Naked Heat (19 page)

Rook turned to the restaurant, to see all the faces staring, and said, “Not so much anymore.”

Roach entered the law offices of Ronnie Strong on a floor below the DMV in Herald Square, and both detectives felt as if they had walked into the waiting room of an orthopedic practice. A woman with both hands fully casted so that only the tips of her fingers were visible was dictating instructions to a teenage boy, probably her son, who was helping her fill out an intake form. A man in a wheelchair with no visible injury also completed paperwork. A strapping construction worker whose chair was flanked by two Gristedes bags of receipts and paperwork gave them a sharp look and said, “He ain’t here, fellas.”

The receptionist was a very pleasant woman in a conservative suit but with a fish hook in her lip. “Gentlemen, have you been done wrong?”

Ochoa turned so he wouldn’t laugh and muttered to Raley, “Hell, it’s been a while since I was even done.”

Raley maintained his composure and asked to see Mr. Strong. The receptionist said he was out of the office, making a new series of commercials, and that they could come back tomorrow. Raley flashed his tin and got the address of the studio.

It wasn’t much of a surprise to Roach that Ronnie Strong, Esq., was not in his law offices that day. The joke in the legal profession was that Ronnie Strong might have passed the bar, but he couldn’t pass a TV camera.

The production facility he used was a graffitied brick warehouse abutting a Chinese import distribution center in Brooklyn. Situated halfway between the old Navy Yard and the Williamsburg Bridge, it wasn’t exactly Hollywood, but then Ronnie Strong wasn’t exactly an attorney.

There was nobody stopping Raley and Ochoa, so they just walked in. The front office was empty and smelling of coffee and cigarette smoke that had fused with the water-stained Tahitian-themed wallpaper. Raley called a “Hello?” but when nobody responded, they followed the short hallway to the blaring sound of the same jingle the squad had recited that morning. “Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong! Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong! Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong!”

The door to the stage was wide open. Clearly, these were no sticklers for sound aesthetics. When the detectives walked in, they both took a quick step back. The studio was so small, they were afraid they were going to walk into the shot.

On the set, which was a rented motor boat on a trailer, two buxom models in scant bikinis wore props indicating some sort of accident. One had her arm in a sling; the other stood on crutches, although without a cast. That could have been a budget saver, although more likely it was to keep her legs visible.

“Let’s go one more time,” said a man in a Hawaiian shirt, chewing an unlit cigar.

Raley whispered to Ochoa, “Bet he’s the owner. He matches the wallpaper.”

Ochoa said, “It’s an unfair world, partner.”

“How so . . . this time?”

“Nikki Heat, she goes to a TV studio, it’s polished marble and glass in the lobby, green room with hot and cold running canapés, and what do we get?”

“Know what I think, Detective Ochoa? I think we’ve been wronged.”

“And, action!” called the director, and he added for clarity, “Go!”

Both actresses reached down into a bait box and came up with handfuls of cash. There seemed to be no concern that the one in the arm sling had full utility of the limb. She’s the one who smiled and said, “Justice is no accident.” To which the other held up her loot and shouted, “Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong!”

That was when Ronnie Strong himself, who looked something like an overripe pear in a toupee, popped up from the hatch between them and said, “Did somebody call me?” The girls hugged him, each planting a kiss on a cheek as the jingle played, “Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong! Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong! Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong!”

“And we’re clear,” said the director. And then for good measure, “Stop.”

Roach didn’t have to get the lawyer’s attention. Ronnie Strong had spotted them during the commercial, and both detectives would know when it aired that his side-stage eye line when he said, “Did somebody call me?” was directly to them. Such were the small perks of police work.

While the girls left to change into nurse uniforms, Ronnie Strong beckoned them over to the boat. “You want some help down?” asked Ochoa.

“No, we’re doing the next one in the boat, too,” he said. “It’s a nurses script, but hey, I rented it for the day. You guys are cops, right?”

Roach flashed ID, and the lawyer sat down to rest on the gunwale close to Raley. Rales couldn’t stop staring at the orange makeup ringing Strong’s white collar, so he concentrated on the hairpiece, which had a sweat curl in the front that was starting to expose the tape.

“You boys ever get hurt on the job? Suffer hearing loss from the firing range, maybe? I can help.”

“Thanks just the same, but we’re here to talk about one of your clients, Mr. Strong,” said Ochoa. “Esteban Padilla.”

“Padilla? Oh, sure. What do you want to know? Saw him yesterday, he’s still pressing charges.”

Ochoa tried not to make eye contact with Raley, but peripherally, he caught his partner turning away to mask a chuckle. “Esteban Padilla is dead, Mr. Strong. He was killed several days ago.”

“Wrongful death, I hope? Was he operating any machinery?”

“I know you have a lot of clients, Mr. Strong,” offered Raley.

“You bet,” said the lawyer. “And they all get personal service.”

Raley continued, “I’m sure they do. But let us refresh your memory. Esteban Padilla was a limo driver who got fired last spring. He came to you with his complaint.”

“Right, right, and we filed a wrongful dismissal.” Ronnie Strong tapped a forefinger on his temple. “It’s all in here. Eventually.”

“Can you tell us what the grounds were for the case?” asked Ochoa.

“Sure, give me a sec. OK, got it. Esteban Padilla. He’s this good kid from Spanish Harlem. Making a nice living, an honest living, driving stretch limos for years. And he did it all, the long ones, the town cars, the Hummers . . . Those stretch Hummers are awesome, aren’t they, fellas? Anyway, eight years of loyal service to those rat bastards and they just can him without cause. I asked him if there was some reason, anything. Was he stealing, was he schtupping clients, did he give his boss the finger? Nothing. Eight years and, bam, done.

“I told this kid, ‘You’ve been wronged.’ I told him we’d sue them to their socks, clean them out so he’d never have to worry another day in his life.”

“What happened to the case?” said Ochoa.

Strong shrugged. “Never got anywhere.”

“What?” said Raley. “You decided you didn’t have a case?”

“Oh, I had a case. We were ready to rock and roll. Then all of a sudden Padilla comes to me and says drop it, Ronnie. Just drop the whole deal.”

Roach made eye contact. Ochoa’s nod to his partner told him he could ask it. Raley said, “When he came to you and said to forget the whole thing, did he say why?”

“No.”

“Did he seem nervous, agitated, fearful?”

“No. It was weird. He was the most relaxed I’d ever seen him. In fact, I’d even say he seemed happy.”

Roach’s visit to the Rolling Service Limousine Company in Queens was not as entertaining or half as cordial as the one they had just paid to Ronnie Strong. The surroundings, however, were about as refined.

They made their way through the service bays, past rows of black cars getting buffed and polished in the huge warehouse, until they found the manager’s office. It was a squalid glass box in a back corner, next to a toilet with a grimy door sign that had an arrow on it that could be twisted from “occupied” to “occupeed.”

The manager made them stand and wait while he took a complaint from a client who’d been left stranded at the curb at Lincoln Center during one of the Fashion Week events and wanted restitution. “What can I say to you?” said the manager, looking right at the detectives, taking his time while he talked. “This was weeks ago and you call just now? And I checked with my driver, and he said you were not there when he came. It’s your word against his. If I listened to everyone who said this, I would not have money to do my business.”

Ten minutes later, the passive-aggressive tyrant finished and hung up. “Customers,” he said.

Raley couldn’t resist. “Who needs ’em, right?”

“I hear that,” the little man said without irony. “Total pain in the ass. What do you want?”

“We’re here to ask you about one of your former drivers, Esteban Padilla.” Ochoa watched the skin tighten on the manager’s face.

“Padilla doesn’t work here anymore. I have nothing to say.”

“He was fired, right?” Roach was going to get their ten minutes back and then some.

“I cannot discuss personnel issues.”

“You just did with that client,” said Raley. “So give it up for us. Why was he fired?”

“These are confidential matters. I don’t even remember.”

Ochoa said, “Hold on, you’ve got me confused. Which is it, confidential or no memory? I want to have this right when I go from here to the Taxi and Limousine Commission to get your operating permit reviewed.”

The manager sat in his chair, rocking, processing. At last he said, “Esteban Padilla was let go for insubordination to passengers. We made a change, simple as that.”

“After eight years, the man was suddenly a problem? Doesn’t wash for me,” said Ochoa. “Does it wash for you, Detective Raley?”

“Not even a little, partner.”

The detectives knew the surest way to make a lie cave in under its own weight was to go for the facts. Nikki Heat had told them it was the subheading for her Rule #1: “The time line is your friend.”—“When you get a whiff of BS, go for specifics.”

“You see, sir, we’re involved in a homicide investigation, and you just gave us some information that one of your clients may have had a grudge against your driver, the murder victim. That’s something that sounds to us like cause to ask you who the clients were who complained about Mr. Padilla.” Raley folded his arms and waited.

“I don’t remember.”

“I see,” said Raley. “If you thought about it, might you remember?”

“Probably not. It’s been a while.”

Ochoa decided it was time for more facts. “Here’s what I think will help. And I know you want to help. You keep records of your rides, right? I mean, you’re required to. And I even see you have the one on your desk from that complaint call you just took, so I know you have them. We’re going to ask you to give us all your manifests for all the rides Esteban Padilla booked prior to his dismissal. We’ll start with four months’ worth. How’s that sound to you versus a nasty inspection from the TLC?”

Two hours later, back at the precinct, Raley, Ochoa, Heat, and Rook sat at their respective desks poring over the limousine manifests for Esteban Padilla’s bookings during the months leading up to his dismissal. It was slightly more exciting than screening Cassidy Towne’s reused typewriter ribbon days before. But it was the donkey work, the desk work, that got to the facts. Even though they didn’t exactly know what facts they were looking for, the idea was to find something . . . someone . . . that connected to the case.

Ochoa was refilling his coffee, rolling his head to loosen his cramped shoulder muscles, when Raley said, “Got one.”

“Whatcha got, Rales?” asked Heat.

“Got a name here for a ride he gave to someone we’ve talked to.” Raley pulled a manifest from the file and went to the center of the room. As the others gathered before him, he held up the sheet in front of him, under his chin, so the others could see the name.

Chapter Thirteen

I
n the new Yankee Stadium, on an off day for the Pinstripes, a trainer and a hitting coach stood a few yards behind Toby Mills, watching him make slow swings with a bat weighted by a donut on its barrel. It was an oddity to see Mills holding lumber. Pitchers in the American League seldom appear at the plate—the exceptions being occasional interleague contests like the Subway Series, and, of course, World Series games played at rival parks. With the Bombers on pace to clinch another pennant and invade a National League park soon, it was time for their star pitcher to get some BP. As he made slow, easy arcs, the staff studied him, but not to assess his skills. They wanted to see how his weight was transferring on his legs after his hamstring pull. All they cared about was if he was healthy, if he would be ready.

Two other pairs of eyes were also on Toby Mills. Heat and Rook stood in the first row of seats above the Yankee dugout. “For a pitcher, he’s got one helluva swing,” said Nikki, not taking her eyes off the player.

Rook watched him take another cut and said, “I don’t know how you can tell. I mean, if he hits the ball, fine. I can say, ‘Yeah, good hit,’ but this . . . To me, it’s just mime. Or shadowboxing. How can you know?”

Now she did turn to him. “Rook, did you ever play Little League?” When he answered with a dopey grin, she said, “Ever go to a game?”

“Give me a break. I was raised by a Broadway diva. I can’t help it if I’m more
Damn Yankees
than real Yankees. Does that make me less of a person?”

“No. What it makes you is a romance writer.”

“Thanks. So glad you’re not going to needle me or anything.”

“Oh, if you think this is going away, you’re living in a dreamworld. A dreamworld set on a turn-of-the-century plantation in Savannah—Miss St. Clair.”

“I thought we had an agreement,” came the voice behind them. They turned to see Jess Ripton storming down the steps toward them. Toby’s manager was still a good ten rows away, but he continued barking as he approached, speaking as if he were right beside them. “Didn’t we have an understanding you’d contact me and not ambush my client?”

He was closing in but still far enough away for Rook to mutter an aside to Nikki. “See, this is why I never go to ball games. The element.”

“Afternoon, Mr. Ripton,” said Heat, putting some lightness on it. “This didn’t seem like anything to bother you with. Just a quick question or two for Toby.”

“Nuh-uh.” Ripton stopped at the rail and they both turned to face him. He was huffing a bit from his effort and had his suit coat draped over one arm. “Nobody messes with him. This is the first day he’s had cleats in the grass since the injury.”

“You know,” said Rook, “for a pitcher, he’s got one helluva swing.”

“I know all about what he’s got.” The Firewall bit off the words. He spread his arms wide, symbolically blocking them from his player, living up to his nickname. “Talk to me, that way we can work out your access.”

Nikki put a hand on her hip, a pointed gesture aimed at drawing back her blazer, letting him see the badge on her waist. “Mr. Ripton, haven’t we already been through this? I’m not ESPN dogging for a crumb. I’m in a murder investigation and I have a question for Toby Mills.”

“Who,” said The Firewall, “is trying to come back from an injury that has shaken his confidence. You see a sweet swing? Tell you what I see. A kid who may have to put his foot on the rubber in game one of the World Series and he’s crapping himself because he’s worried he’s not a hundred percent. Plus he has to bat. He’s so pressured that an hour ago I pushed back an endorsement meet-and-greet with Disney World. I’m not trying to be uncooperative, Detective, but I’m going to ask for some slack here.”

Rook couldn’t resist. “Wow. You told Mickey and Minnie to chill?”

Just then Toby Mills called over from the on-deck circle. “Everything OK, Jess?”

His manager showed teeth and waved as he hollered back, “All good, Tobe. I think they have money on the game.” He laughed. Mills nodded thoughtfully and went back to his swings. Ripton turned back to Heat and dropped his smile. “See what’s happening? Why don’t you just tell me what you need.”

“Have you decided you want to act as his attorney after all?” Nikki put a spin on it, trying to add enough gravity to put the manager in his place. “You did say you were a lawyer. Are you a criminal lawyer?”

“Actually, no. I was house counsel at Levine & Isaacs Public Relations before I started my company. Got tired of bailing out all the Warren Rutlands and Sistah Strifes of the world for a joke of a retainer.”

Nikki reflected on Sistah Strife, the rapper-turned-actress who had a nasty habit of forgetting she had loaded firearms in her carry-on at TSA and who had famously settled a sexual battery suit by a roadie out of court, reportedly for eight figures. “I may have new respect for you, Jess. You handled Sistah Strife?”

“Nobody handled Sistah Strife. You handled the mess she left behind in her wake.” He softened the edge, even if only slightly. “So how can we both walk away from this meeting happy, Detective?”

“We’re working the murder of a former limo driver and Toby Mills’s name has come up.”

So much for the respite. Nikki had just succeeded in pushing The Firewall’s reset button. She could almost hear the servo-motors whir as the defense shield rose again. “Whoa, ho, hold on. You come to us about Cassidy Towne. Now you’re back about some dead limo hack? What’s going on here? Are you guys on some sort of vendetta against Toby Mills?”

Heat shook her head. “We’re simply following a lead.”

“This is feeling like harassment.”

Nikki pressed forward against his push-back. “The murder victim had been let go for some unspecified altercation with a client. In checking the records, we see that Toby Mills had been one of his riders.”

“This is a joke, right? In New York, New York . . . in Manhattan . . . you are seriously trying to make a connection between a limo driver and a celebrity? Like that’s a quirk of some kind? And you pick my guy? Who else is on your list? Are you also going to interview Martha Stewart? Trump? A-Rod? Regis? Word is they take limos sometimes.”

“Our interest is strictly in Toby Mills.”

“Uh-huh.” Jess Ripton did a slight nod. “I get it. What are you doing, Detective Heat, trying to get some more publicity for yourself by pinning every crime you can’t manage to solve on my guy?”

There was no percentage going head-to-head with this man. Much as she wanted to lash back, Nikki decided to stay on point and not rise to his emotional bait. Sometimes it sucks to be a pro, she thought. But she said, “Here’s exactly what I’m doing. It’s my job to find killers, just as it’s your job to protect ‘your guy.’ Now, I don’t know how come, but in two murders this week, the name Toby Mills has come up in connection. I’m curious about that. And if I were you? . . . I would be, too.”

Jess Ripton grew reflective. He turned to the infield, where Toby was lying on the grass getting his hamstring stretched by the trainer. When he looked again at Nikki Heat, she said, “That’s right. Your guy or not—never hurts to keep your eyes open, huh, Mr. Ripton?” She flashed him a smile and turned to go, leaving him there to think about that one for a while.

When Heat and Rook returned to the Two-Oh, Detective Hinesburg came to Nikki’s desk before she even set down her bag. “Got a reply from CBP on the information you asked for about the Texan.”

She handed a printout to Nikki, and Rook stepped close to read over her shoulder. “CBP?” he said. “Cooties, Bugs, and, what? . . . Pests?”

“Customs and Border Protection,” said Nikki as she digested it. “I figured if our mutual acquaintance Rance Eugene Wolf left the country to do security work in Europe, there’d be a record of his return to the States . . . assuming he entered legally and used his passport.”

“Post-9/11, odds are, right?” asked Rook.

“Not always,” Nikki said. “
P
eople find a way to get in. But this little piggy came home. Last February 22nd he flew in on a Virgin from London to JFK. And spare me the wisecrack, Rook, I’m already sorry I said it.”

“I said nothing.”

“No, but you did that little throat-clearing thing you do. I think we’re all for the better I headed you off.” She handed the sheet back to Hinesburg. “Thanks, Sharon. Now I have another one for you. Start a list for me of Tex’s clients before he left for Europe.”

The other detective uncapped a stick pen with her teeth and jotted notes on the back of the Customs printout. “You mean like the name of his security employer? We have that, it’s Hard Line Security out of Vegas, right?”

“Yeah, but I want you to reach out to them. Make a friend there and find out who he specifically got assigned to do security for. The NCAVC synopsis said he had good relations with clients, I want to find out who they were. And if he freelanced, anything you can get.”

“Anything specific I should be looking for?” asked Hinesburg.

“Yes, and write this down.” She waited for her to get her pen poised, then said, “Something useful.”

“Got it.” Hinesburg laughed and moved off to make her call to Nevada.

Nikki picked up a marker and squeaked the date of the Texan’s return onto the time line on the whiteboard. When she was done, she took a step back to look at the collage of victim pictures, dates, times, and important events swirling around the three homicides. Rook watched but kept his distance. He knew her and knew from shadowing her on the Matthew Starr murder case that Nikki was undergoing an important ritual in her process . . . quieting all the noise, staring at all the disconnected elements to see if the connection was up there yet . . . sitting on the board, waiting to be seen. He remembered the quote of hers he’d used in his “Crime Wave–Heat Wave” piece: “It only takes one weak thread to make a case unravel, but it also only takes one tiny thread to pull it all together.” And as he studied Nikki from behind, words failed him. Then as Rook was enjoying his view, she turned, almost like she knew what he was doing. Busted, he felt his face flush and words failed him again. “Some writer” was the only thought that came to mind.

Nikki’s desktop telephone rang, and when she answered, it was a kinder, gentler Jess Ripton than she had crossed sabers with a few hours before at the stadium. “It’s Jess Ripton, how you doing?”

“A little busy,” said Heat. “You know, fighting crime . . . looking for my next publicity opportunity . . .”

“That was a cheap shot and I apologize for it. Seriously. And think about it. Considering how I make my living, is there any chance I’d see getting whatever exposure you can get as a bad thing?”

“No, I guess not,” she said. And then waited. This was his dime and she was curious about his mission. Guys like Ripton didn’t do anything just because.

“Anyway, I thought I’d let you know that I talked to Toby about the limo driver you wanted to know about.” Nikki actually shook her head at the mentality of handlers like this. Working the wealthier streets of the Upper West Side over the years, she had seen it so many times. The entourages and insulators who think speaking on behalf of an interviewee precludes the need for her to ask the questions herself.

“I wanted you to know Tobe doesn’t recall having any beef with a driver. And I believe him.”

“Gee,” she said, “then what more do I need?”

“All right, all right, I hear you. You’re going to want to talk to him yourself, I know that. And, like I said today, we’ll work out a time. But I’m trying to not be a dick here. Not so easy, in case you haven’t noticed.”

“So far, so good.” She kept it offhand. No sense engaging The Firewall’s firewall.

“I’m trying to get you what you want and, at the same time, get my guy some breathing room to man up for his return to the mound.”

“No, I get it. But you’re right, Jess, I am still going to want to talk to him myself.”

“Sure, and if you can wait a day or two,” he said, “I’ll be in your debt.”

“So what does that get me? Cover of
Time
? Person of the Year issue?”

“I’ve gotten similar for lesser people.” He paused, and then sounding almost human, he said, “Listen, it’s been on my mind since you took that parting shot at me at the Stade. About keeping my eyes open about Toby?” This is another place where experience had taught the detective to work the silence. She waited him out and he continued. “I don’t worry about him. Like when he says he had no problems with any drivers? I don’t blink. He’s got that common touch, you know? Drivers, waiters, his house servants, all love him. You should roll with him. Treats them right, big tipper, gives ’em gifts. Toby Mills is just not what I’d call a big trouble guy.”

“And where does kicking in Cassidy Towne’s door fit on that good-guy scale?”

“Look, we covered that. He lost his temper. He was the lion protecting his cubs. In fact, that’s why I’m calling.”

Here it was, thought Nikki. Never failed, the cream center in the Oreo cookie of a peacemaker’s phone call. “He wanted me to ask where you stood with that stalker of his.”

The question, not to mention the thin pretext for the call, irritated her, but Nikki actually sympathized with it. The kid from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, might be a millionaire, but Toby Mills was a dad whose family was harassed. “I’ve got a detective assigned to that, and we’re working with two other precincts to find him. Tell your client we’ll let you know whenever we turn up anything.”

“Appreciate that,” he said. And, having delivered his message, he made a quick good-bye.

Rook stood in the Observation Room of Interrogation 2, holding two cups. One was steaming and the other was sweating chilled condensation onto his fingers as he looked through the magic glass at Raley and Ochoa, who had commandeered the mini conference table for their paper chase. He set down the cold cup so he could open the door, then made sure to put a smile on and entered to join them.

“Hey, Roach.”

The two detectives didn’t look up from the phone records spread before them, nor did they address Rook. Instead, Raley said to his partner, “Look who just gets to roam free around the building now, unsupervised.”

Ochoa glanced at the visitor. “Not even wearing a leash, what’s that about?”