Driving Heat (28 page)

“It was night, much darker than now.” They looked east. The sun was not yet up, and oystery clouds hung low.

Heat had regained her equilibrium and joined in. “But I see some lights there on the pier; they’re still on.”

“Hmm, I’m thinking blue. The boat was blue.”

“Good,” said Feller. “All kinds of blue, Alvin. Navy, powder, light, dark?”

“Light and bright. Kinda like the sky, I’d say.”

“Sky blue.”

“Yeah, I’d definitely call it sky blue. Open boat, too. Like a skiff. Big outboard. That thing hauled.”

“So you actually saw it leave?” asked Nikki. “Did you see where it went?”

“It was foggy, so I lost it. But the direction was sort of that way.” He straight-armed toward Brooklyn.

Nothing definitive—but more than they had had five minutes before.

Detective Feller didn’t even need to be asked. He had made some good contacts in the Harbor Unit and Coast Guard earlier in the week in chasing down leads on Lon King’s kayak and
volunteered to hop on them right away to check boat registries and set up patrols of the waterfront for a sky-blue skiff, especially concentrating on a zone from Williamsburg to Red Hook.

Heat called the description in to Ochoa so helicopters could cover the harbor as well as streets and backyards, in case the skiff had been trailered and hauled. The detective said he would alert
cruisers to be especially watchful for the silver minivan in Brooklyn, in case that was its destination, as well.

On her drive back to the precinct, Nikki’s panic dueled with hope. But there was nothing like a lead to bring faith, so she clung to that. For dear life.

The King of All Surveillance Media had seen happier days. Heat popped
into his screening room up the hall from the bull pen, where he
was painstakingly scrubbing his copy of the footage from the Sidecar’s speakeasy cam, which so far had offered no good imagery of the abductors. The frozen frame on his monitor was of Rook,
wincing in reaction as hands clutched him from behind. Nikki had to look away from that picture of him and hurried out.

She had just entered her office when Detective Rhymer beckoned her through the glass to come into the squad room.

Opie stood at his desk, indicating four thick manila accordion files stuffed with documents that were marked with a rainbow array of sticky tabs. “Roach assigned me to dig deeper into
financial matters for our decedents. Lon King came out pretty much as projected. Big dips to cover gambling debts until there was no more to dip from. I’m sure he was living off his artist
partner’s commissions. With the cyber snafu, I had to go old school looking into Fred Lobbrecht. That meant going the paper route. Hard copies, so nothing got sucked into the ether.” He
patted the files. “Just came from his bank branch. Very interesting. Here’s a guy who went along and along on his state trooper salary. No spikes up or down. Nothing out of
pattern—until…” He drew a printout from one of the accordion files and displayed it for Heat. “Until a month ago, when the last ten years of his mortgage suddenly get paid
off.”

“A definite spike,” said Heat.

“The Odd Sock, Captain,” saidOpie, tossing Heat’s own lexicon back at her. “Now where do you suppose a guy who’s been a career state trooper gets that kind of money
without buying a Pick 10?”

“I don’t know. Rich uncle? Perhaps one in the automotive biz?” Of course, a huge windfall never smelled right in a murder investigation. But what did it mean? A big lump sum
could point to any number of things: a bribe, hush money, compensation to a mole among the safety watchdogs, even an extortion payment squeezed out of Swift by Lobbrecht. What Rhymer had turned up
in that bank statement could even reframe the actions of some fellow whistle-blowers who had suddenly changed careers: one to decamp to the Everglades on a manatee rescue mission, the other to
drive fast cars and live out a Clarence Clemons fantasy in Bronx rock ’n’ blues bars. Heat knew that kind of independence either comes from a life change or ready cash. It was time to
go back to the whistle-blowers to ask a few more pointed questions about their dead colleague—and to see if they passed the smell test.

Detective Rhymer set out for Throggs Neck to reinterview Nathan Levy. Detective Aguinaldo was tasked to stir up Abigail Plunkitt, who still had not checked in from Florida. Heat made a call
downtown to set up a forensic accounting study of both Tangier Swift and of his corporation, SwiftRageous, hoping to find some telltale payment that coincided with Lobbrecht’s windfall. It
was going to take some time, they told her. The cyber intrusion had overwhelmed their office, but they would do their best. The bureaucratic response hit Nikki like a kick in the gut. Rook’s
life hung in the balance. She damn well needed more than a checked-out worker bee doing her best. She hung up and dialed One Police Plaza to cash in the offer from Zach Hamner to kick some
municipal ass.

After that, Heat headed to NoHo to see what there was to learn about Fred Lobbrecht at Hudson University.

The officers in the blue-and-white detailed to Wilton Backhouse confirmed
to Heat that the professor was inside the Practical Science
and Engineering Annex. Before she stepped away, the driver raised a clenched fist and said, “You hang in, Captain.”

She returned the gesture and said, “Always.”

Crossing Thompson Street, Nikki was amazed at how word spread, even when the department’s intranet was down. The small gesture also gave her greater hope that more eyes in that city were
alert for Rook than she had imagined.

Heat startled Backhouse, who was in his office with the door open to the hallway while he collected materials for a morning lab. “Embarrassing,” he said when he had recovered his
composure. “I’ve been jumping at everything. Noises, even freakin’ door slams get me.”

Heat understood why his nerves would be frayed and tried to assuage him. “It’s all good.”

“Are you shitting me? Are you serious? You don’t think I know about Nate Levy? He calls and tells me about the goddamn drone taking a shot at him, and you’re saying it’s
all good? You people can’t even keep your computers running, and I’m supposed to feel safe and snug because there’s two cops playing Sudoku in a police car out front?”

“We’re doing everything we can to bring this to a close.” This guy needed to be calmed down, so she tried enlisting him. “Help me do that. Do you have time for a quick
chat?”

He flicked a glance at the Pebble on his wrist. “Ten minutes, anyway. I’ve got a session on impact elasticity and coefficients of restitution.” He seemed put off when Heat took
it upon herself to close his door, but set down his laptop and files and settled onto the yoga ball he used for a desk chair.

The rest of his office looked lived-in, but more utilitarian than homey. The window behind him looked out to a dark air shaft between buildings through bent venetian blinds. The overhead
fluorescents gave light that was good but too bright for Nikki’s headache. Technical books stuffed with papers filled gray metal shelves on two walls; the rack above his desk held DVD
collections of
Bladerunner
,
Lord of the Rings
,
The Matrix
, and
Firefly
bookended by a pair of miniature blue British phone booths, which she recognized from
Rook’s obsessive viewing as being from
Dr. Who
. That jibed with his tee shirt, which read, “Daleks Do It with Directed Energy.” She took in the unframed wall art behind
him. Side-by-side posters of Benedict Cumberbatch: one as Kahn from
Star Trek Into Darkness
; the other as Julian Assange, the famous whistle-blower, a role Cumberbatch had played in
The Fifth Estate
.

The whistle-blower across from Heat said, “Where’s your pal, Jameson Rook?” The question hit her like a jolt of electricity. “He hasn’t been scared off my story,
has he? This needs to get out. Lives are at stake, do you get that?”

Heat kept it together while listening to Backhouse whine, thinking, who was more keenly aware of lives being at stake at that moment than she was? Rook was out there somewhere, and she
didn’t even know if he was alive. But after witnessing the prof’s jumpiness, she thought better of agitating him with the real reason the journalist wasn’t there, and answered
with truth by omission. “No, trust me, Rook is still completely immersed in this story.” Heat wanted to get Backhouse’s impressions of Fred Lobbrecht’s sudden wealth, but
decided to hold off on that topic and switch first to Backhouse’s own area of focus. “Can you help me drill down more on Tangier Swift?”

“You kidding? Let’s do some fracking.”

“What do you know about his relationship with a congressman, Kent Duer?”

“The defense industry hawk? Not much. Why?” He started bouncing ever so slightly on the yoga ball while Nikki described her encounter at The Greenwich. When she had finished, he
spotted an elastic band dangling from a pen in his pencil cup and used it to put his hair back in a ponytail as he spoke. “I don’t have any specifics, but here’s all you need to
know. Tangier Swift is an empire builder. His whole reason to get up every morning is to surpass the legacy of Steve Jobs. He’s got a hard-on to expand his tech impact across every possible
platform, so I’m sure he’s doling out campaign contributions with both fists to grease the skids. With Tangier, it’s all about ego.”

Heat’s gaze moved from Wilton Backhouse to his Julian Assange poster; she decided that the CEO of SwiftRageous didn’t hold the monopoly on narcissism. “This may be
sensitive,” she said, “but I need to ask you about Fred Lobbrecht.”

He finished fooling with his hair and regarded her warily. “Yeah…?”

“We reviewed his financials, and there’s evidence Mr. Lobbrecht suddenly came into some money last month. A lot of money.”

Backhouse’s expression changed from caution to revelation as he whispered, “Fuck…”

“What do you know about this?”

“God, it’s just like Nate suspected. Levy thought Fred Lobbrecht was dirty.”

While relived memories appeared to play across the young professor’s face, Nikki flipped up the cover of her spiral notebook. “Explain why Levy thought that.”

Her question brought him up short, and he shook his head slightly. “I don’t want to get into it. It’s nothing. Forget I said it.”

“Wilton. Look at me. Do you really think I am going to forget you said anything?” She waited, and made it clear she would wait as long as it took while he bobbed up and down on his
bouncy chair.

At last, he blinked. With a resigned sigh, he said, “I didn’t want to go there, but there was some ugly shit going on between Lobbrecht and Levy.”

“How ugly?”

“Butt ugly. It was over solidarity, whether our Splinter Group should go forward with our whistle-blow. Fred had been all gung-ho, then suddenly got all ‘Let’s put on the
brakes, here.’ Nathan got royally pissed and accused Lobbrecht of being on the take. Freddy punched him out and Levy threatened to kill him, after all they’d been through, sticking
their necks out.”

“Nathan Levy clearly threatened to kill him?”

“Exact words.”

“Did anyone else witness this?”

“Lobbrecht. But he’s dead. Levy, of course. And Abigail Plunkitt. Abby had to help me pull the two of them apart. Ask her. I don’t think she’s going to forget
that.”

“And where was this? At Forenetics?”

“At work? Oh, hell, no.”

Heat thought back to her interview with Backhouse after the drone attack in Washington Square. “Sounds like you, Lobbrecht, Levy, and Plunkitt were all together in one place. Was this at
your Splinter Summit in Rhinebeck? You did say things got rough that weekend.”

He nodded. “You have some memory.”

“It’s yours I’m interested in. When was this again?”

Backhouse narrowed his eyes and searched the acoustical tile overhead. “Six…seven weeks ago?”

“Is that scuffle how Nathan Levy hurt his leg?”

“I told you, it was one intense fight.” Backhouse tapped his watch and rose to go to his lab.

“One more thing before you take off.” Nikki took out her iPhone. “Look at these and see if you recognize any of these three men.” He gave a quick study to each face she
showed him: Timothy Maloney, no. Joseph Barsotti, no. Eric Vreeland, no. “You’re sure. Do you need more time?”

“Not really. They don’t look familiar.”

“I’m especially interested in this one,” she said, holding up Eric Vreeland’s headshot. Nikki held back his association as Tangier Swift’s fixer, but told
Backhouse, “This man was seen in the vicinity of Nathan Levy’s home after his drone attack.”

A look of concern clouded his face. “And this fucker’s out there somewhere? Why don’t you bust him?”

“We did bring him in for questioning. His…um, lawyer got him released.”

“You people are inept.” He gathered his laptop and papers again and opened his door. “You are not making me feel any safer, do you know that?” Then he did a hallway check
and strode away before Nikki could give him an answer. Which was just as well, because she didn’t really have a good one.

First thing before she got on the elevator, Heat made another scan of her emails and texts for word on Rook. The passage of time brought a fresh stab of worry with every hour. Knowing that
everything that could be done was being done was not enough. On the ride down, Nikki shut her eyes, seeking calm, reminding herself what she and Roach had said in the bull pen, that keeping busy
working the homicides was the same as looking for Rook, because she was convinced they were related, even if not sure how.

Armed with new information about Levy’s death threat, Heat speed-dialed Inez Aguinaldo to have her ask Abigail Plunkitt about the incident in Rhinebeck. While the phone rang, the captain
decided that, whether it was in her precinct budget or not, she’d put the detective on a plane to Florida that afternoon if her witness was incommunicado somewhere in the middle of the
Everglades.

When Detective Aguinaldo answered, there was some urgency in her voice. “I was just taking out my phone to call you, Captain. Abigail Plunkitt is not in Florida. She’s here in New
York. Dead.”