Raging Heat

by Richard Castle

  “This is not going to be one of our usual friendly chats,” he’d begun when her phone rang exactly a minute after seven. Zach was so damned earnest, she couldn’t tell if he was kidding, or if he truly felt they had a cordial relationship. “This is an on-the-record, official caution, Detective. Are you hearing me?”

  “Yes, Zach, I hear you.”

  Rook glanced up from booting his laptop at the counter and whispered, “Is that The Hammer?” She nodded and rolled her eyes. “Tell him you killed a man with a hammer last night. That’ll lighten things up.”

  Nikki held up a shush finger and turned away so she wouldn’t laugh as Zach pressed onward. “In my capacity as special assistant to the commissioner of Legal Affairs, I am informing you that the department has been put on notice that an unlawful arrest suit is going to be filed by Keith Gilbert’s attorneys. I don’t need to tell you what cost such a lawsuit would carry. Not just in hard dollars, but in embarrassment to everyone here at One PP.”

  “Are you saying they’re threatening? That’s chest beating. Why don’t they just file if they really have a case?”

  “An indulgent stance when you’re not in my chair,” he said. “I want your assurance that you have a case.”

  Nikki said yes, but didn’t feel it would be wise to share everything her squad had gathered. Maybe she didn’t have a law degree, but Heat knew what an abundance of caution was, too. “I’ve got solid stuff, Zach. I’ve got forensic evidence. I’ve got phone records connecting Gilbert to Beauvais, even though he denied knowing him. I’ve got the doctor who treated Beauvais, who ID’d Gilbert to him as the guy who shot him.”

  “Tell me you have the gun.”

  “I have a search warrant in-process.”

  “What’s the delay? No, let me guess, Wally Irons.”

  “You win.”

  Zach Hamner didn’t laugh. The Hammer never laughed because he wasn’t human. But this time, his sourness had cause; he was feeling pressure. “We have to get this right, Heat. You have to get it right. A dropped ball will hurt the whole team, but a fumble on your end will have most serious repercussions vis-à-vis your viability for future endeavors. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

  “Yes, of course, the task force.” She saw Rook look up from his screen and quickly back at that mention. Would this open discussion, or just be the elephant in the kitchen? Nikki yearned for friendly contact and came around the counter to drape an arm on Rook.

  “Fine then,” said The Hammer. She heard papers shuffling on his desk. “Let’s cover some bases. Keep digging. And bring in that doctor for a sworn statement. I’ll see what I can do to move along the search warrant for the gun.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  “All I can say is, this better be airtight. Let me hear you say it.” When Heat didn’t respond, he said, “Detective?”

  Nikki didn’t reply because she was too transfixed by what she happened to see on Rook’s MacBook. It was a security camera still photo. Two men—both dangerous-looking, with prison time written on their faces—were leaning into the foreground of the shot, which had the slightly fish-eye effect you got from a wide-angle lens. Heat had seen many pictures like this before. This pair was caught in the act of installing a dummy keypad and card skimmer to steal PINs and account codes from ATMs. But that’s not what gave her pause. What made Heat momentarily speechless was who she saw standing lookout in the background: Fabian Beauvais.

  “Hello? Did I lose you?”

  “No, I’m here.” And then, trying to sound like she still believed it, Nikki said, “…Airtight.”

  Nikki set her phone on the counter and quietly examined the image on the computer screen of Fabian Beauvais with the two thugs monkeying with the ATM. She paid special attention to the pair to see if she knew either of them as her ambushers from Chelsea. Not only did she not recognize them, they were totally different breeds. The Chelsea gang, including the SRO duo, had a paramilitary flavor, clean-cut, disciplined, even dressed in uniforms of a sort. The two in this picture with Beauvais were street players. Urban gangstas, wild-ass freaks born to raise hell. “When did you get this?”

  “Now. Came as e-mail overnight. Looks like I got two files. The other one’s a video. Want to see what it’s about?” He didn’t need an answer. Rook had already executed his trackpad clicks.

  Street surveillance video came up, shot from an elevated cam, probably bracketed to a lamppost. It had no audio, but the texture, although grainy, was sharp enough to make out Fabian Beauvais running up an urban sidewalk toward the camera, throwing panicked glances over his shoulder at the two men chasing him. Seconds after he ran out of the frame, his pursuers stopped right under the camera. One of them raised a pistol and fired. Heat counted three muzzle flashes. After the shooting, the two thugs—the same gangstas from the ATM still photo—cocked their heads to look off-camera in Beauvais’s direction and then backed away, jogging out of the shot the same way they’d come into it.

  “Whoa,” said Rook. “Was that Dodge City or Queensboro Plaza?”

  “Again,” was all Nikki could muster. She’d been too unsettled by the first play to study it and wanted a more clinical look. In the second screening she focused on detail. Beauvais carried something under an arm; a light-colored bag or, perhaps, a manila envelope. She’d missed that before. He had on a different shirt than the still photo from the ATM, suggesting it was a different day. The two running him down were also dressed differently. The way the shooter drew and fired: pulling the piece from his waistband; holding the pistol flat, like a John Woo gangster; and hurrying his rounds, told her he wasn’t police or service trained. Sideways shots look sexy and work for speed in close quarters, but, especially for a moving target gaining distance, department trainers drilled Heat’s cadet class to take the time to cup and brace: stabilize, sight, squeeze. This wasn’t an idle observation. It told her these guys were not part of the professional group that went after her the night before.

  She didn’t need to ask for a replay. Rook said, “One more,” and rolled it again. The impression Nikki got on this viewing was that Beauvais clutched the bag or envelope under his arm like it mattered. You want to lose time in a footrace? Carry something. He was running for his life but wouldn’t give up his package for speed.

  After it timed out, Rook sat back on his barstool and folded his arms, watching her. He didn’t say anything, but his manner felt the same as outside the loading dock the night before when Irons asked her if she thought her attack was related to Gilbert. Then, as now, he remained silent but acted like a horse pawing the stable floor when it smelled smoke. Nikki picked up her coffee mug. It felt cold in her palm so she replaced it beside her phone. “It’s inconclusive, you know that,” she said at last.

  “In what way? It kinda looks to me like our guy getting chased and shot at.”

  “Oh, are we being smart-asses? Not now, OK? Of course I know what it looks like. But did he get hit? Beauvais was out of frame.”

  “Three shots, Nikki.”

  “And he was hauling it. And the shooter was showboating his weapon. I’ve seen veteran cops miss when a perp is on the run.”

  “But not you,” he said, attaching an impish grin to it.

  “Don’t try to make up to me with flattery.” Then she caved a little under that smile of his. But just a little. “Hey, I never looked at the time stamp. When was this?”

  Rook brought it up and read the embedded digital code. Then he did some silent math, moving his lips. “The morning before Beauvais went to Dr. Ivan to get his bullet wound fixed.”

  That timing could fit. If one of those slugs did hit home, and it caused the clean graze described by the Russian medic, a span of forty-plus hours from wound to treatment put this incident in the zone. Even though this challenged her gut feel about the case, Heat clung to her detective’s core value of objectivity, allowing the poten
tial that some street thug, and not Keith Gilbert, could have shot Beauvais. She turned again to the screen in time for a replay of the three silent jerks of the gun in the shooter’s hand, thinking that whatever was going on, there certainly was a complicated context to what her Haitian friend had been doing with his days. What the hell was Beauvais up to?

  Nikki kept hoping for the lightbulb clue that explained everything, but all she kept getting were these orphan leads that confused more than clarified. She told herself to be patient, that she just hadn’t gotten the story yet. And that, at the end of the day, it would all make sense. As long as she didn’t lose heart and give up the hunt.

  And then, she asked a basic question. “You got this in e-mail. From whom?”

  He told her without hesitating. Like it was nothing. Like it was a no-brainer. “Raley shipped it over.”

  “…Raley. Just shipped it over, you mean, like it was just lying around?”

  “No, of course not. He had some free time, and I asked him to scrub some security video.” He tilted his head toward her. “Is this an issue?”

  “Only that Detective Raley doesn’t have any free time because he works for me doing the assignments I give him.”

  “OK, so it’s an issue.”

  “Irons banished you from the precinct.”

  “Which is why I called Raley instead of going in myself. There’s no quit in me, Nikki Heat.”

  “And did it occur to you that I might need to sign off on you poaching my detectives for your personal use?”

  “Agreed. But last night when I got the tip from Beauvais’s friend Hattie about this…” he gestured to his screen “…you were busy playing Bob the Builder with your attackers, and I couldn’t reach you. So I called Rales and asked a fave. Is that really so wrong?”

  An ache cinched her back muscles like barbed wire drawing tight. It didn’t come from her street skirmish. Just days ago Heat thought Rook was going to give her an engagement ring. Now he was giving her fits. Knowing a crossroad when she’d reached one, Nikki decided she had plenty of battle in front of her without opening a flank with Rook. For the greater good Nikki knew she had to eat it—to do what she did so well—which was to compartmentalize her feelings for the sake of the job. So she shrugged it off.

  But there was one conversation she needed to have.

  Since the radio car had been assigned to her anyway, Heat hitched a ride in the blue-and-white from Tribeca up to Chelsea. The officers thanked her for the French roast, joking that she had spoiled them for mystery muck they get from the street cart. When they dropped her at the same corner where she had been attacked barely ten hours before, Nikki declined their escort offer. But, as she walked past the driveway of the housing project, which was still wet from the blood hosing it got from CSU, she glanced back and got a wave from both unis as they kept watch from their patrol unit.

  Raley and Ochoa looked a little bewildered when they pulled up in front of the brownstone on West Sixteenth to find Heat standing there waiting for them. The ambush had kept her from checking out the address Jeanne Capois had written on the grocery receipt, so Roach had offered to take the assignment that morning. But Nikki decided to show up, too. She had a reason to pull her surprise visit.

  She crouched on the sidewalk beside the Roach Coach. Raley rolled down his passenger window and said, “Heard you had a night.”

  “Let me think…Oh, right.”

  From behind the wheel, Ochoa joined in the Downplay Game. “Listen, I need some carpentry done. You work on wood or just human flesh?”

  The ball having sufficiently been tossed around the infield, they popped the latches on their doors. “Sit tight,” she said, causing her detectives to exchange more puzzled glances. “Change of plan. I’m taking this interview. I want you guys to run checks on these two.” She gave them the printout she’d made at Rook’s of the ATM screen grab. “Of course, that’s Fabian Beauvais in the background, but I want to know everything about the pair up front.” She paused and leveled a meaningful stare at Raley. “Sean, I understand you are already familiar with this photo after having done some freelance work for Rook without authorization.”

  He blushed. “Hey, I was at the station late, anyway. It was Rook, so I thought…” he read her unhappiness and let it trail off. His partner wasn’t so cowed.

  “What’s the problem here? Guy’s doing his job, helping out.”

  Heat turned to him, quiet, but firm. “Are we debating this? We’re not debating this.” He blew some air and squeezed the steering wheel while both men looked straight ahead at nothing over the hood of the car. “Point made, it’s all good. You’ve got your assignment. Let’s meet up at the Murder Board in an hour.”

  The Roach Coach departed without a word or a nod. Great, she thought as she watched it drive off; now they were both pissed at her. Kind of like she was at herself.

  Waiting, buzzing, then waiting again, no answer came to Heat’s vestibule call up to Apartment Three. After pressing the other apartment buttons on the aluminum panel with no response, she rang up the building superintendent. He lived at another property on Bleecker Street, so she waited fifteen minutes while he made it up from his Greenwich Village neighborhood. Not too many years ago, she would have phoned the tenant, but, as was more often the case in digital times, there was no landline listed to the place. The super accompanied her to the door with his ring of keys and stood by while she knocked. Nikki announced, “NYPD, please open up,” knocked again, then put an ear to the door but heard nothing. She also sniffed, however, but got no telltale decay odor.

  The super advanced to the lock but Heat signaled him to step aside, which he did, taking three steps back. With one hand on the butt of her Sig, Nikki turned the lock and pushed the door wide open. Once again she said, “NYPD.” This time it echoed off the bare hardwood floors and empty walls of the apartment.

  The super peered in and said, “What the fuck?”

  Nobody home. Not even a home.

  The homicide bull pen at the Twentieth was shy one detective when Nikki Heat began her morning briefing. She had already phoned ahead to dispatch Randall Feller to Brooklyn to pick up Dr. Ivan, expatriate physician and auto-parts courier. If Zach Hamner wanted to cover his ass with a sworn statement about treating Fabian Beauvais’s gunshot wound and hearing him name Commissioner Gilbert as his shooter, she was happy to provide the paper. Knowing Feller’s weariness over bridge and tunnel runs, she’d told him to look at the bright side. “Hurricane’s coming. How many times can you go to a doctor’s office and pick up new wiper blades?” He actually laughed as he hung up.

  She began her meeting with good news. “I’m getting my search warrant for Keith Gilbert’s gun, which is registered to his address in Southampton. I’ll be driving out there as soon as the physical docs arrive. It’s taking forever because every lawyer in the DA’s office is scrutinizing it to make sure the language is Dream-Team-proof.” Even though she felt upbeat about the warrant, the mood of the bull pen was mixed. Rhymer seemed fine, but Raley and Ochoa were still in a sulk. Nikki attempted to lighten things up. “Roach, I think I saved you boys some wheel spinning.” They were attentive but passive when she recounted her visit to the vacant apartment in Chelsea, and it was Rhymer who raised a hand.

  “Did you get an ID on the tenant?”

  “The name is Opal Onishi. Her lease shows her occupation to be a food stylist, but the document is four years old, and her employer at that time is no longer in business. Hello, economic downturn.”

  “Cell phone?” asked Ochoa, breaking his silence.

  “Straight dump to voice mail, so it’s turned off. Would you keep trying it?”

  “As long as it’s authorized by you,” he said. His partner extended a be-cool hand to him to wave him off.

  Nikki let that one go and kept to business. “Meantime, Detective Raley, would you run a check on Opal Onishi for prior
s and get a photo of her from DMV?”

  “Might want to check Facebook, too,” said Rhymer, sounding very Southern. “If she’s a poster, you might get a line on her.”

  “Very good, Mr. Rhymer. You want to handle that one?”

  “No, I’ve got it,” said Raley, volunteering, but with a passive-aggressive bite to it.

  Nikki turned to the whiteboard and posted blowups of official-looking ID photos under the police-artist sketches of the goons from the SRO. “We have names now for this unsavory pair.” She markered each name as she said it. “First, is Stan Victor. Mr. Victor left Chelsea last night with a broken nose and some three-inch galvanized framing nails in his wrist. His partner, Roderick Floyd, left in a coroner’s van.” In red marker she printed DECEASED in all caps. “These are the two men Rook, Detective Feller, and I encountered at the flophouse rented by Fabian Beauvais. A third, who also died at the scene, was one Nicholas Bjorklund.”

  She posted a third picture, too, beside the others: a photo ID of the man she had claw hammered. She printed DECEASED in red under him, too, and then went back to the podium to refer to notes. All eyes followed her, mindful and—in spite of chafed feelings—respectful of her ordeal battling those formidable men.

  “All three have similar profiles,” she said and flipped open her notes. “All were late thirties, all were career military. Victor distinguished himself by receiving a dishonorable discharge in Iraq, citing sadism and cruelty to a Republican Guard prisoner. All three men returned to combat in Afghanistan and, perhaps, Pakistan as contractors—aka: mercenaries—until about a year ago when passport control shows they reentered the United States about the same time. Detective Rhymer. I’d like you to visit the last-known addresses for Victor, Floyd, and Bjorklund. CSU is already at all three places, dusting and tweezing. Make a pest of yourself.”