Driving Heat (36 page)

Rook turned to her as the door closed. “Wouldn’t it be funny if that’s the real reason he came? To mentally undress you?” Nikki gave him a stony look. “Perhaps more
ironic than funny,” he said. “Let’s go with that.”

Heat made a quick stop in her office to take a moment to formulate a
strategy. Over the years she had learned that the most powerful
tool an interrogator has is an objective to work toward. With this opportunity sprung on her unexpectedly, she didn’t want to blow it, and so a pause to reflect would be time well spent. Once
she had an idea, she gathered the materials she would need into her file, then made a few quick status checks.

Detective Aguinaldo had managed to track down some of her former Military Police colleagues from Creech AFB. “One of my MP buds remembered an incident with one Airman Timothy Maloney. He
had been called in to investigate a sexual harassment claim and discovered that the enlisted man had been spying on a female officer—wait for it—with a hobby-grade drone. No charges
were filed, because Maloney claimed he’d lost control of it. Nonetheless, they kicked him out of the base’s amateur drone club.”

So Yardley Bell’s information was confirmed, that Maloney had not been a USAF drone op, but he had gotten bitten by the UAV bug at Creech. The question for Heat was whether he had left his
toys in Nevada, or brought the hobby to New York—with lethal consequences?

Raley gave her the report that there had been a sighting overnight of a pickup truck matching the description of Nathan Levy’s 450 in the parking lot of the Marine Air Terminal at
LaGuardia. Port Authority PD had run a check, and it came up registered to a caterer from Edison, New Jersey. Both George Gallatin and her stolen car were still unaccounted for, with the APB still
being repeated on her scanners.

Detective Rhymer confirmed Wilton Backhouse’s whereabouts the previous day, which didn’t surprise her. “The professor indeed was scheduled for, and personally conducted, a lab
at Hudson University at the time he said on the subject—get this: ‘Velocity, Spin, Frictional Coefficient, and Impact Angle.’” He looked up from his notes. “Sounds
like a porn title.”

“Maybe in Virginia,” Heat said with a grin.

If it had been anyone other than Joseph Barsotti, a career scumbag, Heat
would have set up a more informal interview in the
relatively relaxed setting of the conference room. But once on the shit list, it’s a complicated process getting off of it. So, after a pat-down to make sure he knew this wasn’t a
social visit, she and Rook sat across from him in one of the interrogation rooms.

Her plan was to press Barsotti as the prime suspect in the killing of Lon King. Although that didn’t seem likely to Heat, given the investment Fat Tommy had in keeping his debtor alive,
the enforcer didn’t know that, and would be more pliable if he was trying to beat a homicide rap. So that is how Nikki cut the ribbon on the interrogation, coming at him hard with questions
about his firearms and permits, his arrest jacket for violent offenses, and repeatedly using phrases like, “the last time you saw Lon King alive…” Without the protection of his mob
code of silence, Barsotti grew fidgety and his eyes darted around. Heat liked that. And once she had him in a more vulnerable place, she zeroed in on what she really wanted to know.

“If you expect me to believe you didn’t kill Lon King, you’d better give me something I can get my teeth into. Something real. Otherwise, it’s you, Joe.” Heat knew
Barsotti wasn’t the killer, but making him worry that he might take the fall for a murder was great leverage to get him to talk about things she needed out of him—and she was going to
use it.

“What can I tell you other than I didn’t do the guy?” he whined. Nikki always paid attention to hands. Barsotti’s were large, be-ringed, and had empurpled knuckles. She
pictured him giving the beat-down to that exotic dancer and was glad she’d held a hard line with him.

“You’ve got to give me everything you saw. How long were you dogging King?”

“I dunno, a few days?”

Heat slapped a hand down, making him jump. “You
dunno
?”

Rook tilted his head toward the man and gave him a sympathetic face. “Trust me, pal. If I were you, I’d start knowing.”

“A week. Not every single day. Six. Six days.” He looked at Rook and got a reassuring wink in return.

Nikki slid a blank yellow pad and a ballpoint to him. “Write ’em down. Dates, times, places. Soon as we’re done.” Barsotti nodded. “I also want to know about any
unusual activity around King.”

“He was a shrink. Everything was unusual.”

She heard a soft “Ahem” for her benefit from Rook, but kept her gaze on Barsotti. “You’re not helping me, which means you are definitely not helping yourself. Give me
specifics. You were pretty much stalking him, right?”

“I wouldn’t use that word…” He caught Rook’s cautioning head wag. “Yes. I watched him. But only so I could pick my spot to persuade him to repay his
debt.”

“Did you notice anyone else watching him?”

He paused. “Yeah.”

“You’d better not be saying this to please me, because if you’re lying, I’ll know. It won’t be good.” Heat had him emotionally where she needed him and slid a
photo from under the cover of her file. “Ever see this man?”

“Oh him, fuck yeah. He’s off the chain.” He handed the picture of Timothy Maloney back across the table like he might catch something from it.

“Tell me.”

“I made—let’s call it an office visit—to provide incentive to Lon King about his gambling debt. When I got there, a big argument was going on in the waiting room. That
guy was reaming out King while everyone else freaked.

“Everyone like who?”

“Patients, I guess. I took a hike. But I did hear the fucker say he was going to kill King.” He waited and continued. “He said he was going to kill him. You didn’t write
that down.”

Heat flicked a forefinger at the yellow pad in front of Barsotti. “You write it down.” Then she took out another photo from her file and dealt it to him across the table. “What
about this guy? Ever see him?” He studied it a moment and nodded. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. A couple of times. Basically just hanging out at the medical building. I thought he was a doctor or something. But I remember seeing him.”

“I’m going to ask you to think. Get a calendar if you need one, and give me the dates and times.” Heat suppressed the exhilaration she felt, and she could tell from her
connection to the man beside her that Rook was right there with her. She took the photo back and left.

Heat and Rook speed-strode the hall and into the bull pen. “We may have just gotten some traction,” she announced. The homicide squad gathered around. “Look who Joseph Barsotti
just ID’d as someone he saw hanging around Lon King’s office multiple times.” Nikki posted the photo from her file on the Murder Board. “Eric Vreeland.”

“Tangier Swift’s PI?”

“None other,” said Rook.

Ochoa turned from the picture to Heat. “That’s large.”

“Extra,” she said. “I want Vreeland brought back in. It doesn’t make him the killer—necessarily—but it is our first nexus between Tangier Swift, Lon King, and
Nathan Levy.”

“Two of our homicide victims,” said Raley.

Heat’s brow pulled into a vertical crease. “Two of our victims…” she said, but it sounded unsure enough to be a question.

“Just got the call,” said Feller. “They found Nathan Levy’s body in his truck fifteen minutes ago.”

“P
oetic.” That was Rook’s first word when they got to the crime scene. And he wasn’t too wrong, Nikki
thought. An automobile test driver killed behind the wheel might qualify. Except the only rhyme Heat saw was the hole in his forehead, same as two of the other vics.

Heat had gotten there quickly, even before the Medical Examiner, which gave her a clearer view of the site, a self-pay parking lot under the Highline, not far from Chelsea Piers. The patrol team
that spotted the performance pickup truck had not only been alert, they were well trained. Rather than contaminating the scene, which happened with maddening frequency, they hadn’t done
anything more than glove up and open the driver’s side door to see if he was alive or not. After that, the officers caution-taped the driveway to secure the zone and did the best possible
thing. They waited.

“So the door was closed when you got here?” Heat asked, ever thorough.

“Yes,” answered the patrolwoman. “But the side window was down.”

Nikki walked back and forth, surveying the open door and the rolled-down window, then peeked inside. “Was the ignition turned on like it is now?”

“Huh, I didn’t notice.”

Beginner’s eyes, Heat told herself. She always came to her scenes as if she were just learning how to do this. Nothing got taken for granted that way. Veterans had a nasty habit of
overlooking things. She made a note of the engaged ignition and that the battery seemed dead. The setup suggested Levy probably had been sitting there listening to the radio when he bought it. The
seatbelt was unfastened and retracted. As for the body itself, it was facing the open window, but tilted back and away toward the passenger side—an obvious consequence of the gunshot.

Rook said, “May I state the obvious? Unless you can convince me this is a suicide, Mr. Levy’s not looking so good as our killer.”

Nikki sing-songed, “He’s ba-a-a-a-ack.” But did it with her inside voice—wise, given the setting and the pair of uniformed witnesses.

“Know what else? I also don’t think he’ll be throwing those at Mardi Gras this year.” Heat followed his gesture to the colorful plastic beads hanging from the rearview
mirror. Within the red, green, purple, and yellow strands, something caught her eye. Using her capped stick pen in her gloved hand, she leaned into the cab and lifted a white latex bracelet by one
end.

“What is that, a hospital bracelet?” he asked.

Heat turned her head to the side so she could read the band. “With Nathan Levy’s name on it.”

Rook’s conjecture about Levy’s poor viability as a suspect was reinforced,
albeit without the wiseass factor, back at the
precinct by Detective Aguinaldo. “When he took off on the run, I decided to establish Mr. Levy’s whereabouts during the time frames of our various homicides. You want to
hear?”

“I have a feeling there’s no stopping you,” said Heat, impressed with the initiative. Inez, a talented detective, clearly was pushing harder, trying to make up for her stumble
in overlooking a search of Abigail Plunkitt’s rooftop.

“During the spans of time around King’s and Lobbrecht’s deaths,” Aguinaldo said, “Levy was up in Monticello, New York, at a meeting about a job as a driving coach
at the private racetrack and resort up there.”

“That’s only ninety minutes away,” said Feller.

“Yes, but he had an early interview and spent the night at the Courtyard by Marriott in Middletown. I’ve confirmed he was physically present at both places. That leaves the period in
which Plunkitt was killed. He was away during that time frame, too. He told his next-door neighbor he was in Atlantic City getting physical therapy on his leg.”

Detective Rhymer said, “Hold on. Who goes all the way down to AC for physical therapy?”

Aguinaldo grinned. “I checked. The physical therapy wasn’t exactly covered under insurance, if you know what I mean. There’s security footage of him in the lobby of the place.
On two visits.”

“Ah,” said Rook. “Nathan’s massage had a happy ending. His life, not so much.”

Heat tore a page out of her notebook. “Detectives Raley and Ochoa.” The pair, who were sitting on opposite sides of the group, raised their heads. “I copied this off a hospital
bracelet I found hanging in Levy’s truck. Note the patient.” She handed it to Ochoa, who was nearer. He read it and passed it on at a signal from Raley. “It’s from an ER up
in Cortlandt, which is Westchester County. He was there in February, about a month and a half ago. I’m not sure what this will give us—maybe why the limp—but place a call, and
let’s find out.”

“On it,” said Raley. “As long as we’re gathered, we have a few updates for you. First of all, CSU found George Gallatin’s cell phone on the floor in the modular
trailer at the Channel Maritime.”

Rook grew very excited. “That’s great. We can get that number for Black Knight.”

“‘Come back here, you bastard!’” called Feller in a passable Monty Python impression. “It’s only a flesh wound!”

“You mock me, but I’m telling you, I heard Gallatin say he was calling Black Knight.” He turned back to Raley. “All we have to do is check the Recents. The number will be
there.”

“Sorry. History’s been cleared. You’re going to have to keep noodling. Or give it up.”

“No, I’m too OCD for that.” Nikki could see Rook’s eyes glaze over as he tried to conjure up a replay of that phone dialing.

Raley consulted his cheat sheet. “We also got word about Eric Vreeland.”

“I already know I’m not going to like this,” said Nikki.

“Well, then you won’t be quite so disappointed when I tell you. It’s going to be tough to have him drop by for an interview. His office said he was away on vacation. We checked
with Customs and Immigration and they report that Vreeland exited the country on a flight out of JFK yesterday for Croatia.”