Heat uncapped her dry-erase marker and added notes to the time line on the whiteboard, as well as the idea about Rook’s old material. “Maybe she looked but didn’t find what she was after—”
“Or maybe she did and wanted more,” Rook said.
They looked at each other. “We need to go through my old stuff,” Rook said at the exact moment Heat said, “We need to read your old notes.”
“And Chloe’s notebook again,” they said in unison. They grinned at their symbiotic relationship. She and Rook were like Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock, and each case a voyage on their personal Starship Enterprise. Proving her point, Rook grabbed the car keys, she grabbed her jacket, and they headed to the door, all without a word.
The crime scene at Rook’s brownstone had been completely sanitized. No evidence remained to indicate that Chloe Masterson had ever been there, let alone died there. Heat and Rook sat in the front room. She perched on the edge of the beige couch, while he sat opposite her in one of the armchairs. On the floor next to Rook was a plastic box, the lid removed. Inside, neatly lined up, was a collection of notebooks. They varied in size and color, as well as in their overall condition.
Upon closer inspection, Nikki was able to correlate the growth of Jameson Rook as a journalist, and as a person, to the type of books he’d used. Some were the inexpensive spiral-bound type a typical middle school student might use. Three were composition books, but unlike Chloe’s nice polka-dot special order notebook, his were black-and-white drugstore numbers. By the time Rook had been a senior, he’d graduated to the more permanent—and more expensive—black Moleskines. She laid the array of notebooks on the table between them, sweeping her hand over them. “Here lies the evolution of Jameson Rook,” she said.
“Mock me if you will, but evidence of growth is actually a good thing. Would you look at me the same if I’d not graduated to the book-bound variety?”
“You’re right. I’d think you were still an immature thirty-six-year-old instead of a...oh, wait, you are an immature thirty-six-year-old.”
He mimicked a stab to the heart. “I’m wounded. I’m an impishly adorable thirty-six-year-old. Semantics, my dear Heat, are everything.”
“Either way, you’re a—” She stopped as something triggered in her mind. “Semantics,” she murmured.
“You have an idea,” Rook said. A statement, not a question.
“I do,” she said after she fleshed it out, “but not about this case. Remember when you did that story on the crime families, and Tomaso Fats told you about the old speakeasy the family had repurposed?”
“Sure. They used it as gambling central. We made a deal to not turn them in to Vice.”
“Right. But what did they call it?”
He laughed. “Oh yeah, that was the best part. They called it the library. ‘We’re going to the library’ meant going to shoot craps, or play blackjack. Pretty clever.”
Without a word, she reached for her cell phone, dialing Sean Raley. “Rales, it’s me,” she said when he answered.
“Hey, Cap. Everything good upstate?”
“Yeah, fine,” she said.
“So you got a collar? Excellent! Coming back to civilization soon? We caught another murder. Spread a little thin over here.”
“Mmm, not quite yet. Still working on that. But Sean, listen. I have a thought about our NYU vic.”
“Joon Chin,” he said.
“Right.”
“That’s good, because we’re dry.”
She didn’t know if her hunch would lead anywhere, but it was worth a try. “Remember when you interviewed the vic’s roommate? He said Joon had been at a coffee shop that night.”
“Right. Thing is, though, he didn’t have any books or his laptop with him, so we’re pretty sure he didn’t go to study.”
“It may be a long shot,” Heat said, “but maybe ‘coffee’ doesn’t mean coffee.” She recounted the Tomaso Fats library reference. “You’ve tried all the normal scenarios. What if going to get coffee actually meant something else?”
Raley didn’t respond. Of the two members of Roach, Sean was the more contemplative detective. They were both thinkers, but Raley did more of his thinking internally before voicing his thoughts. “It’s possible,” he said after he’d considered her idea. “Yeah, it’s definitely possible. I’ll dig around. See if ‘going to get coffee’ means anything else to Joon Chin’s group of friends.”
Heat’s phone beeped. “Let me know what you find,” she said to Raley, then clicked over to the incoming call.
“Captain Heat,” said the snarling voice of Zach Hamner when she answered. “Your absence in New York is causing some consternation.”
She cupped her hand over her eyes, wishing she’d stayed on the line with Raley. A conversation with The Hammer was never an enjoyable experience. “Big word, Hamner. Did you look that up in the dictionary just for this call?”
“I have plenty more words for you, Captain Heat,” he said. “I’m happy to call you in to One PP to discuss it.”
“I’ll be back soon,” she said, deciding she needed to placate him, at least a little bit. “They are my personal days, though.”
His response was a single word. “Honeymoon.”
She gritted her teeth and came right back at him. “Days that I’ve earned from my exemplary service with the force. Days I have every right to use. Days that are mine to use as I see fit.”
Rook stopped flipping through his notebooks. “Tell him how many overtime hours you’ve put in but haven’t gotten paid for,” he said, expressing the indignation that she felt but was trying to control.
She frowned and shushed him. “Hamner, do you have any idea how many unpaid hours of overtime I’ve put in?”
Rook leaned forward. “Tell him that you deserve to take time off every now and then.”
She waved him off, but dammit, he was right. “I deserve time off, you know.”
“You’re working a case there, Captain, so it’s not exactly recreational time. One PP is, shall we say, concerned that you have ‘mis-prioritized’ your duties—”
The inanity of such a statement riled her, but she checked her instinct to cut him off at the knees. “Please tell me, how have I ‘mis-prioritized’ my duties?”
Rook was on his feet the second the words left her mouth. “There is not a moment in time when you’ve shirked your duties,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Mis-prioritized? That is—”
He sat back down when she put her palm out to him, but once again, his response foreshadowed her own. “I have never shirked my duties. Ever. My husband is in a situation of which you are well aware, and I am taking some of my earned time to help.”
“That’s all well and good, Captain, but the brass expects to see you here, in person, first thing Monday morning.”
“Can’t wait,” she said, hanging up before Hamner could say anything else to piss her off.
“Oh my God,” Rook said a moment later, pushing his chair back and standing again. But this time, instead of agitated, he looked stunned. He dragged his hands through his hair, pacing the room.
“What did you find?” Heat asked.
Rook came back to the table, pushing the open Moleskine notebook toward her with his fingertips. “It’s right here.”
She picked it up and scanned, her eyes widening. She looked back at him. “This is what you were digging into your senior year?”
He leaned over Nikki’s shoulder, his breath warm against her neck. He reached around her and tapped his finger against the page. “This is what Chloe was writing about.”
She tilted her head back to look up at him, questioning whether it was really possible that Cambria University had a secret society and that it was at the center of Chloe’s investigation. “This is a real thing, this Tektōn?”
“I thought so at the time, but I never got around to proving it. The story was killed. I wanted to pursue it, but I had an article picked up for GQ. That was a big deal back then. I dropped the se
cret society story and went all in on the other one.”
Heat sat back, thinking aloud. “So Chloe knew about this Tektōn group and was trying to prove its existence. But why would that put her in danger? What’s so bad about a college secret society? Don’t they just drink and do stupid rituals that no one but the order itself cares about?”
“Not necessarily. There are untold facets and all is never as it seems.” In typical Rook fashion, he spoke cryptically. He was going to take her on what would no doubt be a lengthy roundabout tale before he got to the point.
“Do tell,” she said, knowing that he would with or without her prompting.
“They’re called collegiate societies. They are usually very serious and morose. They all use mortuary imagery. Far too pedestrian, if you ask me. You’d think they could be a bit more original.”
“Rabbit trail,” Nikki said, and that was enough to get him back on track.
“There are far too many to count, but my God, they are incredibly interesting. Membership rolls. Initiations. Signs of recognition. They’re all top secret. No one but the members themselves know about the inner workings.
“And outside the college setting? Even more fascinating. The Seven Society, for example, has a legend behind its formation. The legend says that there were originally eight men. They were to meet up to play cards. Alas, one didn’t show. The seven remaining men formed their society. And then there is the Gridiron Secret Society. Most of them are connected to universities. Some, like the Seven Society, keep their memberships secret for the members’ lifetimes. Only upon one’s death is their membership in the society revealed—with a wreath shaped like the number seven put on the grave of the recently deceased. A wreath of black magnolias, no less.” He slapped his hand on the table in delight. “Can you imagine? A wreath of black magnolias. You just can’t get more poetic than that.
“So many are associated with universities, of course. And many are connected to one another. It’s like a web. Gridiron is at the University of Georgia. Its first president, more than a hundred years ago, graduated from Yale and was believed to be a member of the Order of Skull and Bones.” He looked at her. “You have heard of it?”
Even if she hadn’t, she could put two and two together. “Yale plus secret society equals Skull and Bones.”
Rook winked at her. “Quick as a whip, that why I love you, Heat.”
“So you’re saying that every society has their lore.”
“They do, indeed. Secrets abound. Skull and Bones, for instance. Rumor has it that they had something to do with the Kennedy assassination.”
“Which one?”
“John F.,” he said. “And people have also said that they had were involved in creating the nuclear bomb.”
“Do you think that’s really true?” she asked, clear skepticism in her voice.
He stood and began pacing as he spoke. “There are rumors that the CIA used it as a conduit to their organization.”
“Cambria University is small. You think a secret society actually exists?”
“So many colleges have their secret orders, you have no idea. In this particular case, size doesn’t matter.”
Heat had long ago learned to ignore her husband’s never-ending off-the-cuff sexual references. She thought back to Chloe’s notes. “Let’s say Cam U has this Order of Tektōn. They’re obviously well hidden. But remember Chloe’s sketches? Buildings and mazes and—”
“Tunnels,” Rook finished.
“Could there be some old meeting place that isn’t publicly known?”
The questions brought forth another tidbit of information held somewhere in the depths of Rook’s mind. He put his hands on the back of the chair and leaned forward. “Washington and Lee.”
“The university?”
“They have the Cadaver Society. They’ve managed to keep nearly every part of their order secret. It’s said that there is an entire system of passageways underground. They’re used so the members are ghosts to the student body and faculty of the school. Get this: there are doors that are locked, and no one has the key. Suspicious-looking doors. A miniature door in the library. You can find their symbol, a skull with the letter C inside of it, across the campus. They leave it as a calling card when they partake in mischief.”
“What if Cam U really does have some sort of secret passageways? What if those are the sketches Chloe drew?” Heat posited.
Rook considered. “It’s definitely possible. Yes, Captain Heat, I think it’s most certainly a possibility.”
Nikki had been in Cambria long enough to feel as if she’d worn a path in the pavement between the hotel, the police station, and the university. Rook had a meeting scheduled with the provost, as well as his old buddy, Lamont, so after their review of Rook’s old notebooks, they headed, once again, to the university, this time to the administration building. “Come with me,” Rook said after they’d parked in their usual spot.
“It’s fine. I’ll wait for you here,” she said. She’d had the foresight to photograph as many pages of Chloe’s notebook as she could. She’d focused on the ones that looked cryptic on the hunch that they held information Chloe didn’t want easily deciphered. Some of those included sketches that might show them where to look for hidden tunnels or passageways.
Before she started scrolling through them, Heat queued up her emails. Roach had sent an update, which was that they were chasing down a lead on the “coffee” idea, and that they’d see her soon. Zach Hamner had called, gone to voicemail, said nothing, then hung up after fifteen seconds. It was meant to signal disappointment to her, but she just ignored it.
Rook got out of the car, came around to her side, and opened the door with the flair of a footman helping a princess out of a chariot. “I won’t take no for an answer. It’s your turn to be a visitor in my world. We’ll be done in no time, and then we can search the campus from head to toe.”
She looked up at him, ready to decline, but Rook’s excited face changed her mind. He was right. He lived in her world far more than she lived in his, metaphorically speaking. How could she refuse? She took his proffered hand, and a short while later, they were seated around a conference table in the provost’s office, waiting for the provost himself. Kaden Saunders was another of Rook’s former college buddies who’d made his career at the university and had advanced quickly. Second only to the president, he’d helped secure Rook’s position as a visiting professor. Saunders’s secretary had showed them in, and now they waited.
The office itself was just as Nikki imagined a provost’s office would look. Dark wood, bookshelves filled with journalism books, a few photographs of Saunders arm in arm with celebrities and politicians, several engraved plaques and trophies, and other miscellany.
Lamont and Rook wore twin outfits: navy trousers, tucked-in button-down shirts, and brown blazers. Jennifer Daily came barreling in, flinging her briefcase onto the table in front of her. Typed student papers, newspaper clippings, and photographs slid partway out of the case. She shoved them back in and plunked herself down. The chair creaked, more from the force of the action than anything else. She was a short woman, probably around five feet three inches, and she had a good twenty years on her colleagues, plus at least twenty extra pounds on her frame. She had the softness that came with age: loose skin around the neck, sagging jowls, and one eyelid drooping a touch lower than the other. If she felt anything like she looked, she was ready to retire.
As Daily riffled through her case, Rook and Lamont carried on a conversation about the dangers journalists faced in the Middle East. Nikki sat back and observed. Finally, ten minutes after the meeting had been scheduled to begin, Kaden Saunders entered the room. Lamont popped up out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box. They shook hands, each clasping the other’s forearm with their free hands. Next Saunders came around the table and shook Jennifer Daily’s hand. Rook stood and the two men embraced, the provost giving Rook a hearty clap on the back. Last, he greeted Heat. “You look well, Mrs. Rook,�
� he said, leaning in to lightly buss her cheek.
“So do you,” she said, resisting the urge to correct him with “Captain Heat.” Compared to his colleagues, the dean of the Merritt School of Journalism had a strong air of leadership about him. Kaden Saunders’s smoky gray suit was polished and pressed and his hair neatly combed to one side in a conservative style. After greeting Nikki, whom he’d met once before at her wedding, he sat forward in his chair, hands in front of him on the table. He cleared his throat, bringing the others to attention. Even though they’d known each other for the better part of fifteen years, Saunders spoke formally. “I understand it’s been a long day, so I don’t want to drag this on. Tell me what happened, Jamie.”
Rook recounted the events of the day: the opening of his class in the lecture hall, meeting Jada Rincon, Chloe’s notebook, the theft of Rook’s bag, and the arrest of Joseph Hill. “That’s about it.”
“No other progress on identifying the girl’s killer?” Saunders asked, directing the question to Heat instead of Rook.
“We’re chasing down a few leads,” Heat answered.
“But nothing you can elaborate on, am I right?” Lamont asked.
She kept her expression grim. “Right. It’s an ongoing investigation.”
Saunders tapped the table with one hand. “You’re going to prove our Jamie innocent, though, right?”
He asked the question as if he were a concerned friend, but he was also the dean who’d brought his old friend to the college. She had no doubt the guy was in the hot seat with the president of the university and the Board of Regents. “Absolutely,” she said. “He’s my Jamie, too.”
Saunders cleared his throat again. A nervous tic, Heat realized. He had something to say, but he wasn’t sure how to say it. “You’re taking some heat over this, aren’t you?” she asked, saying it for him. “Need to make a change?”
The room fell silent. Jennifer Daily stopped her rustling. Rook, who’d been leaning back in his chair listening to the others talk about him and the situation, sat up at attention, and Raymond Lamont let out a quick and unintentional nervous laugh.
Crashing Heat Page 18
