emile Bernardin’s story about the call checked out. Of course, she would have preferred that it lead her to Seacrest, but in the end, upholding the credibility of Nicole’s parents pleased her. “Did the glove turn up?”
“Negative,” said Ochoa. “If you promise not to tell, we have a Plan B there.”
“Tell me first and then I’ll tell you whether or not I’ll promise that.”
Ochoa paused then said, “Detective Feller is going off-road. Even though Irons put himself in charge of anything that even smells like it will break the case…”
“Including the glove,” added Raley.
