Ochoa was refilling his coffee, rolling his head to loosen his cramped shoulder muscles, when Raley said, "Got one."
"Whatcha got, Rales?" asked Heat.
"Got a name here for a ride he gave to someone we've talked to." Raley pulled a manifest from the file and went to the center of the room. As the others gathered before him, he held up the sheet in front of him, under his chin, so the others could see the name.
Chapter Thirteen
In the new Yankee Stadium, on an off day for the Pinstripes, a trainer and a hitting coach stood a few yards behind Toby Mills, watching him make slow swings with a bat weighted by a donut on its barrel. It was an oddity to see Mills holding lumber. Pitchers in the American League seldom appear at the plate--the exceptions being occasional interleague contests like the Subway Series, and, of course, World Series games played at rival parks. With the Bombers on pace to clinch another pennant and invade a National League park soon, it was time for their star pitcher to get some BP. As he made slow, easy arcs, the staff studied him, but not to assess his skills. They wanted to see how his weight was transferring on his legs after his hamstring pull. All they cared about was if he was healthy, if he would be ready.
Two other pairs of eyes were also on Toby Mills. Heat and Rook stood in the first row of seats above the Yankee dugout. "For a pitcher, he's got one helluva swing," said Nikki, not taking her eyes off the player.
Rook watched him take another cut and said, "I don't know how you can tell. I mean, if he hits the ball, fine. I can say, 'Yeah, good hit,' but this . . . To me, it's just mime. Or shadowboxing. How can you know?"
Now she did turn to him. "Rook, did you ever play Little League?" When he answered with a dopey grin, she said, "Ever go to a game?"
"Give me a break. I was raised by a Broadway diva. I can't help it if I'm more Damn Yankees than real Yankees. Does that make me less of a person?"
"No. What it makes you is a romance writer."
"Thanks. So glad you're not going to needle me or anything."
"Oh, if you think this is going away, you're living in a dreamworld. A dreamworld set on a turn-of-the-century plantation in Savannah--Miss St. Clair."
"I thought we had an agreement," came the voice behind them. They turned to see Jess Ripton storming down the steps toward them. Toby's manager was still a good ten rows away, but he continued barking as he approached, speaking as if he were right beside them. "Didn't we have an understanding you'd contact me and not ambush my client?"
He was closing in but still far enough away for Rook to mutter an aside to Nikki. "See, this is why I never go to ball games. The element."
"Afternoon, Mr. Ripton," said Heat, putting some lightness on it. "This didn't seem like anything to bother you with. Just a quick question or two for Toby."
"Nuh-uh." Ripton stopped at the rail and they both turned to face him. He was huffing a bit from his effort and had his suit coat draped over one arm. "Nobody messes with him. This is the first day he's had cleats in the grass since the injury."
"You know," said Rook, "for a pitcher, he's got one helluva swing."
"I know all about what he's got." The Firewall bit off the words. He spread his arms wide, symbolically blocking them from his player, living up to his nickname. "Talk to me, that way we can work out your access."
Nikki put a hand on her hip, a pointed gesture aimed at drawing back her blazer, letting him see the badge on her waist. "Mr. Ripton, haven't we already been through this? I'm not ESPN dogging for a crumb. I'm in a murder investigation and I have a question for Toby Mills."
"Who," said The Firewall, "is trying to come back from an injury that has shaken his confidence. You see a sweet swing? Tell you what I see. A kid who may have to put his foot on the rubber in game one of the World Series and he's crapping himself because he's worried he's not a hundred percent. Plus he has to bat. He's so pressured that an hour ago I pushed back an endorsement meet-and-greet with Disney World. I'm not trying to be uncooperative, Detective, but I'm going to ask for some slack here."
Rook couldn't resist. "Wow. You told Mickey and Minnie to chill?"
Just then Toby Mills called over from the on-deck circle. "Everything OK, Jess?"
His manager showed teeth and waved as he hollered back, "All good, Tobe. I think they have money on the game." He laughed. Mills nodded thoughtfully and went back to his swings. Ripton turned back to Heat and dropped his smile. "See what's happening? Why don't you just tell me what you need."
"Have you decided you want to act as his attorney after all?" Nikki put a spin on it, trying to add enough gravity to put the manager in his place. "You did say you were a lawyer. Are you a criminal lawyer?"
"Actually, no. I was house counsel at Levine & Isaacs Public Relations before I started my company. Got tired of bailing out all the Warren Rutlands and Sistah Strifes of the world for a joke of a retainer."
Nikki reflected on Sistah Strife, the rapper-turned-actress who had a nasty habit of forgetting she had loaded firearms in her carry-on at TSA and who had famously settled a sexual battery suit by a roadie out of court, reportedly for eight figures. "I may have new respect for you, Jess. You handled Sistah Strife?"
"Nobody handled Sistah Strife. You handled the mess she left behind in her wake." He softened the edge, even if only slightly. "So how can we both walk away from this meeting happy, Detective?"
"We're working the murder of a former limo driver and Toby Mills's name has come up."
So much for the respite. Nikki had just succeeded in pushing The Firewall's reset button. She could almost hear the servo-motors whir as the defense shield rose again. "Whoa, ho, hold on. You come to us about Cassidy Towne. Now you're back about some dead limo hack? What's going on here? Are you guys on some sort of vendetta against Toby Mills?"
Heat shook her head. "We're simply following a lead."
"This is feeling like harassment."
Nikki pressed forward against his push-back. "The murder victim had been let go for some unspecified altercation with a client. In checking the records, we see that Toby Mills had been one of his riders."
"This is a joke, right? In New York, New York . . . in Manhattan . . . you are seriously trying to make a connection between a limo driver and a celebrity? Like that's a quirk of some kind? And you pick my guy? Who else is on your list? Are you also going to interview Martha Stewart? Trump? A-Rod? Regis? Word is they take limos sometimes."
"Our interest is strictly in Toby Mills."
"Uh-huh." Jess Ripton did a slight nod. "I get it. What are you doing, Detective Heat, trying to get some more publicity for yourself by pinning every crime you can't manage to solve on my guy?"
There was no percentage going head-to-head with this man. Much as she wanted to lash back, Nikki decided to stay on point and not rise to his emotional bait. Sometimes it sucks to be a pro, she thought. But she said, "Here's exactly what I'm doing. It's my job to find killers, just as it's your job to protect 'your guy.' Now, I don't know how come, but in two murders this week, the name Toby Mills has come up in connection. I'm curious about that. And if I were you? . . . I would be, too."
Jess Ripton grew reflective. He turned to the infield, where Toby was lying on the grass getting his hamstring stretched by the trainer. When he looked again at Nikki Heat, she said, "That's right. Your guy or not--never hurts to keep your eyes open, huh, Mr. Ripton?" She flashed him a smile and turned to go, leaving him there to think about that one for a while.
When Heat and Rook returned to the Two-Oh, Detective Hinesburg came to Nikki's desk before she even set down her bag. "Got a reply from CBP on the information you asked for about the Texan."
She handed a printout to Nikki, and Rook stepped close to read over her shoulder. "CBP?" he said. "Cooties, Bugs, and, what? . . . Pests?"
"Customs and Border Protection," said Nikki as she digested it. "I figured if our mutual acquaintance Rance Eugene Wolf left the country to do security work in Europe, there'd be a record of his return to the S
tates . . . assuming he entered legally and used his passport."
"Post-9/11, odds are, right?" asked Rook.
"Not always," Nikki said. "People find a way to get in. But this little piggy came home. Last February 22nd he flew in on a Virgin from London to JFK. And spare me the wisecrack, Rook, I'm already sorry I said it."
"I said nothing."
"No, but you did that little throat-clearing thing you do. I think we're all for the better I headed you off." She handed the sheet back to Hinesburg. "Thanks, Sharon. Now I have another one for you. Start a list for me of Tex's clients before he left for Europe."
The other detective uncapped a stick pen with her teeth and jotted notes on the back of the Customs printout. "You mean like the name of his security employer? We have that, it's Hard Line Security out of Vegas, right?"
"Yeah, but I want you to reach out to them. Make a friend there and find out who he specifically got assigned to do security for. The NCAVC synopsis said he had good relations with clients, I want to find out who they were. And if he freelanced, anything you can get."
"Anything specific I should be looking for?" asked Hinesburg.
"Yes, and write this down." She waited for her to get her pen poised, then said, "Something useful."
"Got it." Hinesburg laughed and moved off to make her call to Nevada.
Nikki picked up a marker and squeaked the date of the Texan's return onto the time line on the whiteboard. When she was done, she took a step back to look at the collage of victim pictures, dates, times, and important events swirling around the three homicides. Rook watched but kept his distance. He knew her and knew from shadowing her on the Matthew Starr murder case that Nikki was undergoing an important ritual in her process . . . quieting all the noise, staring at all the disconnected elements to see if the connection was up there yet . . . sitting on the board, waiting to be seen. He remembered the quote of hers he'd used in his "Crime Wave-Heat Wave" piece: "It only takes one weak thread to make a case unravel, but it also only takes one tiny thread to pull it all together." And as he studied Nikki from behind, words failed him. Then as Rook was enjoying his view, she turned, almost like she knew what he was doing. Busted, he felt his face flush and words failed him again. "Some writer" was the only thought that came to mind.
Nikki's desktop telephone rang, and when she answered, it was a kinder, gentler Jess Ripton than she had crossed sabers with a few hours before at the stadium. "It's Jess Ripton, how you doing?"
"A little busy," said Heat. "You know, fighting crime . . . looking for my next publicity opportunity . . ."
"That was a cheap shot and I apologize for it. Seriously. And think about it. Considering how I make my living, is there any chance I'd see getting whatever exposure you can get as a bad thing?"
"No, I guess not," she said. And then waited. This was his dime and she was curious about his mission. Guys like Ripton didn't do anything just because.
"Anyway, I thought I'd let you know that I talked to Toby about the limo driver you wanted to know about." Nikki actually shook her head at the mentality of handlers like this. Working the wealthier streets of the Upper West Side over the years, she had seen it so many times. The entourages and insulators who think speaking on behalf of an interviewee precludes the need for her to ask the questions herself.
"I wanted you to know Tobe doesn't recall having any beef with a driver. And I believe him."
"Gee," she said, "then what more do I need?"
"All right, all right, I hear you. You're going to want to talk to him yourself, I know that. And, like I said today, we'll work out a time. But I'm trying to not be a dick here. Not so easy, in case you haven't noticed."
"So far, so good." She kept it offhand. No sense engaging The Firewall's firewall.
"I'm trying to get you what you want and, at the same time, get my guy some breathing room to man up for his return to the mound."
"No, I get it. But you're right, Jess, I am still going to want to talk to him myself."
"Sure, and if you can wait a day or two," he said, "I'll be in your debt."
"So what does that get me? Cover of Time? Person of the Year issue?"
"I've gotten similar for lesser people." He paused, and then sounding almost human, he said, "Listen, it's been on my mind since you took that parting shot at me at the Stade. About keeping my eyes open about Toby?" This is another place where experience had taught the detective to work the silence. She waited him out and he continued. "I don't worry about him. Like when he says he had no problems with any drivers? I don't blink. He's got that common touch, you know? Drivers, waiters, his house servants, all love him. You should roll with him. Treats them right, big tipper, gives 'em gifts. Toby Mills is just not what I'd call a big trouble guy."
"And where does kicking in Cassidy Towne's door fit on that good-guy scale?"
"Look, we covered that. He lost his temper. He was the lion protecting his cubs. In fact, that's why I'm calling."
Here it was, thought Nikki. Never failed, the cream center in the Oreo cookie of a peacemaker's phone call. "He wanted me to ask where you stood with that stalker of his."
The question, not to mention the thin pretext for the call, irritated her, but Nikki actually sympathized with it. The kid from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, might be a millionaire, but Toby Mills was a dad whose family was harassed. "I've got a detective assigned to that, and we're working with two other precincts to find him. Tell your client we'll let you know whenever we turn up anything."
"Appreciate that," he said. And, having delivered his message, he made a quick good-bye.
Rook stood in the Observation Room of Interrogation 2, holding two cups. One was steaming and the other was sweating chilled condensation onto his fingers as he looked through the magic glass at Raley and Ochoa, who had commandeered the mini conference table for their paper chase. He set down the cold cup so he could open the door, then made sure to put a smile on and entered to join them.
"Hey, Roach."
The two detectives didn't look up from the phone records spread before them, nor did they address Rook. Instead, Raley said to his partner, "Look who just gets to roam free around the building now, unsupervised."
Ochoa glanced at the visitor. "Not even wearing a leash, what's that about?"
"Well," said Raley, "he is paper trained."
"That's funny from you." Ochoa chuckled. "Paper trained. Clever."
Raley looked up from his work, at the other cop across the table. "Clever?"
"Come on, Rales, he's a writer. 'Paper trained'?"
Rook laughed. It sounded a little forced because it was. "My God, is this Interrogation 2, or have I stumbled into the Algonquin Roundtable?"
Roach put their noses back into their printouts. "Help you, Rook?" said Ochoa.
"Heard you guys were flogging the paperwork pretty hard, so I brought you some refreshment." He set a cup beside each. "One coffee, hazelnut creamer for you, and for Detective Raley, some sweet tea." He noticed an eye flick from Raley to Ochoa. It transmitted some disdain, low-grade stuff, like the vibe he had gotten from them since his return. After both muttered absent "Thanks, man"s and just kept reading, he almost left. Instead, he sat.
"Want a hand with this? Maybe spell one of you?"
Raley laughed. "Hey, the writer say he wants to spell us, that's clever, too."
Ochoa gave him a flat stare. "I don't get it."
"Forget it, just forget it." Raley turned sideways in his chair and stewed.
Ochoa enjoyed his moment of busting his partner's chops and then air slurped his coffee, which was still too hot to drink. He set down his cup and then rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands. Poring over phone records was just one typical donkey chore in a detective's day. But Esteban Padilla had had several phones and made a lot more calls than they had anticipated for a produce truck driver, and this task, after so much seatwork looking through limo manifests, was making both cops paper blind. It was why they had moved the chore to Interrog
ation. Not just for the table space, but for the peace. And now, here was Rook. "OK. Want to tell us what this is about? The waiting on us, the 'Howya doin', Roach,' the offer to help with all this?"
"All right," said Rook. He waited for Raley's attention, which he got. "Yeah, it's sort of . . . Call it an olive branch." When neither detective responded, he continued. "Look, you know and I know there has been an undercurrent of tension since the moment I saw you in the kitchen at Cassidy Towne's. Am I right?"
Ochoa picked up his cup again. "Hey, we're just doing the job, man. As long as that works, I'm cool." He tested the coffee and then took a long sip.
"Come on. Something's going on here and I want to clear the air between us. Now, I'm not insensitive. I know what's different. My article. It's because I didn't give you guys enough credit, is that it?" They didn't say anything. It struck him right then what room he was in and how ironic that here he was interrogating two detectives, trying to get them to talk. So he played his ace card. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me."
A look passed between them both, but again Ochoa spoke. "OK, since you ask, yeah. But I wouldn't call it getting credit. It's more like, you know, we're a team. Just like you've seen us do it. So it's not about getting our names in more or being made heroes, we don't want any of that. Just how come it wasn't more like it's all of us together, you know? That's all."
Rook nodded. "I thought so. It wasn't intentional, I assure you, and if I had it to do over, I'd write it differently. I'm sorry, guys."
Ochoa studied Rook. "All I can ask." He stuck out his hand, and after they shook, he turned to his partner. "Rales?"
The other detective seemed more tentative, but he said, "Cool," and also shook with the writer.
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