“Time frame?” asked Ochoa.
“We can’t fix our time of death until OCME can do some extra lab work after she thaws, so let’s tentatively set the kill zone in the past forty-eight and widen later, if we have to.”
As she noted that on the board, Feller asked, “You think this could be a serial killer? I wouldn’t mind running the MO through the database. Also see how the two kills match up with prison release times, stuff like that.”
“Good idea, Randy, do that.”
“What if it’s just a coincidence?” asked Sharon Hinesburg. The other detectives shifted in their chairs. Ochoa even dropped his face into both hands.
“I believe you know what I think about coincidences, Sharon,” Nikki said.
“But they do exist, right?”
“Come on,” said Feller, unable to contain his contempt. “You mean a different killer with the same MO just happens to defy all odds and put the body in the suitcase owned by the prior vic? If that’s so, I’m buying a lottery ticket.”
As the derisive laughter quieted, Heat said, “Tell you what. Just to cover the base, let’s check out eBay and area thrift shops to see if we get any tracking on the suitcase.” And then, to show how much faith Nikki put in that road, she said, “Sharon, why don’t you work that, too.”
Heat then lowered her gaze to a photo on the table, and when she saw it, the crackling energy she had been running on since her discovery on Columbus Avenue took a slight dip. Then she straightened up, willing herself back to full speed, and held the eight-by-ten for them to see. “This…” she said, then had to come to a full stop, fearing her voice would crack. Something moved in her periphery. It was Rook clasping his hands together and squeezing them before him in a gesture of strength. That small, secret move bolstered her, and Nikki felt a rush of gratitude that she hadn’t kicked his ass out of there, after all. Composed again, she resumed, “This is a detail shot of the bottom of the suitcase.” She posted it on the upper right corner of the Jane Doe board. The silent room creaked with the sound of Sam Browne belts as they all leaned forward for a good look. The ECU camera flash had brightened the suitcase from blue-gray to a sky at high noon. In the center of the shot, two initials were crudely scratched into the case: N H.
While the squad silently absorbed the haunting significance-that the little girl whose hand had marked the suitcase now stood before them-the adult hand of the little girl slapped a duplicate photo of the initials on Murder Board 2. “Here is our connection,” said Detective Heat, accessing a reserve of coolness and control in denial of her emotional turmoil. “Our hot lead runs to the unsolved ten-year-old homicide of Cynthia Trope Heat.” She traced an invisible arc back and forth in the air between the photos of her initials on both boards. “This case is going to help us solve the cold case.”
“And vice versa,” said Roach, in unison.
“Damn right,” said Nikki Heat.
As the group broke up to work its assignments, Detective Feller made his way to Heat through the dispersing crowd. “We’ll crack this one,” he said. “In my mind, this is my only case.”
“Thanks, Randy. Means a lot.” He waited, standing there looking like he wanted to say something else. Once more, Nikki read the unspoken crush on his face. She had seen it there from the first day they had crossed paths the autumn before, when his undercover taxi had been first to respond to her officer-in-distress call. Ever since, this rough-and-tumble street cop melted into the shy kid at the junior high sock hop whenever he was alone with her.
“Listen, I was wondering. If you hadn’t partnered up with anyone yet…” He had let it hang there, leaving her to figure out how to deal with it, when Rook swooped in.
“Actually, I was thinking Detective Heat and I would pair up on this case.”
Feller looked Rook up and down like he had just jumped out of a clown car. “Really.” And then he turned back to Nikki. “I was thinking a veteran detective might work out better than… a ride-along writer. Maybe that’s just me.”
“You mean, the ride-along writer who got shot saving her life?”
Nikki said, “Um, OK, listen.”
“I mean, the veteran detective who got shot saving her life,” said Feller, pulling back his big shoulders and taking a half step to Rook.
“I know how to settle this,” Rook said. “Rochambeau.”
“You’re on.”
Nikki said, “Seriously? No, you two are not doing rock, paper, scissors.”
Rook leaned close to her and whispered, “Don’t worry. I know the type. Macho guys like this always go for the rock.” And before she could protest again, he counted, “One, two, three, shoot.” And put out his flat hand for paper-to Feller’s scissors.
The detective cackled. “Hah-ha. Nice playing with you, Rook.”
“Sorry to throw cold water on this dance of the peacocks,” said Heat, “but Randy, I have plans for you that would put your talents to better use than duplicating effort with me. And Rook? Don’t take this personally, but this isn’t a case I want to be tripping over you every time I turn around.”
“Gee, how could I take that personally?”
Then Captain Irons stepped up from behind them. “Mr. Jameson Rook. Welcome back to the Two-oh.” A chamber-of-commerce grin pulled back the skipper’s fleshy face. He bumped aside Detective Feller reaching to grip Rook’s hand in a damp shake while he clapped his shoulder. “To what do we owe the honor? You writing a new story, perhaps?”
The precinct commander’s shameless attempts at self-promotion were always embarrassing, but clearly not to him. Wally Irons, who once accidentally knocked over a toddler after her AMBER Alert rescue while rushing to get his face in front of a TV camera, lacked the mortification gene when it came to massaging the press. But Jameson Rook had spent a career dealing with his type and didn’t miss a beat. In fact he grabbed the opportunity, for a cause.
“Hm,” he said. “Depends. Think there might be a story here, Captain?”
“Uh, Rook,” cautioned Heat.
“Ducks in a barrel,” Irons said, grinning. “To me, this new development cries out for a follow-up to your earlier article on my Detective Heat.” Nikki tried to get Rook’s attention, drilling him with her eyes and shaking her head no. Rook knew how much she hated the attention his cover story in First Press had brought, but Rook pretended not to notice her.
“A follow-up?” he said, as if taken by the notion.
Irons said, “To me, it’s a no-brainer.”
“Well, you’d be the expert there,” Rook said, and the captain’s quick “thank you” certified that the insult had gone over his head. “Could have some merit. I’m not the editor, though, so don’t hold me to this. But I like it.” Rook stroked his chin and said, “I suppose it would hinge on action, not just rehash, Captain.”
“I hear you.”
“For instance, I know Detective Heat’s fully engaged and so is her squad. But the story really gets easier for me to sell to a publisher if it goes bigger. I assume, in your leadership role, you’ve already marshaled all the forces you can.” He resisted winking to Nikki as he continued, “For instance clearing overtime and… I dunno… tapping extra manpower from other squads and precincts?”
A cloud crossed over Irons’s brow. “It has come up.”
“See, that’s something new I could run with. A precinct captain fighting the bureaucracy to rally the resources for his detectives. A leader who can crack a cold case and a frozen one in the same stroke.” He chuckled. “What do you know: Headline!”
The captain nodded like a bobble head and turned to Nikki. “Heat, let’s move forward with the resources we talked about earlier.”
“Thank you, sir.” She half-smiled at Rook.
“And I was also thinking, Captain Irons.”
“Yes?”
“Now that I’m back to a hundred percent, it might not be a bad idea for me to return to the arrangement I had with the first article and partner with Detective Heat. It’s a great way to follow up, plus it would help me document the fruits of your command from street level so-if there does turn out to be an article in this-I’d already
