Frozen Heat

TWELVE

When Heat woke up, she couldn’t move her body. She tried to figure out where she was. It was too dark to see, but she knew that she was lying on her side, nearly fetal. Her knees felt cramped, pulled up to her chest as they were, but when Nikki tried to extend her legs, she couldn’t; the soles of her shoes were up against a solid wall. A shiver ran through her. This was exactly the position in which she had found Nicole Bernardin inside her mother’s suitcase.

Her arm itched where the needle had pierced her, but when she tried to reach for it to give it a scratch, something stopped her. Heat didn’t need to see to know what caused that. She was handcuffed.

To find out how much range of motion she had, Nikki gave the cuffs a tug. And then came a bizarre sensation that made her wonder if she was hallucinating under whatever drug they had injected her with. The handcuffs… tugged back.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” said Rook. “Can you do me a favor? Your right elbow is digging into my ribs.”

Still foggy from her sedation, it took Nikki a moment to process all this. Wherever she was, Rook was there, too, wedged beside her. Or under her. Or a bit of both. She drew in her right arm as close as she could to her body. “How’s that?”

“Heaven.”

“Rook, do you know where we are?”

“Not sure. They gave me something to knock me out. I felt a little prick.”

“Would you stop?”

“Sorry. I think it, I say it. Anyway, judging from the scent of steel-belted radial, I’m guessing we’re either spooning the Michelin Man or we’re locked in the trunk of a car.”

Heat detected neither motion nor an engine idling. Then she tried to envision the space as best she could with no light. “Do you know if these cars have inside trunk releases?”

“I don’t. Not sure whether French safety regulations mandate them or not,” he said.

“Let’s feel around for anything like a lever we can pull. Spare me the jokes, please.” They both tried to move their hands but were snagged. “Rook. Are we handcuffed to each other?”

He didn’t answer but paused. Then he gave her cuffs a jerk. “Awesome.”

She ignored him and ran her fingers over her wrists to assess the situation. “Feels like the chain of my cuffs is looped through the chain of yours. Is that biting into your skin?”

“A little, but not so bad. I had actually fantasized about a furry number with some leopard print, but I’ll take it.”

“Shh, listen.”

From outside came the sound of a car slowly approaching over gravel and squeaking to a halt. They heard footsteps and muffled voices then the chirp of a remote followed by the thunk of the latch popping. The sudden rush of fresh air smelled like grass and woods. Hands reached in to unlock their cuffs, and they got hoisted out by the same men who had captured them.

Standing on unsteady legs, Heat shielded her eyes from the high beams of the Mercedes and tried to build an escape plan. Rook got set down beside her and rubbed his wrists. She could sense him making calculations, too.

It didn’t look promising. Only two of them, unarmed and weakened by their injections, in some unknown woodland at night, versus four brawny thugs who had already demonstrated pro skills and were also probably carrying. Then there were however many more stood by in that idling car. Nikki waited there, inhaling the BO and cheap cologne of her captors, and decided to ride it out, hoping an opportunity would present itself-and that this wasn’t the same crew that handled Tyler Wynn.

She flashed a be-cool palm at Rook, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment. Then both turned their attention as the passenger door of the Mercedes opened and another big fella got out. This one opened the back door for a shorter, thickset man in a snap-brim cap who moved around to stand in silhouette before the headlights while his bodyguard waited a yard to the side. The man removed his cap and said, “You wanted to talk to me, Boy-O?”

“Oh. My. God,” said Rook. “Anatoly!”

The man in the headlights took a step forward with his arms wide, and Rook rushed toward him, which made Heat tense up, but nobody tried to stop him. The two men embraced, unleashing a volley of back-clapping, laughing, and saying, “You dog” and “No, you dog,” repeatedly to each other.

When the effusiveness of their reunion settled down, Rook called out, “Nikki, it’s Anatoly. See? He really does know me.” He put an arm around the other man’s shoulder. “Come on, there’s someone I want to introduce you to. This is-”

“Nikki Heat, yes, I know.”

“Course you do,” said Rook. “Nikki, say hi to my old friend, Anatoly Kije.”

The Russian extended a hand that felt callused to her shake. The Mercedes driver killed the engine and dialed down to parking lights, and as her eyes adjusted, Heat got a better look at Kije. He had the squat, blocky physique and weathered bulldog face that would have fit well on the reviewing stand beside Brezhnev at a May Day Parade in Red Square. His hair, unnaturally black for a man his age, was fronted by a jelly roll lacquered by enough spray that his hat had not made a dent. Under a coarse hedge of artificially black brows his eyes were playful, those of a perennial ladies’ man. Nikki had seen many guys like him in the States, but instead of snatching people off city streets they installed custom pools and stone decks on Long Island and in Jersey. She wondered, did they also clean carpets?

“It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“You sure went to enough trouble,” she said. “If you had just called, we could have met you at a cafe.”

“I apologize.” The spy made a slight bow and then gently released her hand. “This is what you call abundance of caution. It is how, in my line of work, one lives to be sixty years old.”

She said, “You mean as an importer and exporter?”

“Ah,” he said with a laugh, pointing at her. “I like this one, Boy-O. She has some stones, yes?”

“Oh, yes.”

Anatoly checked his watch and made a quick survey of the woods. “Tell me, Jameson, so we don’t press our welcome here tonight. What did you need to discuss with me? Another article you will get a prize for and I get nothing?” He laughed.

Rook said, “I’m looking to verify some details about an old network that may have been run here in Paris. Now, you know my rules, Anatoly. I won’t compromise national secrets or jeopardize anyone’s life, but that shouldn’t be a problem because I believe this particular operation is inactive.”

“Let me make a guess.” He smiled at Heat as he spoke to Rook. “That it might have something to do with the work done by the mother of your friend here.”

“Wow. Clairvoyant,” Rook said.

“I had some idea. And why waste time dancing when we can get right to business.” There was a noise in the woods, probably just a branch falling, but Kije caught the eye of one of his bodyguards, and a pair of them slipped into the night to investigate.

“So my mother was involved in clandestine work of some kind,” said Nikki, trying to bring him back to the subject.

“Most definitely. I first became aware of her when I was stationed here in ‘72 as an agricultural liaison at the Soviet embassy.”

Rook fake-coughed, “KGB.”

“Always a wise guy, this one. I love it.” He shadowboxed at Rook’s gut, then turned back to her. “Does that answer what you wanted to know?”

“Depends. On how much you’re willing to tell me.” She held his gaze in a way that said I want more and you know it. “And seeing what you put us through getting here…”

“Everything’s a trade-off, isn’t it? The price of my peace of mind is to help you find yours. What else would you like to know?”

“My mother was murdered.”

“I am truly sorry.”

“It was ten years ago in the USA. But you already know that, don’t you?” He didn’t reply. She said, “I’m trying to find out if it was connected to her spying.”

“Nikki Heat, let us not insult each other’s intelligence. You already believe it is connected. What you want from me is to tell you how.” He paused and said, “I honestly don’t know.”

“Anatoly Kije?” she said. “Boy-O? Please do not insult my intelligence. You know.”

“I know rumors. That’s all. And, if true-if,” he said, pointing a finger in the air for emphasis, “it could have come back upon her in a very unfortunate way.”

Rook said, “Come on, what did you hear?”

Anatoly became distracted momentarily as the two bodyguards returned from their perimeter check and signaled all clear. Slightly more relaxed, he said to Nikki, “There were rumors that your mother became a double agent.”

Heat was already shaking her head emphatically. “No. She would never do that.”

“Well, she wouldn’t do it for me, and believe me, I tried.” A twinkle shined in his roguish eyes. “But people do turn. Some for ideology, some for revenge, some are blackmailed. Most, I find, simply do it for the money. The real answer is always found not in the heart but in the bank.” Heat still shook her head in denial, but he pressed on. “You asked the question, dorogaya moya. The perception, true or not, about your mother hinted that she had some ‘extracurricular’ contacts and activities.”

“But I’m telling you,” said Nikki, “she never would have gone to work for anyone but the United States.”

“People don’t always align with another government. There are other entities, you know. The last decade has become a new era for tradecraft.” The gruff Russian spook, who had no doubt ordered (and probably even administered) his fair share of back alley beatings and terminations, took on a wistful look at the mention of this new era. She could envision how an old-school spy like him would be an inconvenient fit among the more outwardly refined operatives who ate sushi, did yoga, and hacked what they needed from underground computer nerve centers.

But Kije survived, if uncertainly. The bloated hide of his face told her he coped with his unsure future in the world order by cracking open a bottle of Stoli. Heat was more interested in the information she needed. “What do you mean by other entities?”

“I would say, ask Nicole Bernardin. But you can’t, can you?”

“What do you know about Nicole Bernardin?”

“I know that, just like your mother, Nicole became involved with people outside the strict margins of her government’s scope.”

Rook jumped in again. “For argument’s sake, what if her mother had turned?” He could almost hear the adrenaline rising in Nikki’s veins, so he added, “Or if it just looked like she had-would CIA act on that?”

“Not likely,” said the Russian. “Well, not on American soil.”

“Who would?” asked Heat, aware of the possibility it could have been the man standing right in front of her.

“Kill her?” He shrugged. “As I said, these are changing times. It wouldn’t have to be a government at all, would it?”

“Could it be the same as whoever hit Tyler Wynn?” asked Rook.

“Who knows? Either way, it’s a sad lesson about the nature of the trade. You can never really retire. I, myself, tried retiring once. It went poorly. That is why I have to meet people like this.” He gestured to the forest and the night.

“Even old friends?” asked Rook.

“You kidding, Boy-O? It is old friends who can be the most lethal of all.”

Nikki said, “You must know some of the projects my mother was working on. Nicole, too.”

She had conducted enough interrogations to tell by the way his eyes rose in his lids, to ponder, that he did know, and he was weighing how much to reveal to this friend of Jameson Rook-and daughter of a CIA operative. Then she lost his attention.

Kije cocked an ear to the darkness. Soon the bodyguards did, too, straining at the horizon as wolves did for signs of food. Or danger. Heat and Rook also listened, and soon heard them muttering, “ Beptopet. ” Rook translated for her, but by then, Nikki heard it herself. Helicopter.

She tried to draw Kije back to her, but the ignition of his Mercedes was already turning over. “What are some of the extracurriculars you’re talking about?” His bodyguard opened the back door of the car and held it open for him.

The little bear pumped Rook’s hand and gave him a fast back slap. “Boy-O, until next time, right?” And then he bowed to her. “Nikki Heat.”

Doors started slamming on the two Peugeots behind them as the other guards saddled up. Nikki’s frustration mounted as the clock ran out for the second time just when she was so close to getting an answer. Kije hurried to the side of his car. “Anatoly, please. At least give me a direction.”

“I told you. Check the bank,” he said and ducked to get in the backseat.

“I already got that. Give me more to go on. Please?”

He stopped and his head rose up over the open door. The Russian said to her, “Then think of what else I told you. Ask yourself about the new era.” That would be all she got.

The bodyguard shut Anatoly’s door and took the shotgun seat for himself. All three cars drove a semicircle around them, kicking up a rooster tail of dust. The trailing Peugeot slowed to leave a gap for Kije’s Mercedes to fill in the hammock spot of the convoy, and then they sped away with their headlights doused.

Heat and Rook tasted the fine cloud of dirt that swirled around them, illuminated by moonlight and shrouding them in a radiant fog. When it began to vanish, Nikki saw a reflection on the ground near them and found their cell phones stacked there, each with the battery removed to disable GPS tracking. As they reinstalled them and powered up, the helicopter passed and continued on, seeming uninterested and unhurried. Nikki paused to watch it fly, eclipsing the Paris moon. She noticed that at least it was half-full.

Nikki Heat saw the next night’s half moon rise behind Terminal 1 at JFK when she and Rook piled into the backseat of the town car he had ordered for their ride to Manhattan. In spite of Nikki’s misgivings about leaving New York for Paris, Rook had been right. The brief trip had moved both cases forward. Not enough for Nikki-never enough for Nikki-but the tantalizingly incomplete information she’d gotten over there would fill critical spaces on both Murder Boards. What nagged at her was where to go next. One avenue Heat knew she needed to explore pained her, but she took the step to address it right that moment.

“Hey, Dad, it’s me,” she said when Jeff Heat picked up. To put a cheerier spin on things she added, “What are you doing at home on a big Saturday night?”

“Screening my goddamned phone calls so I don’t get any more ass-hole reporters calling for interviews.”

“Oh, no. Has it been that bad?”

“All hours. Worse than the freakin’ telemarketers. Hang on.” She heard ice cubes tink against glass and painted the mental picture of her father situated in his easy chair command post taking the edge off it all with another Cape Codder. “Even that bimbo from the Ledger showed up at my front door the other morning. Must have snuck in behind one of the residents before the gate closed. Those jerks have no regard for privacy.”

“Yeah, we all know reporters are scum.” Rook whipped his head her way. Then, on quick reflection, the journalist nodded his agreement. “Listen, Dad, are you going to be around tomorrow? I wanted to swing by to talk some more. I’ve learned a few things I think you’d be interested in knowing about Mom.” That, along with asking him to go over the box of photos Lysette Bernardin gave her, presented a valid excuse to drop by. But her real plan was to use the occasion to broach another subject best left for face-to-face. They agreed on a time for the visit and said good night. Nikki tapped end, feeling bad for not being straight with him about her ulterior reason for wanting to talk. She wondered if her mother had felt those kinds of misgivings when she withheld information from them. Then she wondered if Rook had been right, after all, about becoming her mother in that regard, too.

Detective Ochoa had left a recent voice mail from his number at the Twentieth Precinct. “Surprised to find you in the pen tonight, Miguel,” she said.

“Someone has to take responsibility for this case while you and Rook drink wine and eat snails, know what I mean?”

“Well, I’m done slacking. We’re back in town and I’m ready to bail you boys out of whatever mess you made of things.”

Detective Raley popped onto the extension and said, “Did you bring me anything?”

“You’re working, too, Sean? I only hope I can get back in there soon enough to watch Captain Irons’s head explode when he sees the OT report.”

“Hey,” said Raley, “the Iron Man actually made an appearance here himself tonight.”

“Irons? On the weekend?”

Ochoa said, “Yeah, he came in with Detective Hinesburg about an hour ago. The two of them closed the door to his office and listened to some audio recording on his speaker phone and rushed out like they were in a big hurry.”

Raley said, “I told Ochoa they were probably calling Moviefone for the show times of Hot Tub Time Machine,” which made them all laugh, but any Irons activity raised a yellow flag for Heat, more so if it involved Sharon Hinesburg.

They ran down the day’s developments for her. “I finally got confirmation from French authorities on that call the Bernardins said they got last Sunday evening from the mysterious Mr. Seacrest,” Detective Raley began. “It came to their number as an international call, but unfortunately, it was a burner cell, so that trail ends there.”

Heat’s disappointment mixed with relief that Emile Bernardin’s story about the call checked out. Of course, she would have preferred that it lead her to Seacrest, but in the end, upholding the credibility of Nicole’s parents pleased her. “Did the glove turn up?”

“Negative,” said Ochoa. “If you promise not to tell, we have a Plan B there.”

“Tell me first and then I’ll tell you whether or not I’ll promise that.”

Ochoa paused then said, “Detective Feller is going off-road. Even though Irons put himself in charge of anything that even smells like it will break the case…”

“Including the glove,” added Raley.

“… Feller is calling in some old IOUs to do some indy snooping at Forensics to see what he can scare up about the fate of that thing.”

Raley said, “You know what Feller is like. All that time on the street with those swinging dicks in the Taxi Unit? He’s not wired to color inside the lines.”

“So he’s ignoring his commander’s direct orders?” asked Heat.

“Yup,” they said in unison.

“It’s a good thing I’m on forced leave. I’d have to do something about that.”

When she hung up, Rook said, “Who’s dissing Wally Irons, and when can I shake his hand?” But before she could answer, he noticed they were pulling off the expressway at the Van Dam exit. “Excuse me, driver? Aren’t we taking the Midtown Tunnel?”

“Closed down. They shut it for earthquake repairs.”

Nikki looked out the back window but saw no cones, no flashing lights or portable orange construction advisory signs. “Are you sure?” The traffic behind them stayed on the LIE and flowed onward, at speed, toward the toll plaza at the mouth of the tunnel.

The driver crossed Van Dam and made a U-turn onto a side street fast enough to pin her shoulder against Rook’s, then hooked another turn onto a service road leading into an industrial zone of double- and single-story auto body shops and warehouses.

Rook asked, “Don’t you want the BQE to the Williamsburg Bridge?”

But the driver didn’t reply. The power locks snapped down, and he made another sharp turn into a driveway and through the open double wide door into the receiving area of a trucking fulfillment depot. The driver got out, leaving them in the car as the steel double doors rolled down behind them, putting the whole place in darkness. Once more, Heat reached for her hip, found it empty, and cursed to herself.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Rook’s voice in the dark. “This is the last time I use this car service.”

A single fluorescent lamp blinked on and cast sickly blue light down on two men in business suits who descended the ramp slanting from the back of a cargo trailer across the warehouse. They walked calmly but purposefully in matching cadence to their car. The ghosty illumination of the overhead tube caused the whiteness of their shirts to pop in contrast to their suits and ties. As they neared, the one in the brown suit held up his ID and slapped it against the window for them to see.

It read, “Bart Callan, United States Department of Homeland Security.”

Heat and Rook sat on folding metal chairs in the cargo trailer watching a pair of lab technicians in white coveralls at the deep end of the hold swab the exterior of their luggage with wipes that they placed in portable infrared scanners. After each cloth got electronically sniffed, it was then sealed in an evidence-grade plastic zip bag. The techs had followed the same procedure with the swabbing pads they had run over their hands and shoes. “Not being one to jump at criticizing the federal government,” said Rook, “but aren’t you supposed to do that before we get on the plane?”

Agent Callan turned from the scanning table and strode over to him. He looked like he did triathlons because marathons got too easy. “You can save the snappy one-liners for your next appearance on Anderson Cooper, Mr. Rook. Although you won’t be commenting on this meeting there or anywhere, as it is classified. I have a paper for you both to sign.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels, body language for stud in charge.

Heat turned to appraise Callan’s partner, who sat to the side, observing. There was something the other agent didn’t like in the knowing way Nikki smiled at him, and he averted his gaze. She turned back to the alpha. “What is this about, Agent Callan? I’m sworn law enforcement. You have no reason to detain me.”

“I guess you don’t get to make that determination, Detective Heat.” His tone was matter-of-fact, not threatening. He seemed too secure in himself to bully. He had the sort of authority that came from personal dedication instead of ego. But he also clearly enjoyed dealing the hand from his own deck. “I have some questions I want answers to. We’ll see how satisfied I am and how soon, and we can talk about getting you on your way.”

Rook couldn’t resist. “Good, because I want to get to the Apple store in SoHo before it closes, to see what this new iPad device is all about.”

Nikki gave Callan one of those shrugs that says What are ya gonna do? and the agent acknowledged it with his first hint of a smile. He leaned a hip against the metal task table he had set up as a work space inside the trailer and picked up a file. “Two days in Paris. That’s what I call whirlwind.”

“You said you had a question,” was all Nikki gave back.

“You going to wrestle with me, Detective?”

“Your meeting, Agent.”

Rook rubbed his palms together. “This is so cool. It’s like a mixed martial arts smackdown. We even have folding chairs.”

A standoff followed while Callan assessed her. For Nikki’s part, she normally wouldn’t give so much push-back to a fed, but it felt instinctively right. Aside from lingering annoyance at their kidnapping, she had a protective motive about her mother since hearing the rumor that she might have gone double. And frankly, there was too much she didn’t know. Heat figured that by making the DHS man do some work, she might gain more than she gave.

Bart Callan shifted techniques from chatty open-ended to business-specific. “I want you to tell me who you saw and what you did while you were in Paris.”

“Why?” asked Rook.

“Because I’m asking. And I’m asking her.”

To see what she could draw out of Callan, she said, “Maybe if you could narrow it down for me. Is there someone or something you’re interested in? We packed a lot into two days.”

This had become a chess match between two experienced interrogators, and Agent Callan knew his game had to play up to hers. He tried a new tack, to see how she reacted to being dwarfed by a larger force. Paranoia was a primary tool for bumping interview subjects off base. Casually turning a page in the file, he read, “Subject B: ‘I didn’t kill him. You did. You killed him.’ Subject A: ‘Would you please stop saying that?’ Subject B: ‘But you did. I hope you’re happy now.’” Heat fought making eye contact with Rook because she knew that was the rise Callan wanted. The agent continued, “Subject B: ‘I’d think you’d be ecstatic to learn that not only wasn’t your mom’s double life just your imagination, but it wasn’t because she was having an affair. And-how cool is this? — she was a spy in the family like Arnold in True Lies. No, even better: Cindy Heat was like Julia Child in World War Two when she spied for the OSS.’”

“How dare you,” said Heat. She regretted her blurt instantly but couldn’t help herself. The introduction of her mother was bait and she had chomped it.

Agent Callan rolled on, picking at the sore spot. “Subject A: ‘I agree, that is something.’”

“I knew that cabdriver was skeevy,” said Rook. “What did he do, record us all the way from the hospital?”

The DHS agent smiled and turned to another page. This one, from Brasserie Lipp. “Subject B: ‘Let’s run down your list of hot buttons: Petar? Don? Randall Feller?… You named three. Is that about it?’ Subject A: ‘Rook, are you seriously asking me my number?’” Callan riffled a few more pages and gave Heat and Rook a once-over. “You really think that’s all we have?”

By then Heat had settled down and distanced herself from the personal intrusion to regain ground. “Well, then if you have all you need, you don’t need us.”

“I want to know about all your meetings. What were you doing in the Vincennes Forest last night?”

“So. You don’t have as much as you make out,” she said.

“I am seeking your cooperation. We’re wearing the same uniform, Detective.”

“If we’re on the same team, you give me something. Like, for instance, what was Nicole Bernardin doing before she was killed and who was she doing it for?”

“Not playing that game,” said Callan.

“Who wanted her dead?”

“Give it up, Heat.”

“Who’s Seacrest?”

“I ask the questions.” He used his command voice, but the tell was all over his face when she mentioned the name. A micro flinch of increased vigilance.

“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 hire Joe Flynn.”

Rook said, “Joe Flynn. He was your PI?”

Jeff Heat nodded and handed Nikki the small velvet bag. As she took it from him, she experienced the kick in her chest she always got when a dead case felt like it might be getting some legs. Rook felt goosed, too. He slid forward on his armchair and tilted his head up as she opened the drawstring. “It’s a charm bracelet,” she said as she shook it out into her palm. Rook got up and stood beside her father to get a better view. It was simple, not very expensive. A gold plated link chain with only two charms on it: the numerals one and nine. “Who’s it from?” she asked.

“I never knew.”

“Didn’t Mom tell you?”

“I, ah, never told her I had it. I was too ashamed. And she never asked about it. So when the private detective said things were all clear on the affair front, I decided not to tempt fate, you know?”

“Sure, I get that.” Heat turned the numbers over to inspect them but saw nothing unusual. “Do you mind if I keep this?”

“Take it.” And then he whisked a hand at her like a broom. “Take it away.” Nikki studied her father and didn’t see age anymore, but the toll of secrets. Then she wondered what her mom’s face would look like if she were alive.

“Oh, listen, one more thing before we go.” Nikki stepped into the awkward subject with a light touch, trying to ignore how much her duplicity made her feel like her mother’s daughter. But the difficult question had to be asked, especially after the Russian had made such a point of it the other night in the Bois des Vincennes. “You held on to all of your bank records, right?”

“Yeah…” Even though his financial background made him a records pack rat, Jeff Heat’s reply carried a timbre of uncertainty that was about as straightforward as her question. Reminding herself that the information she sought was to clear her mother of the double agent rumors, Heat pressed on with the anvil she had to drop.

“Any chance I could see them?”

“May I ask why?” She saw more than wariness in him. It was more like something she had seen so often in suspects during interrogation: fear of discovery. But he wasn’t a suspect, he was her father. Nikki didn’t want to break him down, she only wanted information. So she went right for disclosure.

“I want to know if Mom had any accounts that were separate from yours. Secret, sort of like this.” Heat held up the velvet pouch with the charm inside. “An account you didn’t know about until you stumbled on it.”

The silence that followed got broken by the ringing phone on her father’s side table. Nikki could see that the block letters on the orange field of the caller ID read, “NYLedger.” Her dad saw it, too, and waited out the four rings without answering. By the time the phone had dumped silently to voice mail, he’d come to a decision and said, “It is like that damned bracelet. I asked her about it. I said, why the separate account, and she said for mad money, independence. It’s the thing that first got my gut twisting that there really might be another man.” The way he looked at her broke Nikki’s heart. “Do you really need this?”

Heat nodded grimly. “It may help me find her killer,” she said, hoping that would end up being the only significance of the secret account.

He gave it a moment of thought then wordlessly disappeared again to the back hall, this time to the second bedroom. Rook gave Nikki an affirming smile that did little to make her feel any better. When her dad returned moments later, he carried a brown cardboard accordion file with an elastic strap around it. He didn’t come to Nikki with it, though. He stood by the front door and waited. The two of them joined him there and he gave her the file.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Tell me something, Nikki,” he said in a low, hollow voice. “What makes you any different than that other cop who came here to disrespect me?” He swept an arm toward the phone with its blinking message light. “Or those reporters?”

Her eyes began to sting. She spoke the truth, and meant it. “The difference is that I’m trying to help.”

It offered him no comfort. Her father said, “I think it might be a good idea for you to give me some space for a while.” Then her dad retreated to the back hall so they could let themselves out.

Their usual ride would have been in Heat’s motor pool Crown Victoria, but since she was stuck on leave, they had taken a car Rook had rented. That’s how he ended up as the lucky duck to endure the stop-and-go braking of the Sunday caravan back to Manhattan by weekend day trippers. He had prepared himself for a silent, moody ride but Heat had immersed herself in full work mode. Rook considered the emotional slap Nikki had just gotten from her father and, reflecting on her emotional wall, was glad for her sake that she had the capacity to seal herself on the good side of it, if only temporarily.

From the passenger side, Heat made a quick pass of the bank file, eyeballing the sparse amount of paperwork and monthly statements in it. “These are incomplete,” she said. “My mom only carried a balance of a few hundred dollars, with just enough activity to keep the account active, but the statements abruptly come to an end without any sign of the account being closed.”

“When’s the last statement you see?”

“October 1999. The month before she was killed.” She got out her phone and did some scrolling until she came to Carter Damon. As she listened to his phone ring, she wondered if the former lead detective on her mom’s case would be too pissed to talk to her after their last encounter. “Detective Damon,” she began her voice mail, using his former rank as an olive branch, “Nikki Heat. Hope I’m not disturbing you on the weekend, but I wanted to ask you a question about the old case and challenge your memory about a bank account.” She left her cell number and hung up.

For guilty pleasure and to cement their return to the good old USA, they turned in the car then went to a local favorite of Rook’s called Mudville9 for an early dinner of barbecue wings and Prohibition Ale. They chose a table near the TV showing the local news, so they could catch up on the progress of the earthquake cleanup, which, the scrolling text under the official in the hard hat said, was 95 percent complete, with a price tag in the millions. Rook dipped a fry in his extra Buffalo Wow sauce and started to ask Nikki how he’d look in a hard hat. “Not for safety, mind you, but as a fashion choice.” But she had become so suddenly riveted to the screen that he turned back around to see what had caught her attention.

A blazing headline graphic filled the top of the wide screen: BREAKING NEWS: POLICE ARREST KILLER IN FROZEN MURDER CASE.