“Are you Seacrest?”
“This dog won’t bark.”
“Then we’ll talk when it does,” said Heat. This was the hardest of hardball, but with the stakes she was playing for, Nikki would bare-knuckle it to the bitter end. The agent seemed to get that, and shifted to Rook.
“I’ll ask you. Who did you see and what did you discuss?”
“Those are private matters. I am hereby claiming the protection of my rights as a journalist under the U.S. Constitution.”
He switched back to Heat. “So, for the record, you are refusing to cooperate with an official national security investigation?”
“Of course I’d cooperate with an official investigation,” she said. “But an official, bona fide investigation would walk through the front door, not resort to carjacking and intimidation. This is official? All I see is a rented warehouse and two cowboys in a trailer with a science kit. If this is official, Agent Callan, go through channels at One Police Plaza and I’m all yours. Otherwise, it’s you, me, and a throwdown with some folding chairs.”
Agent Callan closed the file and tapped his thigh with its edge while he chewed the inside of his mouth. He glanced at his partner, who only nodded. “Very well,” he said. “Go.” But as they collected their luggage, he added, “Oh, and Rook. You can claim protection under the Constitution. But let me warn you. Considering what you two are messing in, you may find that protection sorely lacking.”
They decided to eat in that night. Heat wanted to work and they both craved some of Rook’s famous pasta carbonara. As Nikki pored over notes at the dining table in his loft, Rook got to slicing and dicing on the other side of the counter. “Do me a fave?” he asked. “Careful where you step. My little Scotty dog statuette that lives on the table by the couch may be an earthquake casualty. It’s MIA-Missing in Aftershock.”
“Oh, poor Scotty… I’ll keep an eye out.” She bent and walked the area without finding it, and ended up in the kitchen. “Mm, bacon smells great. How soon?”
“When the water boils. And please, do not watch that pot.”
Too late. She was already reaching for the lid. “Seems like a lot of water.”
“On the Food Network, Alton Brown specifically says not to cook pasta in less than a gallon.” He took the lid from her and replaced it. “Why don’t I grate my Parmigiano-Reggiano while you relax and find a killer. Deal?”
While he cooked, the squeak of her marker on the whiteboard they had nicknamed Murder Board South mixed with the chop of his chef’s knife on the Boos Block. “Pop quiz, Rook. What have we learned from our DHS carjacking?”
“You mean, besides that automobile travel with you is repeatedly fraught with peril? We’ve learned that we are on to something. Otherwise, you don’t get that kind of attention.”
“Including eavesdropping on our conversations and tailing us in Paris. You did recognize Callan’s partner, didn’t you?”
He looked stumped but tried to cover. “Uh, sure. He… I have no idea.”
“Wake up, Rook. He was the guy in the blue suit outside the cafe the other morning acting like he was killing time rolling his own cigarette. Did you see how he looked away tonight when I made him?”
“Ah… sure I did,” he lied.
“Homeland Security is nervous about something. And for all their snooping, our interrogation tells me whatever that is, they still haven’t cracked it.”
“No kidding. Every question he asked told us what they don’t know. And did you see his face when you mentioned Seacrest? And what’s with the swabs?” He looked through the steam rising from the pot to see her circling “DHS Swabs?” on the whiteboard. “So what’s got them operating at DEFCON One?”
“I don’t know, but I say, let’s keep doing what we’ve been doing because it’s working.”
He fanned the spaghetti in the roiling water and gave her a self-satisfied grin. “You mean like going to Boston and Paris?”
“Yes,” said Nikki. “Those were great ideas I had, weren’t they?”
“Brilliance,” said Rook, “brilliance.”
Jeff Heat’s socks matched, which pleased his daughter, who wasn’t ready to witness his decline just yet. Maybe the advance overnight notice had given him a chance to better prepare for the visit this time. But while he sat beside her on the couch in Scarsdale that afternoon, going through the box of old photos, she noticed that even with the pressed khakis straight from the dry cleaners, a springy pastel sweater, and a fresh shave, her dad looked many years older than his age.
Every time he paused on a photograph, Nikki would ask, “Anything?” and he would shake no but hesitate again before dropping it in the discard pile. It didn’t take long for Nikki to understand what was happening. Jeff Heat was not recognizing any of her mother’s contemporaries; he was stopping to dwell on the shots of the woman he had fallen in love with. The divorce had made Nikki overlook the possibility that he would enjoy those shots. But why not? They were not only part of his life, they might have been from the best part. She made a mental note to get some of the pictures scanned and make an album for him.
“Here’s one I recognize. Eugene Summers. He’s the butler now on that asinine TV show,” he said, holding up a group shot of her mom, Tyler Wynn, and a young man who now, decades later, had his own hit reality series playing himself as a manservant to the young slacker of the week. “Think I even took this picture.”
“I love that show. You know Eugene Summers?” asked Rook.
“Not really. Just met him once over in London. Liked the guy at first, then he kept correcting everything I did. He even took the handkerchief out of my suit pocket and refolded it. Can you believe that?”
“Cool,” said Rook, earning a withering glance from Nikki.
“Why were you in London, Dad?”
“Your mother, why else? Cindy had a tutoring job there the summer of ‘76. What a time to be stuck there. Worst heat wave in decades. And a drought. And how crazy to be in England during the Bicentennial of kicking their royal asses.” He tossed the picture of Eugene Summers into the discards.
Nikki, who had seen the photo but hadn’t made the connection to Summers, set it aside as a reminder to contact the reality star. “Do you remember who she was tutoring?”
Her father laughed. “Sure as hell do. The kid of some big millionaire brewer over there. Good beer, too. Durdles’ Finest. That’s how I remember.” He licked his lips, which made her sad. “Largest exporter to Ireland. No wonder the SOB was rich. If you can’t sell beer in Ireland during a heat wave, hang it up.”
His attention waned as they reached the bottom of the toile-covered box, which he did without making any other identifications, except the numerous shots of Nicole Bernardin. “Sorry I couldn’t be any more help,” he said.
Nikki repacked the photos, taking her time to be careful with them, but also, in truth, to procrastinate. There was a difficult subject she would be broaching soon. But first, she had a question. “People I’ve talked to asked me if Mom had something she tried to hide.”
“Her other life,” he said with a scoff. “If she was spying for the CIA like you say, great. But it still shut me out. And, by the way, just ‘cause she was spying doesn’t mean she wasn’t also having an affair with that…,” he gestured to the box that Nikki had just put the lid on, “smooth operator, Wynn. Maybe he was the attraction.” She didn’t have anything to say to that and considered the best course would be to nod and leave it for him to work out his anger his own way. The CIA news hadn’t been the cleansing tonic she had hoped for. Part of what he said, she had to admit, made sense. Spying and an affair weren’t mutually exclusive. In her own relief-and, perhaps, wishful thinking-Nikki hadn’t thought to question it as he had. Perhaps because they had different agendas. She was seeking to absolve Cindy Heat; he wanted reinforcement of the injustice he’d suffered.
Rook had been trying to stay out of the way, but he spoke up to help steer things back on topic. “Nikki, wasn’t it more like Something physical they were talking about hiding?”
“That’s right. Dad? Did you ever see Mom trying to hide an object or did you find something around that didn’t make sense?”
“Like what?”
“I’m not sure. It could be a key, a videocassette, a blueprint, an envelope. The fact is, I don’t know. But did you ever stumble on something that made you say, what the heck is this?”
She heard him sucking his teeth, and his eyes got the same downcast look she’d seen when he admitted he had hired that private investigator to follow his wife. Her father excused himself then returned from his bedroom after five long minutes of drawers and cabinet doors opening and slamming. “This is the thing I found that made me
