Frozen Heat

SEVENTEEN

The two bullet holes in Carter Damon had Nikki Heat’s name on them. The medical examiner had already cut the shirt off his corpse, and both upper-body entry wounds matched with the rounds she’d put in him the night of Don’s killing.

Lauren Parry squatted in a catcher’s stance on the deck of the pier, where his body had been placed by the Harbor Unit, and indicated the wounds with the tip of her stick pen, beginning with the one in the left side of his neck where it met the shoulder. “Let’s start with this one here.”

“That’s from the shot I got off through the passenger window of the taxi.”

“When I do the postmortem, my money says this one was nearly fatal. You were on the curb, as I recall from your Shooting Incident Report, so this would have come down at an angle, probably getting awfully close to the subclavian vein or the jugular, or both. If you’d outright hit one of those, he’d have died in minutes, if that long. So, I’m thinking a tiny nick, and assume he did a lot of slow bleeding over the past few days. But I’ll know better down in B-Twenty-three,” she said, referring to the autopsy room number.

Heat knelt on one knee beside her and pointed to the second wound, the one on his chest. “What are those marks around the entry hole?”

“Good eye. Those marks you see are from sutures. They must have torn open when he hit the water coming off the bridge.” She put her face an inch from the wound. “Uh-huh. I see thread fragments.”

“But we checked ERs,” said Nikki. “No reports of him, anywhere.”

Rook said, “Are you saying this guy stitched himself up? Talk about macho. Take that, Chuck Norris.”

Lauren said, “I highly doubt he did this himself. This is a professional-looking job.” Then, when she saw Nikki duck over the other bullet hole, she added, “I couldn’t see any evidence of work done on the other wound.”

“Why one and not the other?” asked Detective Feller.

“The other wound is high-risk because of proximity to veins and arteries. Whoever took care of him knew to leave it alone.”

“So,” Nikki said, “Damon got some kind of aid, but off the books.” She stood and stretched her back. “And he wasn’t dead when he went in the river?”

“Doubtful. See all the bruising here?” Lauren traced her finger along the discoloration on his face and chest. “That seems consistent with impact when he hit the water. And I just saw evidence of clotting where the sutures tore on wound two. That wouldn’t happen if he’d been dead. I’ll be able to check for mast cells to confirm when I get back to my microscope. Also, I’ll check his lungs in the post. If he was alive, he’ll have river water in them.”

As the detectives and Rook left for their cars, Lauren held Nikki back to speak in confidence. “I’m still stressing Nicole Bernardin’s messed-up tox test.”

“Obviously not your fault, Laur. And Irons is on it now.”

“Is he? I had Security pull our surveillance tapes so they didn’t get recorded over, but when I called Captain Irons to arrange getting them, he said to call Detective Hinesburg and I never got a call back.”

“Typical,” said Heat. “I’ll put Raley on it. He’s King of All Surveillance Media, you know.”

“What about Irons? Won’t that piss him off?”

“Doctor, as long as he’s out of my way, I truly don’t care.”

The atmosphere in the bull pen was crackling when Heat walked in, and she called a squad meeting to kick up the momentum. But first, she had to clear a few gnats out of the way. Lon King had left Nikki a message reminding her to make a shrink appointment. She balled up the note and trashed it. Dealing with the Iron Man wasn’t quite as easy.

The captain found her in the kitchen while she was getting coffee. “Detective Heat, I assume, since Carter Damon is off the boards, we can now close this case out and release our overtime personnel?”

“How is it over? He was one player, the way I see it.”

“He killed your Navy SEAL friend, right? He probably did the lady in the suitcase, too.”

“Probably isn’t the same as proving. And there’s still my mother.”

“So you don’t think it’s convenient he was lead on that case?”

“Good question,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain, I’m going to do my job and investigate it.” She left him standing in the kitchen without a glance back.

Detective Heat still had plenty of questions troubling her. With Sharon Hinesburg off God knew where, and Irons in the kitchen making toaster waffles, she was able to share them with her brain trust gathered at the Murder Boards. In the green square she had created for Don’s case, Nikki printed “Carter Damon” in block letters and said, “OK, we solved Don’s killing.”

“We? More like you and Mr. Sauer,” said Detective Malcolm, kicking off a small round of applause that she quelled with one glance.

“But,” she continued, “one solve opens a slew of other questions.”

Raley said, “Sure, because Don wasn’t the target, you were.”

“Correct. So we’re right back to, why come after me?”

“Simple,” said Reynolds. “You were digging into your mother’s case.”

“But I was always digging into that case. Does anyone here doubt a week went by that I didn’t check into it?” Nobody challenged that. “And why would he be the one to come after me?” She turned and wrote under Carter Damon’s name: “What stake in murders?”

“I know why he came after you,” said Rook. “You lit up the radar. Not just by digging into your mother’s case-you were digging way back in her case. That upset somebody. If not Carter Damon, somebody he worked with.”

“Or for,” said Feller, finding himself in rare agreement with the writer. “I mean, Damon was a blunt instrument. Guys like that follow instructions, take their pay, and spend Saturdays waxing the car.”

Ochoa said, “I agree. It can’t be just one dude. And Carter Damon sure didn’t take those shots at you up on the High Line.”

Detective Rhymer came in from interviewing the eyewitness from the Brooklyn Bridge. “What did you get?” Heat asked before he even sat.

“Mixed. Dr. Arar was driving in from Park Slope this morning at four-thirty. He was mid-span when he thought he saw someone ahead tossing a garbage bag over the side. Then he got closer and saw the garbage bag had arms and legs. So he hit the brakes just as the guy went over. He says he stopped and honked his horn at the person tossing him over, and when he did, she started running the opposite way.”

“Hold on,” said Heat. “She? Your eyewit says the other person was a woman?”

“He has no doubt.”

“What’s the description?”

“Five-nine or — ten, athletic build, dark clothing, hat.”

“Did he see her face? Can we work up a sketch?”

“That’s the mixed part. He says it was too dark, and she didn’t turn to look at him. Just put her head down and booked.”

Malcolm asked, “How does he know for sure it was a woman?”

“I asked him the same thing. He said he’s a doctor, and he knows a woman when he sees one.”

“I always check for Adam’s apples,” said Feller. “Avoids a lot of awkward surprises when you get them home.”

When their ribbing died down, Raley asked Heat, “What about your sniper last night? Is it possible you were chasing a female instead of a male?”

Nikki said, “I don’t know. I never saw the Adam’s apple,” and started her next round of assignments. She sent Malcolm and Reynolds out to Staten Island to assist the 122nd Precinct in its search of Carter Damon’s house. Among the rest of the unit, she divvied up checks of his phone records and financials. To be thorough, she had Feller check the four people on Joe Flynn’s piano tutoring list for alibis during her High Line attack. Rhymer got the task of re-canvassing ERs and pharmacies now that they knew Damon had received some sort of medical aid.

“Happy to,” said Opie, “but didn’t we cover that base last week?”

“We did, and now we can do it again-but with a photo of Carter Damon to e-mail them.” She capped her marker and said to the group, “This is a good time to remind all of you: Do not get complacent. I know it feels like we’re starting to get traction with some hot leads, but this can just as easily go the wrong way if we don’t stay sharp and do the donkey work. That’s the way we’ll bring these cases home.”

When the squad had deployed, Heat dispatched a uniform to First Avenue to pick up the OCME security cam data Lauren Parry had secured. Nikki would hold it for Raley to scrub after he’d run Damon’s financial checks. Or she might even drop it in Sharon Hinesburg’s lap, if the diva detective ever made an appearance.

Nikki phoned Lauren to let her know to expect the video pickup. “Oh, this isn’t a call to say, ‘Come on, girl, hurry up, what’s taking so long with my autopsy?’”

“No way.” Heat paused then said, “Well, since you brought up the autopsy…”

Her friend chuckled and told Nikki this was good timing, she had just completed it. “First off, yes to water in the lungs. Carter Damon was breathing when he went in. Also, around the torn sutures, I did find mast cells, white blood cells, and lymphocytes. That’s what I look for under the scope when I want to know if a live body was trying to heal itself.” Nikki heard a page of notes turn on Lauren’s end and the medical examiner continued, “Here’s an interesting wrinkle. Not only had that chest wound been sutured, whoever did it removed the bullet. Not the most elegant job, but good enough. So we’re dealing with a reasonable degree of competence.”

“What about the neck?”

“Minor graze of the jugular. Toldja! Who’s better than me?”

Nikki said, “You need to spend more time with people. Preferably living.”

“Too much work. Anyway, that slug was still lodged there. Of course, I saved it for ballistics, but I’m sure it’ll match the nine-millimeter from your gun.”

Rook came back to loiter on her desktop when she’d hung up. “Know what I can’t shake out of my brain since the pier this morning? Small thing, but, ask yourself-What was the odd sock about Carter Damon’s body?”

“I regret the day I ever taught you about odd socks.”

He ignored her and said, “Give up? I’ll tell you: No old scar from getting shot when he was a rookie. Remember he told us about that at lunch?”

“Maybe you just didn’t see it.”

“I didn’t see it because there wasn’t one.”

“Well, I happen to know he’s still on a mat down at the ME’s. Want me to call Lauren back to check?”

“You don’t have to. I had one of the administrative aides call down to Personnel.”

“Rook. You used one of our aides to make a call for you?”

“I had to, since Personnel has this ‘thing’ about civilians accessing confidential police records. Anyway, Carter Damon never got shot. Why would the guy lie about that?”

Rook was right, it was a small thing. But Heat knew small things often made critical jigsaw fits, and noted it on the Murder Board, although Rook complained she had written it in tiny letters.

That afternoon, through the buzz of phone conversations from detectives making rounds and lunch orders getting delivered because nobody wanted to take a break, came a holler from Rhymer at his desk. “Got one!” Opie sounded like he’d hooked a big fish. In a sense, he had.

Heat drove Rook and Detective Raley up to the Bronx as fast as she could get there. Having rolled through every yellow light and punching the accelerator when they were about to turn red, she double-parked in front of Price It Drugs and hustled inside.

The pharmacy sat three blocks from where Carter Damon had abandoned his jacked taxi the night Nikki shot him. In addition to blast e-mailing Damon’s photo to ERs and drugstores in all the boroughs, Detective Rhymer had gotten a map and worked the phones in concentric circles radiating out from the dumped cab. The first walk-in clinic he’d called came up zip. His next try was a small drugstore on Southern Boulevard near Prospect. The owner, who was elderly and not so big on e-mail, had missed the earlier alerts but pegged Damon by the detective’s description. He confirmed it when Rhymer faxed him his photo.

Diligent as she was eager, Detective Heat showed her copy of Carter Damon’s photo to the owner to double-check in person. “Yes, that is him,” said Hugo Plana, also reaffirming that the wounded Damon had staggered in just before closing at midnight, the night of the shooting. “He came in on his own, but I don’t know how,” said the old man. He took off his bifocals and handed the photo back to her. “He was a mess. Blood here and here.” Hugo pointed to the two bullet wounds Heat had given the ex-cop. “I asked him if he wanted me to call an ambulance and he shouted at me, ‘No!’, like that. Then he told me he wanted some gauze and some scissors and antiseptic to dress the wounds. He started to pass out, so I helped him to one of the chairs over there in the prescription waiting area.”

“How come you didn’t call the police?” asked Rook. “Guy came into my place like that, I’d sneak a call, no matter what he said.”

The old man smiled and nodded. “Yes, I understand. But, you see, we are a small, independent pharmacy. A family business. In this neighborhood, I see a lot of folks in bad shape. My goodness, it’s unbelievable. Sometimes a fight, sometimes a turf war-sometimes, I don’t want to know. When they come for help, I help. I’m not here to ask too many questions or to bust them. They trust me. They’re my neighbors.”

Heat asked, “So did you get the supplies he wanted?”

“I did. I put a bag together, and when I finished, he was out of it. His head kept dropping down and up. I offered to call an ambulance again but he refused. Then his cell phone rang and he asked me if there was a hotel nearby. I told him the Key Largo is on the corner, and he told me to help him to his feet. Then he gave me a bunch of cash, took the shopping bag, and left.”

“Do you know who called him?” asked Rhymer.

Hugo shook his head. “It just sounded like someone was coming to meet him and needed to know a place.”

The lobby of the Key Largo was dark and carried the stink of every scuzzy hotel Nikki had ever investigated-a mix of stale mustiness, harsh cleansers, and dead smoke. The floorboards creaked under the soiled carpet leading to the front desk. Nobody was there, and a plastic sign with missing moveable clock hands said, “Back in…”

Nikki called a hello and got no answer. Rook said, “Wow, they’ve re-created the elegance and charm of Key Largo right here in the Bronx. Makes me feel like I’m Bogey and you’re Bacall.” He tapped the service bell with his palm. It did not ding. Then, to Rhymer’s amusement, he examined his hand with a frown and wiped it on the thigh of his pants. Heat was about to call out again when her phone vibrated. It was Malcolm checking in from Staten Island.

“Have something juicy for you, Detective Heat.” Nikki turned away from the desk and started to pace. “The squad from SI is still going over Damon’s house, but Reynolds and I discovered he rented a public storage unit one town over in Castleton Corners. Guess what’s inside.”

“Just fucking tell her, man,” said Reynolds in the background. Heat agreed.

“A van,” he said, making her heart quicken.

“Maroon?” she asked.

“Affirm. And the lettering on the side? ‘Righty-O Carpet Cleaners.’”

“You guys did great.” But Heat held the brake on her excitement and went practical. “Now, please tell me you’re both gloved up.”

“Yes, ma’am, we are the Blue Hands Group.”

“Excellent. Have you touched anything?”

“No, just shined a light in the rear window to make sure there was nobody in there, alive or dead. It’s clear.”

“Now here’s what I want you to do. Step out of there and stay out. Leave the door up where it is, don’t touch the handle again. Just stand guard and get the Evidence Collection Unit on this with a fine-toothed comb. And when I say ECU, I want Benigno DeJesus and only Benigno DeJesus. No screwups.”

“Got it.”

“And Mal? You and Reynolds rock.”

Heat had just finished filling in Rook and Rhymer when the front desk clerk, a large middle-aged white woman with bleached cornrows, emerged from the back, followed by a trail of cigarette smoke. “Booking a three? That’s a fifty-dollar damage deposit.” She plucked the be-back sign off the counter and pulled some keys from a cubby behind her. When she turned back, she was looking at Nikki’s shield.

The clerk’s name was DD, and they followed her down the second-floor hallway, stepping over numerous duct tape repairs to the carpet. “Think again, DD,” said Nikki. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone else come up here to visit him?”

“I don’t see anything, anytime, anyhow. People come and go.”

Rook asked, “What about another person staying with him, you’d have to know that, wouldn’t you?”

“Technically. But come on.” She stopped mid-hall and gestured to the joint with both arms spread out as a woman in bright yellow hot pants and a halter passed them on the way to the elevator. The picture made it hard to argue. “Dude paid up two weeks in advance in cash. Alls I care about.”

They stopped at a door at the end of the hall with a “Do Not Disturb” dangling from the handle. Wondering about site contamination and forensics, Nikki asked, “Has housekeeping been in here?”

“Yuh, right,” DD scoffed and pointed at the sign. “No little chocklits on his pillow.” Then she rapped twice and said, “Yo, manager.” When she slid the key in, Nikki motioned her back. She and Rhymer rested their hands on their holsters and went in first.

“Holy fuck,” said DD, summing it up for all of them. She backed away and said, “I gotta call the owner,” and rushed out.

Blood covered everything. The bed, especially the pillow and head end of the top sheet, was a dry lake of deep rust. A pile of towels on the floor beside it was likewise saturated in red. The desk, which had been moved to the middle of the room, was covered by the ripped-down shower curtain. On one end of that vinyl sheeting, there was yet another pool of blood that had separated over time, with amber at the edges and deep maroon in the center of the stain. Cinnamon red, like drippings from a candle, clung to the sides of the shower curtain where blood had leaked and made small puddles in the rug, which also looked dried. Clumps of bloody gauze decorated the floor there beside their torn, discarded sterile packaging.

Rook said, “I haven’t seen this much blood in a hotel since The Shining.”

“Looks like I found my ER,” said Opie.

“And makeshift ICU,” said Heat. She left Detective Rhymer in charge of the scene, hoping that, in the middle of all that, Forensics could get some prints and find out who administered to Carter Damon.

When Nikki came back from the Bronx with Rook, Roach was waiting and pounced on her at the door of the bull pen. They led her to their side-by-side desks, where they had organized a briefing. “Bank, first,” said Detective Raley. “Turns out Carter Damon had a money trail of his own.” He opened a file on his monitor and clicked through pages of bank statements as he talked. “Look here. A three-hundred-thousand-dollar deposit went into his account the Monday after your mom got killed. And then, see here? Smaller sums-twenty-five grand-every six months thereafter.”

The shocking conclusion was too obvious not to draw-that a member of the fraternity, an NYPD detective, might have killed her mother by contract and then been retained to screw with the investigation’s progress. Obvious or not, Nikki fought the instinct to close her mind by racing to that conclusion just yet and asked, “How long did he get the payments?”

“Till last month. Then, big change.” He brought up the next page. “Another deposit for three hundred thou, two weeks ago.”

Nikki looked at the date. “That’s the day we found Nicole Bernardin in the suitcase.”

“And the same day we met ex-Homicide Detective Carter Damon for lunch,” added Rook. “Was that a payment for doing Nicole, or for trying to kill you?”

“Or both?” wondered Ochoa. “Phone records tell a story, too.” He gave Heat a copy of the printouts he had researched. Rook read over her shoulder.

“I highlighted three major calls of interest. Bottom of page one, note that Damon made two international calls to a disposable mobile number in Paris. One the night Nicole was killed-to refresh your memory, that would have been two nights before we found the suitcase-and the second call to Paris, same burner cell, right after meeting you and Rook for lunch.”

Nikki took a moment to quiet her mind and said, “All right, just trying this on. Let’s suppose, for argument’s sake, the first call to Paris was about killing Nicole Bernardin. Either to get the order or confirm that he’d killed her. What’s the second call about, do you think?”

Rook said, “Maybe Damon was calling in the hit man who killed Tyler Wynn. He could have been your sniper last night.”

“Yeah, but we checked incoming passengers from Paris through U.S. Customs, remember?” said Ochoa. “No knowns on the watch list.”

“So?” said Rook. “Maybe whoever it was came in through another port of entry, like Boston or Philadelphia. Or isn’t on a watch list.”

“Let’s keep thinking on this,” Nikki said.

“Did Damon make any calls to the Bernardins in Paris?” asked Rook. “Any chance he was the elusive Mr. Seacrest?”

Detective Ochoa shrugged. “No record. But that call came from a burner, remember?”

Heat turned to the next page of Ochoa’s printout. “What’s this call here?”

“It’s not the call, it’s the timing. Check it out. Carter Damon made this one immediately after he hung up on his Paris call following your lunch with him.”

Raley said, “If it’s like Feller said, and Damon was a blunt instrument, looks to me like maybe somebody told him what to do, and he did it.”

“Miguel, I assume you ran the number,” said Nikki.

“You assume correctly. No wants or warrants on the party he called. The number is listed on Second Ave to a Salena Kaye.”

Heat and Rook whipped their heads to each other. He said, “Salena!? That’s my naughty nurse!”

The gumball on the roof of the Roach Coach reflected in Heat’s rearview mirror as they ran a convoy, Code Two, across Central Park and uptown to Salena Kaye’s address on Second near 96th Street. Nikki chirped her siren crossing Fifth Avenue as she came out of the transverse. As she steered onto Eighty-fourth, Heat checked her mirror to make sure Raley had kept up, and Rook said, “Well, now I know why Carter Damon lied to me about getting shot. He was just BSing me into swapping rehab stories so I’d give him Gitmo Joe’s name. He must have tracked him through my agency and had him replaced by his girl Salena.”

“I’m right there with you.” Nikki blasted her horn and jerked her wheel to pass a delivery truck that had dead-stopped her lane. Turning uptown, she continued, “Damon placed her with you to keep tabs on the case. Think of it, Rook, she saw Murder Board South, our case notes, and everything before she left.” Nikki couldn’t resist, and added, “Smiling those big white teeth the whole time.”

Rook caught her needle and countered, “She gave one helluva massage, too.”

She pulled to the curb at Ninety-sixth and threw it in park. “Time to pay a house call on a naughty nurse.” But when Rook got out, she said, “Oh no, you stay here.”

“Why? Is this payback for what I said about the massage? I was thinking of you the whole time, I swear.”

She joined up with Raley and Ochoa at the front steps to the apartment building. “Not going to debate this. Stay in the car, I mean it.”

“What is he, like, six?” said Ochoa on the way in.

“You flatter him,” said Raley.

Up at the apartment door on the fifth story, Raley knelt beside the lock, holding the key from the super at the ready. Heat and Ochoa flanked him with guns drawn. “Salena Kaye, NYPD, open up,” she called. No answer. Heat gave Rales the nod and he keyed the lock. Nikki turned the knob and pushed, but the door hit something solid, a piece of furniture, and stopped.

“Mine,” said Ochoa. He backed up and gave the door a flying kick with his foot. It opened only a few inches. “Together, pard,” he said, then he and Raley hit the door with both their shoulders, and they were in.

“Bedroom, clear,” said Ochoa.

“Kitchen, clear,” called Heat.

Raley came out from the bathroom and holstered. “Not in the bathroom, either.”

Detective Ochoa said, “She busted out of here in a hurry. The drawers are open and there’s a half-packed duffel on the bed.”

Nikki saw the open window. On her way out the door she shouted, “Fire escape. One of you go high. I’ll take the street.”

Heat blasted out the lobby stairs and raced through the vestibule onto the sidewalk. Rook was standing beside the Crown Vic, pointing. “A car service picked her up.”

“Get in,” she said.

“I saw them take a left on Ninety-seventh.”

“Buckle up,” she said and lit the gumball.

As they rounded the corner, he got out his cell phone. “I also got the medallion number of the car.” He got Dispatch for the car service. “I’m declaring a police emergency, I need to know the drop route for your car number K-B-four-one-three-one-nine.” At Lexington he pointed frantically to make a left, and she did. He asked for the plate number and wrote it down. “Appreciate the assist,” he said and hung up. “JFK, via Midtown Tunnel.”

“You did that a little too easily,” she said, reaching for her radio mic.

“Hey. Investigative journalists have their tricks, too.”

Detective Heat called in to alert the duty officers at the tunnel entrance to detain a black Lincoln Town Car and gave the plate number Rook had gotten. Nikki still kept her speed up and, just after they crossed 42nd Street, Rook said, “There! Right lane, passing the Pret A Manger.”

One bleep of the siren, and the sedan pulled over and stopped. She called for backup and opened her door. “Stay,” she told Rook.

The windows were not tinted and the backseat appeared empty. She approached in the blind spot with her Sig up and threw open the rear door.

No one in the backseat.

Nikki opened the front passenger door and that was empty, too. The driver still had his hands up as she holstered her weapon. “Where’s your passenger?”

“The lady told me to let her out right after the pickup. I dropped her way back at Sixty-sixth, up near the Armory.” Heat looked uptown, feeling hopeless. “I told her she paid for an airport run and she said to keep going there.”

“Do me a favor, sir, pop your trunk,” she said, knowing it was futile.

She allowed Rook to accompany her back up to Salena Kaye’s apartment this time. Raley and Ochoa were gloved up, going over the living room when she came in. She handed Rook an extra pair from her case.

Raley said, “Just heard from Detective Rhymer up at the fleabag. We shot him a text pic of Salena Kaye from the photo over there.” He indicated the picture frame on the bookshelf beside the TV. “He said to tell you DD-you’d know who that is-positively ID’d Salena as the woman who was visiting Carter Damon’s room during his stay.”

What should have been joy at making that key connection to Carter Damon slid into the pit as Nikki’s heart sank at losing her suspect. It must have shown on her. “Pretty slick move, ditching you like that,” said Ochoa.

“Tell me,” said Heat. “I really thought we had her.”

Raley cleared his throat. “Maybe we could just follow the scent of tea tree oil.”

“Hilarious,” said Rook. “What happened to the whole brotherhood of Roach Blood thing?”

“We talked it over. We want our blood back.”

Nikki just let them riff and walked the rest of the apartment. Losing Salena didn’t cancel out the day of progress, but it absolutely left a bad taste. Before the gloom could seep in, she decided to get busy. “You guys get the bedroom yet?”

“Not yet,” said Roach.

The duffel was still open at the foot of the bed, so Heat started there, figuring what Salena Kaye would pack to take with her meant the most to her. The outer pockets contained makeup and toiletries bagged in TSA portions. The end zipper section held a blow dryer and brushes. The main compartment was half-filled with a pair of sandals, a bikini, some Victoria’s Secret underwear, on the daring side-no surprise-and a pair of jeans. She carefully lifted that stack out to set on the bedspread and let out a “Yesss!” to the empty room.

Underneath the clothing, Nikki had found her stolen keepsake box of photos.