Raging Heat

by Richard Castle

  “So you found a bullet? How long did it take you?”

  “About nine hours. Dug this one out of the banister on the steps to the deck of the rec center. Detective Aguinaldo found a second one about an hour after she showed up.”

  “What? Rook, I talked to her, she never mentioned any of this.”

  “Because I made her promise to let me tell you. The one she found got nested in one of the shingles on the side of the building. Very soft wood, so that slug is pristine. She kept that one and sent it to the NYPD ballistics lab to run for you.”

  “Any sign of the gun?”

  “Boy, you want everything, don’t you?”

  “No, I’m good. In fact, this is one of the nicest gifts you could have given me.” ‘One of,’ she thought.

  “Comes at a price, though.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I want your trust. That’s what got me out of bed and driving a hundred miles to Conscience Point. To do what you would do. Follow the leads where they go, and let the truth be told.” He jiggled the bullet in the bag. “And even if I hadn’t found this, don’t you know you can always trust me?”

  “Yes, of course.” Nikki drew what felt like her first full breath of the day. “I am so glad this is behind us.” She rested a hand on his thigh and noticed he didn’t respond. “…It is behind us, isn’t it?”

  “I want back in the precinct. Divide and conquer’s one thing. But getting banished is how this weirdness got started.”

  Nikki threw “Boy, you want everything, don’t you?” back in his face. She chuckled alone. He still hadn’t taken her hand. “I’ll talk to Captain Irons about letting you back in.”

  “Good.” And Rook stood. “Let me know when, and I’ll see you there.”

  “Seriously? Don’t you even want to get some dinner tonight?” He sucked in his lips, hesitating. “Rook, I thought we were moving forward from this.”

  “We are. I’m just not in the let’s-get-together-tonight place yet. Just being honest.” Much as that stung, she understood. To think otherwise was to minimize the impact of what she’d done. Heat thanked him for the bullet and walked back to the precinct with it.

  On her way up Amsterdam she turned and stopped, watching him walk the opposite way. How weary was Nikki of seeing his back?

  Heat woke up the next morning alone, and feeling every bit of it. Her alarm was still ten minutes from ringing, so she opened the app to kill it with extreme prejudice, and while she did, her phone rang in her hand, startling her. The caller ID said it was Detective Raley.

  “So. You do wake-up calls now, too?”

  “This will help you rise and shine. We found Opal Onishi.”

  The woman facing Nikki on the couch in Greenwich Village still had pillow marks on one side of her face. Opal Onishi balanced them out with the perplexed frown she gave Heat’s badge. “You said Homicide, right?”

  “That’s my division, yes.” Nikki didn’t want to tip her yet that she’d found her former address in the purse of a murder victim. She’d hold it back until she got answers to a few preliminaries without that grim spoiler coloring things. So Heat redirected the subject. “I just have a few questions to ask and I’ll be on my way. Sorry to wake you up on a Saturday morning.”

  “No problem. My roommate crashed with her boyfriend, so I was up anyway to feed her cat.”

  “Your roommate, Erika?” Nikki always did her homework.

  “Yeah, Erika. Is she in some kind of trouble? She’s not like a crazed killer like in Single White Female, is she?”

  Heat said, “No, actually we only know of Erika because she works with you at Location Location. That’s how we found you here at her place.”

  Opal, who was still in her mismatched Gap flannels from bed, cleared her throat and folded her legs, pulling her knees toward her chest. “You were looking for me?”

  “We tried you at your old apartment.”

  “Yeah, I moved out of there.”

  “Quite suddenly.”

  “Uh, right.” She lit a cigarette and waited for Nikki to say something, and when she didn’t, Opal filled the void. “Yeah, well, I had a bad breakup with my girlfriend. She was coming around all hours, you know, just being a bitch, so I…” Opal finished the thought by sliding one palm off another like a jet taking off from an aircraft carrier.

  “I know how that goes.” Heat poised her pen over her notebook. “May I ask your girlfriend’s name?”

  “Ex. Do you have to involve her? She’s an actress on a movie that’s filming in town.” Again, Heat left a space. Opal Onishi filled it with a woman’s name that Heat probably didn’t need but wrote down anyway. What she really wanted to know was why Jeanne Capois had her address and if it was relevant to the murders. And why the sudden move? Nikki didn’t buy the harassing-lover story at all, and picked at that.

  She appraised the living room of the East Village one bedroom, which was over-filled with cardboard cartons and stacked furniture. “Did you file any complaints against your girlfriend?”

  “With the police? Nah. I just moved.”

  “At midnight.”

  Opal seemed smart and came up with quick answers. Some might even be true. “It’s easier to double-park a cargo van then. No traffic.”

  Nikki decided to follow another course. “I’d like to show you a picture and ask if you can identify the person.” She placed an enlargement of the photo of Jeanne Capois on the coffee table. Opal stubbed out her cigarette and picked up the picture. Nikki couldn’t be sure if it was hesitation or simply an attempt at recollection, but she felt like it took a few seconds too long to answer.

  “…Jeanne.” She offered the picture back. “Jeanne.” Heat let her keep it.

  “Do you know her last name?”

  She pursed her lips and shrugged. “Sorry, but I only know her as Jeanne.”

  “And how do you know her?”

  Again, that fraction of waffling gained the detective’s notice. Opal said, “I hired her to clean. She’s a maid.”

  Heat noted her use of the present tense. But still, why all the mulling for simple answers? “May I ask when she did housekeeping for you?”

  “Gee, I’d have to think. I dunno, three weeks ago, last time?”

  “How did you hear about her?”

  A pause, then, “Through a service or something, yeah. I don’t remember the name.”

  Nikki offered, “Happy Hazels?”

  Quickly, this time, jumping at it, Opal said, “Yeah, that’s it. Happy Hazels.”

  This was all feeling improvised so Heat kept at it. “Did you pay her cash or check?” A long shot, but a paper trail from a check register might be useful.

  “Cash.”

  “How much?”

  “Wow, you bear down.” Then she searched the ceiling. “I guess, what, fifty bucks?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Fifty. Why are you asking about Jeanne?”

  “She’s a victim in a homicide investigation.” Heat watched her reaction, always crucial, but especially when there’s a sense of something being off. Opal Onishi’s face grew slack and she sat, staring into the middle distance. To Heat’s mind, a strong response, considering the hesitation at recalling her name.

  “Fuck…What happened to her?” Unguarded at last.

  Nikki kept it in simplest terms, for now. “Jeanne Capois was found beaten and strangled on the street uptown.” She turned to a blank page, wanting to take advantage of the openness shock always brought. “When Jeanne came to your place, did she mention any threats against her?”

  “No,” she said, low and dazed. She gave the same reply when she quizzed her about whether Capois seemed agitated, worried, or talked about being followed. Then Nikki brought out the photographs and sketches, She presented them, one at a time, to Opal, who had slid to a spot on the couch bes
ide her. The young woman shook her head to each one: Fabian Beauvais—no; the four mercs who had attacked Heat a block from Opal’s old apartment in Chelsea—no; the gangstas in the ATM shot—no; Keith Gilbert…Hesitation.

  “Opal, do you recognize him?”

  “Of course, he’s that politician. Kind of a dickwad, if you ask me.”

  “You have no other reason to know of him?”

  “No, why should I?”

  Heat smelled something here. Rather than jam her, she offered an escape hatch. “Opal, I talk to a lot of people in my job. And I sort of get a sense when someone is not being open with me.”

  “Are you accusing me of lying?”

  “I’m saying if there is anything you aren’t sharing, for any reason, this is the time to tell me.” She read her interviewee, sitting again with her back against the armrest of the couch with her knees pulled into an upright fetal position. “If you are afraid of someone, I can give you protection.”

  Opal Onishi digested that but said, “I answered all your questions, right?”

  At the door Heat gave her a business card. “In case you remember anything.” Or, she thought, watching her take it, if you decide to tell me why your hand is shaking.

  Rook met Heat on the sidewalk outside the precinct at nine that morning. “What did Wally say?”

  “Don’t worry about Wally, just come in.”

  “You threaten him? Maybe say I’ll do him dirty in the press?”

  “If you must know, I haven’t spoken to him. He’s not in yet. Look, don’t give me that face, this won’t be a problem. Trust me, I know how to handle Wally Irons.”

  Good enough for Rook. He held the door for her. But she didn’t budge so he closed it again. “What?”

  “Irons isn’t the only one who needs to be dealt with. I have a condition, too.”

  “Go on.…”

  “You have an article to write, and I will honor my commitment so you can keep riding along. But—I have enough stress without adding to it if you’re going to go around bruised or harboring an attitude.”

  “I hear you. And just you watch. I can be a team player. I can even still be your court jester.”

  “Good.” she said. “Now, we can hash our personal stuff out when all this gets settled. But, until then, Rook, I need to know we can move forward without any more drama.”

  “Are you telling me to behave myself?”

  She smiled. “See? We’re back to normal already.” Heat pulled the door open and went in. He shrugged then followed.

  It sure didn’t feel like a Saturday when they entered the Twentieth. Although Nikki and her homicide detectives worked plenty of weekends when the casework called for it, today the entire station house was in force, not just her section. In the Homicide Squad Room, the big TV on the wall was on, but muted. Raley, Ochoa, and Rhymer were on phones or working their computers. Occasionally one of them would glance up at the storm-track animations or to shake his head at the obligatory live shots of some poor correspondent getting pelted by sand and wind, or dodging palm fronds.

  While Heat updated the Murder Board, Rook stared at the crawl on the bottom of the screen beneath the silent video of the Office of Emergency Management team answering press questions from its Brooklyn HQ. The ribbon of text said Connecticut’s and New Jersey’s governors had joined the rest of the region in declaring states of emergency. The Jersey governor had gone so far as to order evacuations of the barrier islands from Cape May up to Sandy Hook, and to tell Atlantic City casinos to close by four Sunday afternoon. Amtrak canceled service on many of its East Coast routes. It was too soon to tell where the hurricane would make landfall, but Delaware, Maryland, and New Jersey seemed likeliest targets. New York’s mayor was holding off on evacuations pending more data, but expected Lower Manhattan to be most vulnerable to storm surge, especially Battery Park.

  “Not going to stop for a formal meeting,” said Heat to the group. “You guys are busy, and I don’t want to slow you down. Just a few quickies.” She summarized her meeting with Opal Onishi that morning. The feeling she left with was that she was hiding something and Nikki wanted to look deeper into her. When she told them about Rook and Detective Aguinaldo of Southampton Village PD recovering two slugs from a building at the Conscience Point Marina, Nikki got a big reaction, especially from Raley and Ochoa.

  “Could make me think twice now about Earl Sliney as the Beauvais shooter,” said Raley.

  “Me, too,” added his partner. “Not ready to give it up, but sounds like it could be righteous. Maybe.”

  Heat and Roach triangulated a moment of speechless reaffirmation, and all three appeared relieved to have tensions ease. Then she asked them to call the ballistics lab to set up a meeting for her later. “I want to be the squeaky wheel on the slug Inez Aguinaldo delivered there and to drop off the one recovered by Rook.”

  “Jameson Rook is…” boomed Ochoa in a hoarse TV promo voice, “The Bullet Whisperer.”

  Rook picked right up on it. “I see lead people.…”

  Their hissing and belittling of Rook—and his enjoyment of the crap they were giving him—made Heat happy that he could live up to his pledge not to harbor resentment. She brought things back to business, asking Opie about his attempt to lure Alicia Delamater out of hiding. Rhymer said he’d left The Surf Lodge party message as bait the afternoon before. Still no Alicia callback.

  Feller slid into the room. “Got something you might be interested in. Remember how Records came up with a prior on Fabian Beauvais?”

  “Yes,” said Heat. “It was from a while back. A misdemeanor trespassing bust for Dumpster diving. It’s top of mind because I’ve been trying in vain to connect with Beauvais’s so-called Gateway Lawyer, Reese Cristóbal, so he can put me in touch with the accomplices.”

  “Well, your favorite detective went all old school on ya. Real Time Crime Center came up with the last-known addresses you requested, so I went knocking on some pretty seedy doors.” He referred to notes. “OK, one miscreant…moved back to Jamaica ten days ago.”

  “Oh, ouch,” said Rook. “Just in time for the hurricane.”

  Feller tapped his notepad. “However, his other accomplice, Fidel “FiFi” Figueroa, is also going to get a taste of Sandy, because FiFi is here.”

  “Can we go see him?” asked Heat.

  “Be stupid not to.” Detective Feller gestured to the hall. “When I said here, I meant right here. He’s in Interrogation-Two.”

  “I was told there would be a reward of a monetary nature” were the first words of Fidel Figueroa when Heat and Rook entered the interrogation room. Feller, who was already in there leaning one shoulder against the wall behind the wiry man, simply shook no to Nikki.

  “Actually, although we value your cooperation, there is no reward, Mr. Figueroa.”

  “FiFi. Everybody calls me that.” He hooked two thumbs to indicate himself. “Fidel Figueroa. FiFi.”

  Rook said, “Wouldn’t that be Fih Fih?” The silent reproach of the entire room fell on him and he held up a surrendering palm. “But who am I to edit another man’s gangsta handle?”

  FiFi kept to his talking point. “So, no money?”

  Back when she was a uniform, Heat had arrested scores of guys like Figueroa, usually working street corners on Eighth Avenue off Times Square. If it wasn’t selling counterfeit sunglasses and handbags, it was running short cons like Find the Pea to fleece unwitting Nebraskans in a rigged game. They came in all sizes, shapes, ages, genders, and colors, but all shared the dodgy moves, quick eyes, and body ticks of the career hustler. And they were always seeking the elusive one-up. Even in a police department interrogation room. “Let’s call it banking one for good citizenship,” she said.

  The guest brushed his knuckles across the graying line of his chin strap beard then said, “Hey, worth a shot, huh?”

  “Why don’t you j
ust tell her what you know about Fabian Beauvais?” said Feller, pushing himself off the wall and looming over the grifter. Heat got a strong manifestation of Randall’s history as a street detective, knowing how to take physical intimidation right up to the line—and effectively.

  Fidel scooted his chair an inch away and cowered. “Sure thing, the Haitian. Smart dude, that guy. Rough life, but had the touch, you know?”

  “I don’t know,” came back Feller. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Nikki hoped the hustler wasn’t playing them because this was her first real opportunity to get a sense of her victim’s activities. Maybe FiFi would also give her some red meat, too. What that constituted, she would only know through careful listening. This bullshit artist gave her a lot to wade through.

  “He had astucia. Cleverness. Some guys grow up getting shit on, and all they get is mean.” He brought his forefinger just close enough to his thumb to make a crack to peek through. “These many, just this much, get clever instead. Fabby was new—maybe off the boat just a coupla months after the big quake. That’s when he joined our, um, enterprise.”

  “Picking through trash?” said Feller with a sniff. He took a seat on Figueroa’s side of the table and rested a boot on the man’s chair. This time FiFi didn’t shrink. On the contrary, he gave him a derisive side-glance.

  “You don’t know, man, you have no clue. You think we were like these hoboes or some shit? Fuck that, man. We were pickers. But not for cans and bottles.”

  This felt like it was heading somewhere. Nikki took the contradictory route, seeing now how conflict opened him up. “Well, what else do you call it, climbing into trash bins? I sure as hell wouldn’t call it an enterprise.”

  Rook fell in step. “No shit. An enterprise? That’s usually a business undertaking that calls for slightly more resourcefulness than fishing for empties to recycle.”

  “What about scoring hundreds of thousands? Millions. Would you call that an enterprise?”

  “I would,” said Heat. There were numerous ways to get a witness to talk. Intimidating, cajoling, inducing, begging. She read FiFi as a man who needed to boast. So she fed the hungry egotist. “And you personally know of such a thing?”