“… Feller is calling in some old IOUs to do some indy snooping at Forensics to see what he can scare up about the fate of that thing.”
Raley said, “You know what Feller is like. All that time on the street with those swinging dicks in the Taxi Unit? He’s not wired to color inside the lines.”
“So he’s ignoring his commander’s direct orders?” asked Heat.
“Yup,” they said in unison.
“It’s a good thing I’m on forced leave. I’d have to do something about that.”
When she hung up, Rook said, “Who’s dissing Wally Irons, and when can I shake his hand?” But before she could answer, he noticed they were pulling off the expressway at the Van Dam exit. “Excuse me, driver? Aren’t we taking the Midtown Tunnel?”
“Closed down. They shut it for earthquake repairs.”
Nikki looked out the back window but saw no cones, no flashing lights or portable orange construction advisory signs. “Are you sure?” The traffic behind them stayed on the LIE and flowed onward, at speed, toward the toll plaza at the mouth of the tunnel.
The driver crossed Van Dam and made a U-turn onto a side street fast enough to pin her shoulder against Rook’s, then hooked another turn onto a service road leading into an industrial zone of double- and single-story auto body shops and warehouses.
Rook asked, “Don’t you want the BQE to the Williamsburg Bridge?”
But the driver didn’t reply. The power locks snapped down, and he made another sharp turn into a driveway and through the open double wide door into the receiving area of a trucking fulfillment depot. The driver got out, leaving them in the car as the steel double doors rolled down behind them, putting the whole place in darkness. Once more, Heat reached for her hip, found it empty, and cursed to herself.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Rook’s voice in the dark. “This is the last time I use this car service.”
A single fluorescent lamp blinked on and cast sickly blue light down on two men in business suits who descended the ramp slanting from the back of a cargo trailer across the warehouse. They walked calmly but purposefully in matching cadence to their car. The ghosty illumination of the overhead tube caused the whiteness of their shirts to pop in contrast to their suits and ties. As they neared, the one in the brown suit held up his ID and slapped it against the window for them to see.
It read, “Bart Callan, United States Department of Homeland Security.”
Heat and Rook sat on folding metal chairs in the cargo trailer watching a pair of lab technicians in white coveralls at the deep end of the hold swab the exterior of their luggage with wipes that they placed in portable infrared scanners. After each cloth got electronically sniffed, it was then sealed in an evidence-grade plastic zip bag. The techs had followed the same procedure with the swabbing pads they had run over their hands and shoes. “Not being one to jump at criticizing the federal government,” said Rook, “but aren’t you supposed to do that before we get on the plane?”
Agent Callan turned from the scanning table and strode over to him. He looked like he did triathlons because marathons got too easy. “You can save the snappy one-liners for your next appearance on Anderson Cooper, Mr. Rook. Although you won’t be commenting on this meeting there or anywhere, as it is classified. I have a paper for you both to sign.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels, body language for stud in charge.
Heat turned to appraise Callan’s partner, who sat to the side, observing. There was something the other agent didn’t like in the knowing way Nikki smiled at him, and he averted his gaze. She turned back to the alpha. “What is this about, Agent Callan? I’m sworn law enforcement. You have no reason to detain me.”
“I guess you don’t get to make that determination, Detective Heat.” His tone was matter-of-fact, not threatening. He seemed too secure in himself to bully. He had the sort of authority that came from personal dedication instead of ego. But he also clearly enjoyed dealing the hand from his own deck. “I have some questions I want answers to. We’ll see how satisfied I am and how soon, and we can talk about getting you on your way.”
Rook couldn’t resist. “Good, because I want to get to the Apple store in SoHo before it closes, to see what this new iPad device is all about.”
Nikki gave Callan one of those shrugs that says What are ya gonna do? and the agent acknowledged it with his first hint of a smile. He leaned a hip against the metal task table he had set up as a work space inside the trailer and picked up a file. “Two days in Paris. That’s what I call whirlwind.”
“You said you had a question,” was all Nikki gave back.
“You going to wrestle with me, Detective?”
“Your meeting, Agent.”
Rook rubbed his palms together. “This is so cool. It’s like a mixed martial arts smackdown. We even have folding chairs.”
A standoff followed while Callan assessed her. For Nikki’s part, she normally wouldn’t give so much push-back to a fed, but it felt instinctively right. Aside from lingering annoyance at their kidnapping, she had a protective motive about her mother since hearing the rumor that she might have gone double. And frankly, there was too much she didn’t know. Heat figured that by making the DHS man do some work, she might gain more than she gave.
Bart Callan shifted techniques from chatty open-ended to business-specific. “I want you to tell me who you saw and what you did while you were in Paris.”
“Why?” asked Rook.
“Because I’m asking. And I’m asking her.”
To see what she could draw out of Callan, she said, “Maybe if you could narrow it down for me. Is there someone or something you’re interested in? We packed a lot into two days.”
This had become a chess match between two experienced interrogators, and Agent Callan knew his game had to play up to hers. He tried a new tack, to see how she reacted to being dwarfed by a larger force. Paranoia was a primary tool for bumping interview subjects off base. Casually turning a page in the file, he read, “Subject B: ‘I didn’t kill him. You did. You killed him.’ Subject A: ‘Would you please stop saying that?’ Subject B: ‘But you did. I hope you’re happy now.’” Heat fought making eye contact with Rook because she knew that was the rise Callan wanted. The agent continued, “Subject B: ‘I’d think you’d be ecstatic to learn that not only wasn’t your mom’s double life just your imagination, but it wasn’t because she was having an affair. And-how cool is this? — she was a spy in the family like Arnold in True Lies. No, even better: Cindy Heat was like Julia Child in World War Two when she spied for the OSS.’”
“How dare you,” said Heat. She regretted her blurt instantly but couldn’t help herself. The introduction of her mother was bait and she had chomped it.
Agent Callan rolled on, picking at the sore spot. “Subject A: ‘I agree, that is something.’”
“I knew that cabdriver was skeevy,” said Rook. “What did he do, record us all the way from the hospital?”
The DHS agent smiled and turned to another page. This one, from Brasserie Lipp. “Subject B: ‘Let’s run down your list of hot buttons: Petar? Don? Randall Feller?… You named three. Is that about it?’ Subject A: ‘Rook, are you seriously asking me my number?’” Callan riffled a few more pages and gave Heat and Rook a once-over. “You really think that’s all we have?”
By then Heat had settled down and distanced herself from the personal intrusion to regain ground. “Well, then if you have all you need, you don’t need us.”
“I want to know about all your meetings. What were you doing in the Vincennes Forest last night?”
“So. You don’t have as much as you make out,” she said.
“I am seeking your cooperation. We’re wearing the same uniform, Detective.”
“If we’re on the same team, you give me something. Like, for instance, what was Nicole Bernardin doing before she was killed and who was she doing it for?”
“Not playing that game,” said Callan.
“Who wanted her dead?”
“Give it up, Heat.”
“Who’s Seacrest?”
“I ask the questions.” He used his command voice, but the tell was all over his face when she mentioned the name. A micro flinch of increased vigilance.
