"That's good," said Ochoa, while thinking, That's bad--at least for what he needed--but he smiled, anyway. Pablo seemed to relax a bit, and as the detective delicately asked him the usual questions about his uncle's friends, girlfriends, personal habits like gambling or drugs, the boy answered in the short-form way teenagers do, but he answered. "What about his work?" asked Ochoa. "He was a produce driver?"
"Yes, it wasn't what he liked, but he had experience as a driver, so that was what he got. You know, a job's a job sometimes, even if it's not as good."
Ochoa looked over to Raley, who had no idea what they were saying but could read his partner's look signaling he had hit a point of interest. Ochoa turned back to Pablo and said, "I hear that." Then, "I notice you said 'not as good.' "
"Uh-huh."
"Not as good as what?"
"Well . . . It's sort of embarrassing, but he's dead, so I guess I can say." The boy fidgeted and shoved his hands under his thighs so he was sitting on them. "My uncle had a, you know, classier job before. But a couple of months ago . . . well, he got fired all of a sudden."
Ochoa nodded. "That's too bad. What did he do when he got fired?" Pablo turned when he heard the keys in the front door, and the detective tried to get him back. "Pablo? What job did he get fired from?"
"Um, he was a driver for a limo company."
"And why did he get fired?"
The front door opened and Padilla's cousin, the one they had left at the funeral home came in. "What the hell's going on here?"
Pablo stood up, and his body language needed no translation even for Raley. It said this interview was over.
Even though Detective Heat didn't have an appointment, Cassidy Towne's editor at Epimetheus Books did not make her wait. Nikki announced herself in the lobby, and when she and Rook stepped off the elevator onto the sixteenth floor of the publishing house, his assistant was waiting. She keyed the code into the touchpad that opened the frosted glass doors to the offices and escorted them through a brightly lit hallway of white walls with blond wood accents. This was the nonfiction floor, so their path was decorated by framed covers of Epimetheus books, each a biography, expose, or celebrity-rant best seller encased side by side with a reprint of its peak New York Times list.
They reached a bull pen area of three assistants' desks outside three wooden doors that were conspicuously larger than the others they had passed. The center door was open and the assistant led them in to meet the editor.
Mitchell Perkins smiled over a pair of black-rimmed bifocals, dropped them onto his blotter, and came around the desk to shake hands. He was cheerful and much younger than Nikki had expected for a senior editor of nonfiction--in his early forties, but with tired eyes. She quickly understood when she saw the piles of manuscripts spilling out of his etagere and even sprouting up from the floor beside his desk.
He gestured to a conversation area off to one side of his office. Heat and Rook sat on the couch; he took the armchair in front of the window that spanned his whole north wall, giving a spectacular unobstructed view of the Empire State Building. Even for the two visitors who had spent most of their lives in Manhattan, the panorama was awe-inspiring. Nikki almost remarked that the office could be used as a movie set with a backdrop like that, but it wasn't the proper tone for this meeting. First she had to offer condolences for the loss of an author. Then she had to ask him for his dead author's manuscript.
"Thank you for seeing us on short notice, Mr. Perkins," she began.
"Of course. When the police come, would I do anything but?" He turned aside to Rook and added, "These are unusual circumstances, but it's wonderful to meet you. We almost met last May at Sting and Trudie's Rainforest Benefit after-party, but you were in deep conversation with Richard Branson and James Taylor and I was a bit intimidated."
"No need for that. I'm just people."
So Rook, thankfully, provided the ice-breaking laugh, and Nikki could then steer to business. "Mr. Perkins, we're here about Cassidy Towne, and first of all, we're sorry for your loss."
The editor nodded and puckered his cheeks. "That's very thoughtful, certainly, but may I ask how you came to hear we may, or may not, have had some association with her?"
She wouldn't have been much of a detective if she hadn't noticed the thick smoke screen of his word choice. Perkins hadn't come out owning the simple fact that Cassidy was writing a book for him. He'd parsed. Nice guy, perhaps, but he was playing a chess game. So she decided to come straight up the gut. "Cassidy Towne was writing a book for you and I'd like to know what it was about."
The impact was visible. His eyebrows peaked and he recrossed his legs, shifting himself to get comfortable in his soft leather chair. "Well then, the small talk portion is over, I suppose." He smiled, but it lacked heart.
"Mr. Perkins--"
"Mitch. This will strike a more pleasant note for all of us if you'll call me Mitch."
Heat remained cordial but pressed the same theme. "What was her book about?"
He could play that game, too. His non-answer was to turn again to Rook. "I understand you were contracted by First Press to do five thousand words on her. Did she say something to you? Is that how we got here today?"
Rook never got a chance to respond. "Excuse me," Nikki said. She maintained the decorum Perkins had established but rose and moved away to lean with her hips on his desk so he had to twist and pivot away from Rook. "I am running an open homicide investigation and that means following every possible lead to find Cassidy Towne's killer. There are a lot of leads and not a lot of time, so--if I may?--how I got my information is how I got my information. How I got here is not your concern. And if striking a more pleasant note is what you want, let's begin with me asking the questions and you being direct and cooperative, all right . . . Mitch?"
He folded his arms across his chest. "Absolutely," he replied. She noted that he closed his eyes briefly as he said the words. Mitch was one of those.
"So can we start over again with my question? And if this helps, I do know she was working on a tattletale book, a tell-all."
He nodded. "Of course, that was her wheelhouse."
"So who or what was the subject?" She sat down again across from him.
"That I don't know." In anticipation of her, he held up a staying palm. "Yes, I can confirm we had a deal for a book with her. Yes, it was to be a tell-all. In fact, Cassidy guaranteed it would be newsworthy across the board, not just the tabloids and ambush TV shows. It would, in the parlance of the Paris Hilton generation, be hot. However." He closed his eyes again and opened them, making Nikki think of barn owls. "However . . . I can only say that I do not know the subject of her expose."
"You mean you know and won't say," responded Heat.
"We are a major house. We trust our authors and give them great latitude. As such, Cassidy Towne and I operated on blind faith. She assured me she had a blockbuster book, I assured her I would get it to market. Now, sadly, we may never know what the subject was . . . Unless you can locate the manuscript."
Detective Heat smiled. "You know, and you're not telling. Cassidy Towne got a huge advance, and especially in this economy, that doesn't happen without a solid proposal and everybody signing off."
"Forgive me, Detective, but how would you know whether she got any advance, let alone a sizable one?"
Rook weighed in on that issue. "Because it was the only way she would be able to fund her network of tipsters. You know newspapers. She didn't have the budget from the Ledger to pay that tab. And she wasn't a wealthy woman."
Nikki added, "I can get into her bank records, and I bet I'll see a deposit from Epimetheus in a sum that says you knew exactly what you were buying."
"If you do, and there is such an advance, the linkage you insinuate is only conjecture." He said no more, and a beat of silence passed between them.
Nikki got out a business card. "Whoever this book was about could be the killer or lead us to the killer. If you change your mind, here's how to reach me."
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He took her card and put it in his pocket without reading it. "Thank you. And if I may say, as good as Jameson Rook here is, his article barely did you justice. In fact, I'm starting to think there may even be a book in Nikki Heat."
For her, nothing could have more definitively ended the meeting.
As soon as the elevator door closed, Nikki said, "Shut up."
"I didn't say anything." And then he smiled and added, "About a Nikki Heat book . . ."
The car stopped at the ninth floor and several people got on. Heat noticed that Rook had turned himself to the wall. "You all right?" she asked. He didn't answer, just nodded and scratched something on his forehead, covering half his face for the rest of the ride down.
At the ground floor, he let the elevator clear before he slowly got off. Nikki was waiting for him. "Did you get bitten on the face by something?"
"No, I'm fine." He turned and speed-walked ahead of her, crossing the lobby at a fast pace. He had just put his hand on the door leading out to Fifth Avenue when Nikki heard a woman's voice echo across the marble.
"Jamie? Jamie Rook, is that you?" She was one of the women from the elevator, and something in the way Rook hesitated before he turned from the door to face her told Heat to hang back and watch this play out from the near distance.
"Terri, hello. Where's my head? I didn't see you." Rook stepped to her and they hugged, and Nikki saw a blush come to his face and blend with the scratch marks he had just excavated on his forehead.
When they separated, the woman said, "What are you doing coming here and not saying hello to your editor?"
"Actually, that's just what I was going to do, but then I got a call for an assignment I'm working on so I figured, next time." He looked up and caught Nikki watching and stepped around, presenting their backs to her.
"You'd better," said the editor. "Listen, I have to run, too. But you saved me an e-mail. Your manuscript is due back from copyediting next week. I'll ship it as an attachment as soon as it comes in, OK?"
"Sure thing." They embraced again, and the woman ran off to join her companions, who were holding a cab at the curb.
When Rook turned back toward Nikki, she was gone. He scanned the lobby, and his stomach tightened as he saw her over by Security, reading the building directory.
"You have an editor here?" she said as he approached. "I see a lot of book publishers in the building, but I don't see a listing for First Press magazine."
"Ah, no. They're in the Flatiron."
"No Vanity Fair, either."
"They're in the Conde Nast. Off Times Square." He touched her elbow. "We should get up to the precinct, huh?"
Heat ignored his prod. "So why would you have an editor here if it's all book publishers? Do you write books?"
He rocked his head side to side. "In a manner of speaking, yes."
"Now, that woman, Terri--your editor--got on at the ninth floor, as I recall."
"God, Nikki, do you always have to be such a cop?"
"And according to this"--she ran her finger along the glass covering the building directory--"the ninth floor is Ardor Books. What would Ardor Books be?"
The security guard at the counter beside them smiled and said, "Ma'am? Ardor Books is a romance fiction publisher."
Nikki turned back to Rook, but he wasn't there. He was speed-walking to the Fifth Avenue door again, thinking he had a chance in hell to escape.
Chapter Twelve
Coming into the bull pen with Rook twenty minutes later, Nikki thought there must be a SWAT operation or another suspicious vehicle discovery the way everyone was crowded around the TV. But that didn't seem likely, because she would have certainly picked up the chatter on the TAC frequencies during the drive up from the publishing house.
"What's the big news?" she asked anyone in the room. "Somebody else get fed up with the strike and set their trash on fire?"
"Oh, major story," said Detective Hinesburg. "All the TV choppers are on it. ACC has a coyote cornered at the north end of Inwood Park."
"That critter gets around," said Raley.
Rook stepped to the back of the circle rimming the TV. "Do they know if it's the same one that went after Coyote Man?"
Ochoa turned his way. "Hey, man, don't call him that, OK?"
Through split screens showing simultaneous aerial and telephoto ground video, they watched live as an animal control officer prepared to fire a tranquilizer dart at the coyote. Nikki, never one to be glued to a TV except for the major shared moments of truly breaking news, experienced an odd moment of being transfixed by the trapped animal, hunkered, peering out of the thicket above Spuyten Duyvil Creek. The ground-level camera was shooting from a distance, so the picture was wavy from air distortion and magnification, but the angle wasn't so different from the one she had had looking at the coyote that one morning in front of Cafe Lalo. That moment, unsettling as it had been, was for Nikki Heat rare contact with something wild, an untamed animal finding its way in a city alone. And, mostly, unseen. Yet here it was now; its life and existence couldn't be more public. Nikki was the one staring at it now, and she understood too well what she saw in its eyes this time.
The coyote shivered when the dart struck its coat, but then it immediately ran off, disappearing in dense brush on the steep hill. The news reporter said the dart hit and either glanced off or didn't stick. The aerial camera panned fruitlessly.
Detective Heat killed the TV with the remote, eliciting mock moans and protests as the squad gathered for the morning update.
Nothing connecting the three victims had yet surfaced from the CSU sweep of Derek Snow's apartment. Forensics was still running prints and samples, just to be sure. Nikki reported on her encounter with Soleil Gray at Later On, as well as the confirmation from a segment producer on the show that Cassidy Towne was at work on a tell-all scandal book. Rook cleared his throat, and she gave him a look that said, Don't you dare. She turned back to the squad. "That information was deemed credible based on a meeting Rook and I just had with the book editor. However, he claims not to know the subject of the book and says he doesn't have a manuscript."
"Bullshit," said Hinesburg.
Nikki, who heard enough profanity on the street not to enjoy it in the office, turned to the detective. "Sharon, I believe you're saying what we're all thinking." And then she smiled. "The rest of us had the poise just to think it."
When the laughs died down, Raley asked, "What about a search warrant?"
"I plan to look into that, Rales, but even with some of the more sympathetic judges we know, my gut says that's a tough one to get because of First Amendment issues. The whole idea of police looking through files at a book publisher conjures some unpleasant totalitarian connections for some people, go figure. But I'll try anyway."
Roach made their report on the Padilla ground they had covered. Ochoa said that for something that had looked like it might be nothing but dead ends because nobody would talk, they had ended up finding something pretty intriguing. "Our nobody produce truck driver was actually a former limo driver. Frustrating that it took so long for that to pop. Maybe one day the city can get all the systems so they talk to each other."
"Then what would we do?" said Nikki, her sarcasm eliciting a few chuckles.
"Anyway, we ran him through TLC," continued Raley, "and got the name of his old employer."
Ochoa picked up. "We also got with his produce truck boss. He says that Mr. Padilla had gotten an attorney and filed a wrongful dismissal suit against the limo company. Figured we'd check out the lawyer first before we hit the limousine dudes. That way we'll know what we're walking into."
"Know who the attorney is?" asked Raley. "None other than Ronnie Strong."
The whole room groaned and then began a unison, albeit ragged, chorus of the tagline from the sleazy lawyer's local TV commercials. "Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong!"
"Nice work, Roach," Heat said. "Absolutely, get over and see that attorney. Judging from his commercials, I'd bring so
me hand sanitizer." And as she gathered up her files, she added, "And if either of you comes back here wearing a neck brace, you're dead to me."
Detective Heat had a gift waiting for her when she got over to her desk. An encrypted e-mail from the FBI agent at NCAVC in Quantico. It was from the data analyst she had befriended the night before, and when she clicked the e-mail open, the top half of her screen filled with a color photograph of the Texan. The police sketch Nikki had provided was underneath and it was nearly an exact match. She stared at both and then had to remind herself to breathe. Nikki wasn't sure if her reaction was due to the memory of his assault or the excitement of zeroing in on him. Either one was enough to kick her heart rate up a notch.
A brief note from the NCAVC analyst said, "I'd like to take credit for the quick ID, but this is what happens when cops give good data. Your counterparts around the country could take a lesson, Detective Heat. You can thank me by bringing this one down." Nikki scrolled to read the sheet the agent had put together for her.
His name was Rance Eugene Wolf. "Male, cauc, forty-one. 6'-1'', 160. Born/raised in Amarillo, TX, by his father after the disappearance of his mother when subject was in middle school. Local police investigated the mother's sudden miss-pers on a drive to Plainview to visit relatives with the son/subj., who was found alone in a motel room off Hwy 27. Husband was cleared and case went cold as unsolved/runaway. Interesting to note the son/subj. was questioned five times over two years, including by a psychologist. No comments, no disposition.
"Subject's father continued to live/work in Amarillo as a veterinarian. Subject-Rance worked in practice, trained in, and was accredited for surgical assists." Nikki pictured the array of sharp instruments on Rook's counter. She raised her head to look at the whiteboard and the autopsy photos of Cassidy Towne's perforated ear canal. She turned back to read on.
"No connections made at time, but new data search based on Det. Heat info/subj. MO with pick-tools and duct tape shows hits on unsolved animal mutilations in Amarillo vicinity corresponding to subj.'s residence there.
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