Richard Castle - Heat Wave

"And the morning she was killed," added Rook.

"Likely. We still need confirmation on time of death from the M.E., but let's call it a safe assumption." Nikki used the fine tip of the marker to squeeze Barbara Deerfield's appraisal appointment with Starr into the timeline on the whiteboard, then capped the pen.

Rook said, "Aren't you going to put her death on the board, too?"

"No. Safe or not, it's still an assumption."

"Right." And then he added, "For you, maybe."

Raley filled her in on what he had learned about the victim from her coworkers. The whole Sotheby's office was distraught and shocked by the news. After someone goes missing, you hope for the best, but this was confirmation of their worst fears. Barbara Deerfield had a good relationship with her colleagues, was by all appearances stable, loved her work, seemed to enjoy a happy home life, with kids in college, and was excited about planning a vacation to New Zealand with her husband. "Sounds good to me," said Raley. "It's winter there. No unsightly perspiration."

"Well, check out the family and friends and lovers angles to cover the bases, but my instincts aren't taking me there, how about you?"

Raley agreed and said so.

Ochoa hung up his phone. "That was Forensics. Do you want the news or the news?" He read Detective Heat's look and wisely decided this wasn't the time for screwing around. "Got two sets of results for you. First, the fiber on the balcony is a match for a pair of Pochenko's jeans."

"I knew it," said Rook. "Scumbag."

Nikki ignored his outburst. Her heart was gaining speed, but she acted as if she was merely sitting through the day's Tokyo Stock Exchange average while waiting for the traffic report on news radio. She had learned over the years that every case had a life. This one was not near a solve yet, but it was entering the phase where she finally had hard data to sift through. Each piece needed to be listened to, and excitement, especially her own, just made noise.

"And second, you were right. There was a set of prints outside those windows off the fire escape. And we know whose."

"Duh," said Rook.

The detective sat and reflected a moment. "OK. So we have one piece of evidence that points to Pochenko tossing Matthew Starr over that balcony, and we have another piece that tells us at some point he tried unsuccessfully to get in a window." She went back to the whiteboard and wrote Pochenko's name beside "fibers." In a blank space, she printed "access?" and circled it.

While she stood there, tossing the marker hand to hand, a new habit she noticed, her gaze went to the photo of the hexagonal ring and then to the bruises on Matthew Starr's torso. "Detective Raley, how sick are you of screening surveillance video from the Guilford?"

"Like totally?"

She rested a hand on his shoulder. "Then you are going to hate your next assignment." Then she removed her hand and discreetly wiped it on her thigh.

Ochoa chuckled to himself and hummed the SpongeBob theme.

While Raley dug out and loaded the surveillance video, Heat made her usual phone and computer rounds to check petty thefts, assaults, and ATM robberies to see if the latest reports lit up any Pochenko radar for her. There had been no sign of him since his drugstore grab. A friend of Nikki's, an undercover vice cop who was tapped into the Russian neighborhoods in Brighton Beach, had come up with nothing, either. Heat told herself these compulsive checks were good detective work, so much of success was just donkey-level diligence. But in her true heart she just didn't like the idea that there was a dangerous man out there who'd made it personal with her and slipped off the grid. This challenged Detective Heat's cherished ability to separate herself from the emotional aspects of her work on a case. After all, she was supposed to be the cop, not the victim. Nikki allowed herself her momentary trespass onto the turf of the fully human and then got back on the path.

Where did he go? A man like that, big and obvious, injured, on the run, cut off from his apartment, would have to convert into scavenger mode at some point. Unless he had a support system and/or money stashed, his presence should be felt somewhere. Maybe he had those things. Maybe. It didn't feel right. She hung up her last call and stared out of focus at nothing.

"Maybe he got on one of those reality shows where they sequester the competitors on some desert island to eat bugs and berate each other," said Rook. "You know, like I'm a Mouth-Breathing Killer, Get Me Outta Here."

"Black with one Equal, right?" Nikki set a coffee down on Raley's desk.

"Oh…thanks, yeah, appreciate it." Raley scanned forward in the surveillance video of the Guilford lobby. "Unless that means I'm pulling another all-nighter on this."

"No, this won't take long. Roll up to Miric and Pochenko and slow it down for me." Raley had plenty of experience with this section and found the exact spot where they came in from the street. "OK, when you hit just Pochenko, stop there."

Raley froze the picture and manipulated it to zoom in on the Russian's face. "What are we looking for?"

"Not that," she said.

"But you wanted to stop on this frame."

"That's right. And what have we been doing? Focusing only on his face for the ID array, right?"

Raley looked at her and smiled. "Ah, I getcha." He pulled out from the zoom of Pochenko's face and reconfigured the shot.

Nikki liked what he was going for. "Exactly, there you go. Rales, you catch on quick. Keep this up, I'm going to let you screen all the surveillance vid from now on."

"You've seen through my plan to become the precinct video czar." He moused over to the other part of the freeze frame and worked a drag and zoom. When he had what he wanted, he sat back and said, "How's that?"

"No more calls, please. We have a winner."

Filling the computer screen was Pochenko's hand. And on it, a not-bad shot of his hexagonal ring, the same one Lauren had shown her at the impound. "Do a save and print that for me, Czar Raley."

Minutes later, Heat added the shot of Pochenko's ring to the gallery that was growing on the whiteboard. Rook stood leaning against the wall, taking it in, and raised his hand. "Am I allowed to ask a question?"

"Rook, I'll take a question over one of your open-mic-night comedy attempts any day."

"I'll mark that down as a yes." He stepped up to the board and pointed to the autopsy shots of Matthew Starr's torso. "What exactly was it your M.E. ghoul friend said about the punch bruises and the ring?"

"She has a name, it's Lauren, and she said all of the bruises on the torso had the telltale ring mark except one. Have a look." She indicated each. "Bruises with the ring: Here, here, here, and here."

Rook pointed to one of the bruises. "But this one here, one punch, same hand, no ring mark."

"Maybe he took it off," said Nikki.

"Pardon me, ah, Detective, who's the speculator here?" Nikki shook her head. She hated it that he was so cute. Sort of hated it. He continued. "Pochenko had the ring on when he and Miric came by to 'encourage' Starr to pay up his debt, right?" Rook shadowboxed. "Boom, boom, and boom. Get Raley to rack up that video again and I'll bet you anything Pochenko's still wearing the ring on his way out."

Heat called across the room. "Raley?"

Raley answered, "I hate you," and reloaded the video to check.

"After they go, the art appraiser comes for her meeting and leaves. My speculation is this," said Rook. "This bruise here, the one without the mark, came later, when Pochenko returned in the afternoon to kill Matthew Starr. Pochenko didn't have the ring on then because he lost it in the car fight when he was strangling Barbara Deerfield."

Heat sucked in her lips, thinking. "That's all fine, very likely in fact."