Raging Heat (19 page)

“Your turn,” she said, and set him up the same way. Licked him, salted him, poured for him, and then teased him with the lime before putting it in his mouth while he sucked the juice from it.

After their second round, he said, “You going to tell me what the hell happened with Gilbert, or make me suffer?”

“I hadn’t planned on mixing business with all this.”

“Bullshit. It’s in our DNA, Nik. Spill, so we can move on to more pleasant topics.”

“OK, fine, but I’d like another one of these.” As he obliged with another shot for them Heat downloaded it all. No doubt the
reposado
had something to do with the ease she felt unburdening her cares. Of all the items, he seemed most interested in the missing Ruger from Gilbert’s study.

“That is Grade A weird,” he said. “Combined with his lawyer offering cooperation finding it…? If he knew the .38 wasn’t in that drawer, then why?”

“A mask of innocence. Wake up, Rook, you’ve been around.” His interest grew when she told him about Conscience Point, and she paused there to let the cogs of his conspiratorial wheels engage without interruption. Who knows? Maybe he’d leave the dark side and put his efforts in support of her case, after all. Nikki thought she’d nudge him along. “There is now an official nexus between those guys who came after me last night and Jeanne Capois.”

“DNA come in?”

“That’s still cooking in the lab.” She told him about the index card with the home invasion address. Seeing the impact of that, she added the detail of the surveillance information they had gathered on her. When he started to look over his shoulder, Heat said, “Does that bother you?”

“Hell, no. A squadron of crypto-SWAT, black ops, rogue commandos stalking us? Just my thing. As long as they don’t waterboard. I have very small nases.”

“Not to worry. There’s a radio car out front.”

“What if there’s a sniper?”

“Come on, Rook. Who goes around worrying about a sniper?” He checked the higher rooftops anyway. She said, “I am not going to run scared and I am not going to give up on finding out how Gilbert pulled this off.”

“You always love a high degree of difficulty.”

“Just because something’s difficult doesn’t make it impossible.”

“True,” he said. “For instance, did you know a French author published an entire novel—two hundred thirty-three pages—using no verbs?”

“Snapple cap?”

“Snapple cap. An education inside every lid. More tequila?”

“We should maybe pace ourselves,” she said. “Speaking of difficult, but not impossible, are you done publishing blogs and articles that make my life miserable?”

“Are you calling me difficult?”

“But not impossible.” She leaned in to kiss him again. “OK, one more.”

“Kiss or shot?”

“Surprise me.” Rook kissed her, then poured. Before she drank it, her cell phone rang. “Ochoa. I’d better.…”

He agreed and threw back her ounce while she answered.

“Sorry to call you so late,” said Ochoa.

“You kidding? You guys can call me anytime.” She tried to sound bright and, yes, conciliatory but didn’t get a response. “Where’s your partner?”

“I’m on, too,” said Raley.”

“Hey, Sean. Good. Got the full Roach.” Nikki heard herself pushing too hard. Whether it was from the tequila or trying to rekindle lost camaraderie, she decided to dial it back to business mode. “Going to put you on speaker because I’m with Rook.” She pressed the button. “What’s up?”

“Just got off my conference call with the state BCI inspector handling the fugitive warrant for Earl Sliney.” By reflex, Heat reached for her notebook the way ex-smokers go for phantom packs, but she’d left it downstairs. Rook pulled out his and handed it to her with a pen. “Sliney’s been off the grid, but they caught a break because, apparently, he’s traveling with the other guy from the Queensboro Plaza video cam.”

“Mayshon Franklin?”

“Right. Well, Mayshon screwed up day before yesterday and shoplifted some beer at a package store up the Hudson in Rhinebeck.”

“Got his picture taken by the cash register cam,” added Raley. “And they pulled his prints off the glass on the beer case.”

Ochoa dovetailed right in to the narrative. “Database spit him out as a known associate of Sliney’s, who has a brother living in that area, a small town called Pine Plains up in Dutchess County. State and county vanned up and raided the brother’s place. They’d missed nabbing these dirtbags by six hours.”

Nikki asked, “Did Sliney’s brother say where they went?”

“Nah, either he doesn’t know or he’s throwing up a wall. But that’s not the reason we called.”

“It’s about what we learned about the brother,” said Raley with some weight attached.

“Yeah…?”

Ochoa said, “Earl Sliney’s brother works at a farm up there. His job is he flies the crop duster.” After the shortest pause, he continued, “So what we’re saying is that Earl Sliney’s brother had access to an airplane.”

Even slowed half a step by the tequila, Heat quickly calculated the math of Roach’s intel: Fabian Beauvais worked the ATM theft crew with Franklin and Sliney; Sliney was already known and wanted as a murderer; security video depicted Sliney popping off three rounds at Beauvais, who was on the run from him; Beauvais had a gunshot wound; Sliney’s brother had a plane; Beauvais fell from the sky.

A familiar claw grabbed hold of Nikki’s gut. She wasn’t liking at all where this was going. Not liking the bright, shiny, and new probabilities of Earl Sliney versus Keith Gilbert as the killer.

“It’s food for thought,” she said and found out what it sounds like when a Roach sighs on a conference call. “I’m not saying it’s not viable stuff. It’s just—”

“—It’s big,” said Ochoa, jumping on hard.

Heat bobbed her head. “Agreed. So what we do is put it with all the other pieces and see how it shakes out.”

“What needs to shake out?” Raley’s question was as valid as it was tersely delivered.

“Look, I’m not shutting your theory down, fellas. You know that, don’t you?”

After an interval of whooshing street noise rising on their end, Ochoa said, “What are we doing, then?” His voice carried the subdued consternation of both partners.

Because she needed to be open to the possibility that they could be on to something, and because she wanted to reconnect with this pair that she liked and admired so much, she said, “Here’s what you’re doing. Set your alarms for early-early and be in Pine Plains by sunup. Go to that farm and brace Sliney’s brother, Roach style. Check out his whereabouts on the morning of the planetarium fall. Get his story and get corroboration. Check out the plane. What condition is it in? How many seats? See if there’s logs or flight plans. I don’t know the rules for rural aviation, but you may get lucky. What I’m saying, boys, is work this. Follow the hot lead, right?”

Only slightly mollified, they said that was all they wanted to hear and said good-night.

“So,” said Rook after Nikki plopped her phone on the table. “Sounds to me like they’re still hacked off from this morning when you bitch-slapped them on the sidewalk in Chelsea.” He caught her reaction and froze to backpedal before he bit into the lime wedge. “Perhaps I should explain. It’s true that I spoke to Detectives Raley and Ochoa on another matter today and that incident came up. But in a purely informational way. The inference that your interaction constituted a bitch-slap was purely mine.”

Nikki set aside her annoyance about being gossiped about and went for the money. “What other matter did you discuss with my detectives?”

“See, I should never do the
reposado
and talk murder. It’s a bad combination.”

“Don’t try to joke your way out of this, Rook, tell me.”

He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair to consider. “All right. I was going to let this go until tomorrow, not wanting to add another log to the pyre of your case, but I heard that Keith Gilbert had filed a restraining order last month against—wait for it—Alicia Delamater.”

“And this was from a good source?”

“Yes, but I always verify. Hence the call to Roach. And it checks. So things may not be so cozy around Beckett’s Neck. Not like that puffed-up, hack mystery novelist neighbor says.”

“You’re pissed because he said you should stick to magazines.”

“I don’t think it’s ignoble that I found his judgment harsh.”

Nikki didn’t hear that. She’d slumped in her chair and raised her face to the sky conducting some secret dialogue with herself.

“Heat, I know it’s not good news. It blows the mistress theory right out of the sky—meaning no disrespect to the late Mr. Beauvais.” He leaned forward and put his hand on her knee. “Hey?” She lowered her chin and stared at him. “Can we just put this whole business on hold and enjoy the rest of our night?”

Nikki shivered, wishing she’d brought up a sweater. Or maybe never come up. “You mean like talk more about our day?”

“You want something to eat?” He started to reach out with a fork. “The smoked salmon is from Citarella.”

“Maybe talk about how my case is unraveling before my eyes?” He put the fork down and gave her his attention. “Or how my squad is whispering and giving me the buffalo eye when I walk in the room? Or how about the meat grinder I walked into with One Police Plaza?”

“They’ll get over it. Zach Hamner has no feelings. He isn’t even human. Probably hangs his suit of human skin over the shower rod at night.” When she didn’t crack a smile he said, “Are you worried he’ll kill your shot at the task force?”

There it was again. The elephant had joined them on her Gramercy Park rooftop. In a small voice she spoke her reality. “I think I can kiss off my chances with that task force.”

He shrugged. “Could be a blessing in disguise.”

A fuse lit deep in the back of her skull. “Rook. Are you saying that blowing a promotion is a good thing? Or good for you?”

“No, for us. —Hey, I’m not saying I want that.” He raised his brows in thought. “Although…”

“What.”

“That job would mean gi-lossal lifestyle challenges. But all open to discussion, right?” Trying to keep it casual, he poured her a shot. “Think I got your last one.”

Nikki didn’t want another drink. Adrenaline and bile had made her suddenly sober. “This doesn’t feel like it’s about lifestyle challenges, not anymore.”

“I know what you’re going to say. Fair’s fair, and that I travel, too.”

“Fuck logistics.”

“Huh.
So
not what you were going to say.”

Heat smacked her palm down on the table. “Will you stop? Just stop being cute for once and deal with me?” He corked the bottle. She had his attention. “Tell me how this is all open to discussion? It never got there. You’ve seen to that.”

There. It was out. Nikki had held it down for days. Denied it. Avoided it. Ate it. At last she’d given voice to the beast, and there was no reining it in.

“You’re going to have to explain that to me.”

“Rook, please. The moment you found out about my offer to be on that task force you started picking away at my evidence.”

“I did not.”

“What do you call it?”

“Investigative journalism. Kinda what I do.”

“Know what I call it? Sabotaging my case. Either because you’re pissed that I didn’t tell you about the promotion—”

“—That’s ridiculous—”

“—Or so you could keep me from getting it. Or both.”

“You know, Nikki that is so not me.”

“What else can I conclude? That’s when it started. You didn’t just get contrary. Contrary, I can deal with. You dug in. You got destructive.”

“By looking at other possibilities in the case?”

“By undermining me. First by cozying up to Gilbert’s aide; then you poach my limited resources—Raley and Ochoa, even Rhymer—to act as your personal research assistants. Which planted doubts with them, and now look. You heard Roach. They’re pulling the opposite way now because of you.” Nikki had lost all restraint. She knew she should count to three or walk it off, but the fuse sizzled and burned toward the powder keg. “Even tonight, you can’t stop. You have to keep grinding with the restraining order against his mistress.”

“I’m sharing my discovery. I’m collaborating.”

“What did you call my case, a burning pyre?”

“I’m sharing evidence. Which you choose to ignore. Like the airplane Roach called about.”

“Do you expect me to believe some crop duster flew into Manhattan and dropped Beauvais over the Upper West Side without showing up on radar?”

Rook said, “Radar isn’t perfect.”

“I want to believe in perfect radar.”

“Just for argument’s sake, let’s rule out Sliney’s brother and his plane. How then did Keith Gilbert manage to drop the Haitian from the sky without detection?”

Nikki’s beast fed off anger; Rook’s from sarcasm. “Oh, I know. Gilbert is sailing pals with Sir Richard Branson. Maybe he asked Richie to cruise Fabian Beauvais up to the Kármán Line on his Virgin Galactic spacecraft and launch him from under a wing.”

Heat’s hand found the shot glass in front of her and flung the tequila in his face. “Go.”

Liquor dripped off his nose and chin and onto his shirt. He made no move to wipe it. Rook stared at her, speechless, astonished, hurt. Nikki already felt a tide of shame begin to rise, but her anger remained stronger. Before the balance could shift, she repeated more quietly but still firmly, “Go.”

Still stoic, Rook stood. He hesitated, perhaps wondering if he should say something healing or righteous. While he waited, Heat saw the outline formed by the small square box in his jacket pocket. The wave of anger then mixed with the backwash of shame. The swirl created a sort of undertow, dragging Nikki down. Helpless to do anything but founder, she watched Rook turn and go. An impulse to call out to him came and went because the feeling to attach to the words never materialized.

She had gone too far.

Whatever the evening was to have been, it would now not be. Could not be. That was her dark thought watching him descend the fire escape and disappear rung by rung out of this moment, and perhaps, she wondered, out of her life.

H
eat got there early and paced the hallway. At 7
A.M.
most practices in the medical and professional building weren’t open yet, and when the elevator up the hall finally chimed, it broke the dead silence like a fight bell. Lon King, Ph.D., a psychologist who offered services through the NYPD counseling program, didn’t usually have office hours until nine, and Nikki thanked him for agreeing to meet her. After unlocking his suite, he asked her to hold in the waiting room, then disappeared behind his closed door to prepare as if some magic would be lost if the switching on of lights, the hanging of a jacket, and the adjustment of blinds should be witnessed.

“It’s been a while,” said the shrink when she took her seat on the couch and he settled into his easy chair on the other side of the coffee table.

“Almost two years, I think.” Heat listened to the pillow-soft sounds of York Avenue drifting up twelve floors while she thought about where to begin. She never felt comfortable here. It wasn’t him, she liked Dr. King enough. It was the whole idea of counseling. She had originally come to him against her will when Captain Irons used psych leave as a tool to suspend her without all the nasty paperwork.

Painful as that had been, Nikki found it helpful, and had come back a few times when she felt her compass spinning and needed some guidance. Or solace. As was his way, he sat passively and waited for her. Nikki delivered the opening line she had formulated in the taxi ride uptown. “I’m dealing with a bit of a challenge.”

“I assumed so. If you, of all cops, would ask for this time in the midst of your usual caseload and preparation for a hurricane, it must be quite a challenge.”

“It’s why I hoped to see you early.”

“To fit it in.” He smiled. “Nikki, you do know that I can’t solve your life in fifty-five minutes.”

“Give me sixty. I’m a quick study.”

“Why don’t you begin by telling me about the trigger for this session?”

The shame stirred again. The shame that had become her stalker and kept her tossing in bed until it enveloped her and found its way inside now shifted like a serpent whose scales etched her damaged soul. “I threw a drink in my boyfriend’s face last night.”

King’s reaction was muted. A listener first, the shrink’s countenance matched the ambience of his office: buttery light, placid tones and textures. A neutrality designed to evoke. Personally, he fell on the scale somewhere between taciturn and meditative. But he knew her and, therefore, the significance. “That’s profound. You have spoken in here before about how you prize self-control.”

“I lost it.” She had been eyeing the box of tissues and snatched one.

“Let’s try to understand why.”

“Where do I start?”

“I think you know where.”

And she did. At least she thought she did. So that is where she began, with finding the receipt for the engagement ring and her candidacy for the international task force. “I hid the promotion from him, I guess, because of the proposal I thought was coming, and I knew my travel would be an issue.”

“You didn’t tell Rook.”

“I didn’t think I could.”

“But you also didn’t turn down the promotion.”

Seeing him reflect on that, Nikki started to feel that she had made a mistake coming there. She didn’t care if passing through discomfort was the path, and that the best way out was always through, and blahdy-blahdy-blah. She wanted relief, not more agony. “Let me tell you what else this is all wrapped up in,” she said, hearing a desperation in her eagerness, but feeling the need to be understood.

Heat talked about the case. Not all the details, of course, but the psychologist nodded an awareness of it when she mentioned Keith Gilbert. The crucial thing, she said, was that Rook seemed to be with her, a partner as he always was, right up to when Captain Irons spilled the beans about the task force.

“That was a turning point. From that moment on, it was like he had become an adversary. Not only refuting the evidence I was gathering, but actively working to develop contrary leads for his article.”

“He was on assignment?”

“Yes.”

“On the case you’re working?” She nodded and he asked, “Isn’t that different for you two? Except for those profiles he did?”

“Yes, but this goes beyond his journalistic zeal. He not only seemed to be pulling against me, he planted doubts in my squad, and, as a result, I’ve got issues with some of my detectives.”

He asked her to describe those, which led her to describe her conflicts with Raley and Ochoa. “The upshot of all this is that I’ve now had my arrest pulled. I’ve never been called into question like this.”

“I have a lot of great cops sit here and tell me about their firsts. Setbacks top the list.”

“They’ve got it wrong.”

“I’m reading a defensiveness I’ve never seen before. Is there some part of you that worries you may be wrong?”

“No.”

“All right. What about, perhaps, that you may have missed a step along the way?”

She started to say no but held back. “…Well. OK, honestly?” He watched her, just patiently letting her come to it herself. “I admit I may have pushed it. Not cut corners, I never do that. But in a few instances, I may have made some slips in judgment or hurried things where I wanted them to go instead of waiting them out or closing all the loops.”

“Why is that, do you think?”

After an eternal moment of air conditioning hiss, she said, “Maybe this got to me on some personal level.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. The case. I can’t explain it, it’s a feeling.”

“Feelings are what we do here, Nikki.” He smiled encouragement.

“I got a few buttons pushed.”

“Rook?”

“For sure.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know.” Nikki slid forward, the scooched back, trying to center herself on the couch. “Lately, I’ve been feeling like a crash-test dummy for stress. Everywhere I turn, there’s one more thing pissing me off. Rook, One PP, my own squad. I just wanted to run this case.”

“Your way?”

The implication hung there between them. “I’ve always been a collaborator, Dr. King. And open-minded about an investigation and new ideas.”

“Always been. What about now?”

She didn’t speak. Her look told him they both knew the answer.

“A couple of observations.” He set his Circa notebook on the side table and crossed his legs, signaling a new mode. “One of the issues we have dealt with in prior sessions is the murder of your mother.”

“Well, that was solved about two years ago.”

“Closing a case doesn’t settle all that’s happening within you. In fact, it could be part of this issue.” He picked up his notebook again for a glance. “When I reviewed my notes after you phoned last night, I recalled that I asked you once—and this was before you solved her murder—what life would be like without the sense of purpose the pursuit of your mother’s killer gave you. Have you had difficulty adjusting after that?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Do. Try it on. That sense of mission was a convenient way to sublimate. It’s not uncommon to replace rage with purpose. And when the purpose goes away, what comes back? Rage in trauma victims doesn’t get relieved by externals like case closure. It defers. Like squeezing a balloon, the pressure moves elsewhere. Is this case really any different than any other? Maybe you’re still working it out.”

“I don’t go around feeling rage.”

“You threw a drink in Rook’s face.” The serpent beneath her skin moved again and she lowered her gaze.

“Now, don’t feel judged. On the upside, it’s nice to see someone as controlled as you be spontaneous. Also, rage is human. Rage lives somewhere in all of us. I’m sure it has helped us survive from prehistoric times to now. But we’re not cavemen anymore. In daily, civilized life rage can be toxic. And a waste of good scotch.”

“Tequila.”

He allowed his version of a chuckle and his eye line went to the clock she knew sat over her shoulder. “Before we run out of time, I want to discuss you and Rook.” Hearing his name, Nikki felt her skin bristle like the onset of a rash. “You say he was going to propose to you last night?”

“I thought so. I’d found that receipt, and he gave all the signs and set up a very romantic evening for us. I even think I saw the box in his pocket.”

“How do you feel about that? The possibility of marrying him?”

“Hold on, are you saying I created a scene to derail his proposal?”

“Who knows? The subconscious is an impish little bastard. But I’m interested more in your feelings about this relationship.” She had come there seeking some measure of relief and now she found herself being prodded into even deeper distress.

As if he were reading her thoughts, King said, “I know this is hard, but you came here because of your incident with Rook. Let’s talk about him.” Heat gathered herself and gave a willing nod. He consulted his notes again. “You’ve been together, what, three years now? Mostly, the relationship has been good for you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“And I can only imagine the challenge of two strong-willed high achievers sharing both careers and romance. In fact, when he took on your recent murder case as the subject of his investigative piece, it kind of set you up for conflict, didn’t it?”

“I see that now. When he mentioned it, I assumed he’d just ride along.”

“And write up your findings like dictation?” He let that sink in. “It might help if you recognize you are living the quintessential modern relationship, Nikki Heat. Passion and career demands are a volatile mix. This quarrel over your case may be the tip of an iceberg. Especially when you have needs and ambitions that conflict with his.”

“The task force?”

“It’s a lot to consider. But consider it, you must. And seek to resolve. Think you’re going to talk with him about this?”

“If he’s still talking to me.”

“Do yourself a favor before you do. Ask yourself this: Given what you’ve just gone through, can you see a long-term future with Rook when it’s only going to get more demanding?” He stood and said, “In case you’re wondering, I can’t answer that for you. I only ask questions.”

It’s always back to
Jeopardy
, she thought.

Wally Irons snared Heat as she passed his doorway on her way in. “Where’s your two guys, Starsky and Hutch?”

“Assuming you are referring to Detectives Raley and Ochoa; right about now they’re up in Dutchess County following up a lead.”

“Oh.” He held up a memo and put out his lower lip in an unconscious pout. “I was going to announce this to your squad, but seeing as you don’t have a quorum for roll call, here. You tell them.” He handed her the sheet of paper. “All leaves and vacations are canceled in light of the approaching hurricane.”

“There goes my weekend in Lahaina.”

“No leaves, not even for the weekend,” he shot back, trumpeting his total lack of irony. As she entered the bull pen he called out, “And Heat. No more letting personnel leave the city for a Friday fuck off without my OK.” It wasn’t his snippy tone that made her flare. Or shouting into her squad room at her like that. It was one more instance of the armchair administrator calling shots. Nikki took it to his face.

“I think we had better be clear on something, Captain.” His eyes popped at the unexpected confrontation. Behind her, Detectives Rhymer and Feller swiveled their desk chairs to rubberneck. “Sean Raley and Miguel Ochoa are seasoned investigators who were working very late hours last night and took the initiative to call me to request permission to explore what they see as a promising lead upstate. I will back these detectives for their tenacity and heads-up play. I will also be respectful and honor your request for the sign-off. But I will not let you characterize the work of these men as a ‘Friday fuck off’.” She left him there and went to her desk, reading the emergency status memo.

It said that Sandy had crossed the Bahamas and begun a more north-northwesterly course. Even though it had diminished from just one mile per hour shy of a Category Three hurricane to a Cat One, it remained potent and dangerous with wind speeds of eighty. Up the Eastern seaboard, North Carolina, Maryland, DC, Pennsylvania, and New York had already declared states of emergency, with New Jersey and Connecticut expected to follow suit. In anticipation of possible landfall sometime Monday into Tuesday, the mayor had officially opened New York City’s Office of Emergency Management’s Situation Room. Not only were leaves and vacations canceled, but also all police, fire, and sanitation workers should be expected to be ready for deployment, as ordered, for public safety and civil order.

Heat shared the memo with Feller and Rhymer, who were back to working their phones, beating the bushes for anything that would resuscitate the stalled Beauvais-Capois murder case. She didn’t think it would be too early to try Rook, so she stepped outside onto Eighty-second Street for some privacy and called his number.

It didn’t go straight to voice mail, which told her the phone was on. And it delivered the full complement of rings before she heard his outgoing message, so at least he hadn’t pushed the decline button to reject her. Hearing his recording, Nikki’s mouth went dry. After the tone, she kept it short and as pleasant as she could manage given her stress level. “Hey, it’s me. Storm’s coming, thought I’d check on you. Call me so we can talk, all right?” She almost hung up but added, “I’m here” first.