Driving Heat

by Richard Castle

  Churning up a swirl of brackish foam, the NYPD skipper backed the stern of his ship quickly and surely right up to the water-level transom of the SwiftRageous. When Heat leaped onto the other vessel and then stepped aside for Rook to join her, she expected to be met by security, which she was. Four very athletic men in matching khaki slacks and green polos assembled, forming an impressive line of muscle between them and the Hudson River. What she didn’t expect was to be greeted personally by Tangier Swift. Although it wouldn’t exactly be called a greeting.

  “What do you think you are you doing?” said the CEO as he descended the open staircase from the sundeck.

  “Tangier Swift?” She reached up to part her blazer to show him the shield at her waist. As she did, all four security men immediately placed a hand on their fanny packs. “Captain Nikki Heat, NYPD.” Even after she had flashed tin, not one hand ever left the proximity of its sidearm.

  “Heat…You’re the one who’s been calling my office.” Two of his bouncers parted to let him through the line and he lifted his shades to appraise her. “Have you got a warrant?”

  “I don’t need one, Mr. Swift. This is a Harbor Unit snap safety inspection of your vessel.” She pointed between the Zodiac and the Sea-Doo GTX attached to the port side of the garage deck. “For instance, does that fire extinguisher have a full charge?”

  Swift tipped his wood-and-titanium Maybachs up onto his shaved head and made a sour face. “You’re joking.”

  “Sir, I assure you, it’s all legal. We have the authority to board and conduct our inspection.” She beckoned to the three waiting Harbor Unit officers, who stepped from the Gladding-Hearn onto the yacht. “I suggest your men move their hands away from their weapons. This is not something we take lightly.”

  “Captain Heat, this is completely over the top.”

  “And totally avoidable if you had cooperated with my request for a meeting.”

  The billionaire seemed more amused by Heat’s audacity than he was perturbed by the intrusion and signaled his detail to stand down. “How did you find out I was here?”

  Rook spread his arms wide to indicate the ship and said, “Duh. The James Bond–villain boat with your name on it was kind of a hint.”

  “It’s a ship, not a boat.”

  “Don’t need to tell me. You could fit Mick’s, Bono’s, and Madge’s yachts on here and still have room for David Geffen’s hot tub.”

  “Who the hell are you? You’re no cop.”

  Heat stepped in. “This is Jameson Rook. He is fully authorized to be a civilian ride-along with me.”

  “The writer? Fuckin-A, it just gets better.”

  “Mr. Swift,” said Nikki, “I only have a few questions to ask you. If we had just addressed them, I’d already be gone by now.”

  Seeing that someone with the balls to successfully board his ship was not about to go quietly, he flipped his mirrored shades back down on his nose. “You want a soda or something?”

  It turned out that Rook had underestimated the length of the SwiftRageous by four yards. The luxury motor yacht measured 312 feet, with five decks, including a master suite and staterooms on the top level, and a salon (aka: living room) complete with a wood-burning fireplace of French limestone that separated it from the formal dining area. In the forward area one deck below, across the passageway from the twenty-seat movie theater, a state-of-the-minute gaming parlor with night-effect lighting was jammed with big screens, gaming stations, both Internet and satellite connectivity for remote play, and the latest in interactive voice and motion-sensing platforms. Rook peered longingly from the doorway and couldn’t resist. “Please tell me you have Dance Dance Revolution.” Swift didn’t acknowledge the question and ushered them on. “It’s addictive,” said Rook. “I am this close to Maniac Level.”

  As they rounded a corner, Swift nearly collided with four Asian men in dark suits, one of whom, who looked to be in his sixties, beamed and said in accented English, “Mr. Swift. We are ready to meet when you are.”

  Swift’s return smile was unconvincing, and he seemed agitated. “I’ll need a few moments.” Then he head-signaled up the hall. A trio of his polo-shirted handlers stepped in, ushered the suits back in the conference room, and rolled the pocket doors closed. “Chinese industrialists,” he explained without being asked. “More money than sense. They want to buy my yacht.” Gesturing aft, he followed Heat and Rook toward the sun deck.

  Male and female wait staff served sparkling Saratoga waters and kale chips as they sat down in a cluster of deck chairs beside the swimming pool. “I have to say, this is quite overwhelming, Mr. Swift,” said Heat. Since he had relaxed his stance, she had tried to relax along with him, hoping to get more information by adopting a less adversarial stance.

  “To be overwhelmed every day. That’s the guiding beacon of my life.”

  “That can’t come cheap,” said Rook. “Just operating this thing, you’ve got a crew of—what?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “That’s a lot of polo shirts. And it can’t be inexpensive to tie up your modest pied à l’eau here on Luxury Liner Row.”

  “If you really want to know, it’s not that bad. Two grand a day. Better than a hotel, and worth it for the convenience of location.” Swift added an inch to Nikki’s glass from the blue bottle. “Except when that means getting stormed by zealous cops reenacting a scene from Captain Phillips.”

  “I wouldn’t have done it if it weren’t important, Mr. Swift.”

  “And you should call me Tangier. And that’s not because I’m a nice guy. Those dudes who founded Google got it right when they created an atmosphere for moon-shot thinking, and I’m not above modeling myself after mold breakers.”

  Nikki recalled Rook’s rundown on Swift, how he was a motivational zealot.

  “Oh, I gave it my own spin, calling my hierarchical structure a Flat Pyramid, but I’m really chasing their unicorn. No neckties; messy offices, a plus; first names only—including the CEO; transparency, and direct access—including the CEO.”

  “Is that why it was so easy for me to see you, Tangier?” Nikki asked, making a calculated back-to-business jab to forestall his hijacking her meeting with a wharf-side Tony Robbins seminar.

  “Nikki, is it?” He set his glass down on the river-stone-covered tabletop, top-decked his designer sunglasses again, and fixed her with a steely gaze. “Nikki, maybe you had better ask me those questions so you can be on your way. That transparent enough?”

  Heat didn’t flinch. “Glad to. First, I’d like to ask if you know the name Lon King.” Swift rolled his eyes upward, then shook his head no. She opened her notebook and popped the cap on her $1.28 stick pen. “How long have you been berthed here?” Beside her, Rook turned to look upriver, where he could see the George Washington Bridge spanning the Hudson, right where Lon King’s kayak would have been adrift the night before.

  “Ten days, why?”

  One way to keep control of an interview, Nikki had learned through the years, was not to respond to questions. Especially with a smart, strong personality who was accustomed to getting his way, it was too easy to have the meeting wrested from her grip if she let it become his conversation. “When was the last time you used those toys on your transom, the Zodiac and the Sea-Doo?”

  “Hmm. Not since Bermuda. Before we put in here. What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Has anyone else used them here in New York? Someone on your crew, maybe?”

  “No.”

  “And you also have those two helicopters.”

  “MD660Ns.”

  “Do you fly them yourself?”

  “I’m rated for fixed wing only. I’m learning though. Spending a lot of time in the copter simulator in the game salon.”

  “Those things are great,” said Rook. “I fly the radio-controlled copters. You ever fly them?”

  Swift squinted at him as if he thought Rook must be high. “No.”

  “Ever fly the drones?” Rook asked. “Yo
u know, the quadcopters?” Rook caught Nikki’s eye, and in that nonverbal micro-instant she marveled at how in tune they were. And how deft he was at playing the exasperating court jester one moment, then coming in sideways on a point she was going for.

  “No,” he snapped. “Are you writing fucking hobby profiles now?”

  Heat took advantage of Swift’s irritation to jerk the conversation in another direction. “I have another name to ask you about. Fred Lobbrecht. You may also know him as Frederick or Freddy.”

  “Sorry, no matches. Who are these people you keep asking me about?”

  “What about Wilton Backhouse?” Swift was about to speak, then held back. Red blotches appeared at his collar and spread toward his jawline. “Wilton Backhouse,” she repeated.

  “Shit disturber.” He reached across and tapped a forefinger on her notebook. “You can quote me. Shit disturber. And neurotic. Oh, and narcissist,” said the man with the 312-foot yacht named after himself.

  “So. You know him,” said Rook.

  The irony escaped Swift. The flush had splotched his cheeks by now. “You know what that guy really is? A gadfly. No, worse than a gadfly. A gadfly may be a pain in the ass, but at least a gadfly is operating from a sense of conscience. Wilton Backhouse is all about Wilton Backhouse. Fame, gaining wealth through extortion. He creates nothing. He adds no value. He is a self-important leech who would be better off—” Swift caught himself. “Oh fuck, he’s not dead is he? You’re a homicide detective, and I’m shooting my mouth off about—Is he dead?”

  “No. But he swore in a complaint that you once tried to run him down with your Mercedes outside the NoMad.”

  “I didn’t see him. Until I swerved to miss him.”

  “I read the police report. Eyewitnesses said you were laughing afterward and told Mr. Backhouse that next time you wouldn’t miss.”

  “I can be immature sometimes. No charges came of it, right? And he wasn’t harmed. And certainly not killed.”

  “No. But the two other people I mentioned were. And you still say you have no relationship with them?” Heat showed him Lon King’s picture on her cell phone. He shook his head no. Then she swiped to Lobbrecht’s. That one made Swift pause and think. Or pretend to think—Nikki couldn’t be sure. Finally he gave a no to that picture, as well.

  Heat pocketed her phone. “The second picture is of Fred Lobbrecht. He worked at Forenetics with Professor Backhouse on a special study involving your software.”

  “That fucking committee. This is what I’m talking about. Backhouse, trying to build a brand by squeezing my balls over some phony claim about a faulty stability control system.”

  The investigative journalist weighed in. “And you assert that the claim is untrue?”

  “Absolutely. I would be happy to go further, but there has been litigation and I am bound by the same settlement gag order as the complainants when it comes to the rollover lawsuits. Neither side can talk about it. It’s a two-way street.”

  “And if we are on that two-way street,” asked Rook, “are we OK if one of your apps is in our car?”

  “Hey, fuck you.”

  Nikki worked him from the other side. “Tangier. You maintain that you have had no contact—directly or indirectly—with any of these three men?”

  “If you are accusing me of something, you’d better say it.” Swift stood. “But you are going to be saying it to my lawyers.” Then he stormed up the staircase to the upper deck and disappeared.

  “I’m telling you, your new buddy Tangier’s lying about hitting the river,” said Rook as they pushed through the front door of the Twentieth. “He seems a little wussy for the Sea-Doo in spring weather—even though he can probably afford a mink wet suit. But he could have easily made it up to Spuyten Duyvil in the dry comfort of that Zodiac, popped Lon King, and been back in time to catch Matt Damon duct-taping Jimmy Kimmel to his chair.”

  The duty sergeant two-finger-saluted the captain as she moved past the bulletproof glass, then buzzed her through the security lock. “Rook, you’re assuming Swift would have done it himself. Or would have needed proximity. I’m buying into the drone as MOD, and that could have been controlled onshore.”

  “Or from a Zodiac,” Rook insisted as he scurried to keep pace with Heat as she raced up the hall and into her office.

  Heat kept the conversation going while scanning the stack of message slips on her desktop. “Besides. As usual, you’re jumping from zero to sixty on this case.”

  “You don’t think Tangier Swift has a perfect motive?”

  “I’m sure that busting the colorful villain CEO as our double murderer would make great copy for your article—”

  “That’s cheap—”

  “And fuel your next Pulitzer—but for now Swift is only top of my list as a person of interest, not as a suspect.” To be honest with him, she had to add, “Yet.”

  But something seemed off with this case. Few homicide investigations ever rode an express train from the discovery of the victim to conviction of the murderer, but this one was giving her a particular sense of unease. Heat had a strong sense of an inconsistency trying to bust through the early noise of this investigation. If only she could hear what it was trying to say through the static.

  Acquiescing to the pull of her administrative responsibilities, Heat spent the next half hour catching up on paperwork while Rook sat quietly nearby, going over his notes. She put her best foot forward, but it still felt like a chore—and a distraction from the case that was preoccupying her.

  It wasn’t all mindless work, however. A red-banded priority bulletin from Commander McMains of the Counterterrorism Task Force flashed on the NYPD intranet alerting all precinct commanders of a credible, nonspecific threat of retaliation sparked by the diplomatic conflict over the arrest of Mehmoud Algafari, the Syrian counterfeiter. Captain Heat issued an email memo to all her department heads in the Two-Oh to brief their personnel on the threat and to report related activity immediately.

  On the flip side, however, were the workaday requests for overtime and time off, the usual citizen complaints about noisy nighttime trash collection on Columbus Avenue, and an earful from the businessman Heat phoned to reschedule the breakfast meeting she had postponed that morning. The owner of two Indian restaurants in her precinct insisted on face time to demand that she do something about a rash of bicycle thefts from his delivery men. She booked him again for the following morning, secretly hoping something else would come up.

  Detective Rhymer stuck his head in to update her on the other Forenetics whistle-blowers, starting with Abigail Plunkitt, the biomechanical engineer. “According to HR at Forenetics,” Rhymer said, “Ms. Plunkitt resigned her consultancy and told them she was moving to Naples, Florida, to work with a conservation group on saving the manatees. I tried calling her, but she may still be in transit. Meanwhile, I’ll try to get a contact number for her there.”

  “And what about the other one, the test driver?”

  “Right, Nathan Levy. He is out of town, too, but not for long. Upstate at some private resort that has its own race car track, can you believe it? We’ve texted and will set up a meet when he gets back.”

  Just as Rhymer left, Ochoa summoned her to the bull pen with an urgent wave. “Just got a check-in from Detective Feller out on Staten Island.”

  Heat made a silent bet with herself about what the report would be. She wasn’t wrong.

  “Fred Lobbrecht’s house in Dongan Hills? Thoroughly tossed. Somebody got there first and ransacked the whole joint. Files gone, computer missing, even the telephone. You get the drill.”

  Rook sidled up and joined them. “Tangier Swift was with an NYPD captain at the TOD. Guess he has a watertight alibi.”

  “Maybe not,” Ochoa said. “A neighbor spotted a cargo van leaving his driveway at…” He surfed his notes. “Eleven-thirty last night.”

  “When Lobbrecht was already dead,” Heat said. “Any description of the driver, passengers?” She won another bet wit
h herself when Ochoa shook his head no. “Where’s your partner?” she asked.

  “Right here.” They all turned to find Raley occupying an empty desk instead of his usual one in Roach Central.

  Rook piped up. “OK, you two,” he said. “Am I going to have to do some couples counseling, or should we just go over to Central Park and let you have a duel?”

  His attempt at levity was wasted on them, as it was on Nikki, who knew she would have to confront this rift sooner rather than later. But not right then. “Rales,” she said, “where do we stand on bringing in your gait-analysis suspect?”

  “Joseph Barsotti. Still searching for him. I’ve got Rhymer and Aguinaldo canvassing his known associates for an address or hangout.”

  “And what about the dude who broke in to Lon King’s apartment?” asked Ochoa.

  Heat registered Raley’s irritation at being pressed by his own partner in this way, which went beyond a simple request for information to touch upon the dynamics of their relationship—making her reconsider the wisdom of asking both of them to share the job of squad leader.

  To his credit, Detective Raley remained professional, swallowed his anger, and swiveled to his computer. “Real Time Crime said they’d help run facial recog from the F train and tram cams. They should have gotten back to me by now. It’s not like them.” He tried to launch the intranet, but all that came up was a bouncing app icon, and the page failed to load. “That’s weird. This usually comes right up.”

  “You probably screwed it up when you moved your computer,” said Ochoa. He moved to the computer on his own desk while Raley worked his jaw muscles and watched the spinning hourglass on his screen. “Huh,” said Ochoa. “Not getting anything here, either.”

  Annette Caesar, the precinct switchboard operator, made a tentative step into the bull pen. “Excuse me, Captain Heat? There is a problem with the computers.”

  “Here, too,” said Nikki. “Would you please put in an urgent call to MISD?” With so much reliance on technology, the department’s Management Information Systems Division—cop jargon for IT—was generally first-rate. Whatever this glitch was, they would be all over it.