High Heat

by Richard Castle

  “So she was kidnapped from somewhere in Ohio?”

  “Possibly. Or Lorain was just a convenient stopping point. Lorain is near the interstate. She could have driven anywhere from there.”

  Heat’s expression as she pondered this looked as if she were sucking on a lemon.

  “Was the rental car returned?” Heat asked.

  “Negative.”

  “All right. Contact Ohio State Police and have them put a BOLO on the rental car.”

  “Already did it,” Raley said. “Nothing so far.”

  “Well, since we’re bothering our friends in flyover country already, why don’t you e-mail a photo of Tam to Lorain PD?” Heat said. “Ask them to pass it around at Mutt and Jeff’s and the Jacka-whatever and see if anyone talked to Tam or had an inkling what she was up to.”

  “Will do,” Raley said.

  “And do you still have those printouts from the surveillance video taken outside the mosque?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Great. I’ll take them off your hands.”

  Raley walked over to his desk and lifted a manila folder.

  “There’s a few other items of interest in there, Captain. Muharib Qawi sent us some of what El-Bashir and Al-Aman posted on the Web. It’s…pretty startling.”

  He handed the folder to Heat.

  “Thanks. Opie?” Heat said, looking at Detective Rhymer. “Can I give you a job?”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  She nodded toward Roach. “Keep these two from killing each other while I’m gone. Feller?”

  “Yes, sir,” Feller said.

  “Show me to your suspects.”

  Hassan El-Bashir and Tariq Al-Aman had been placed in separate interrogation rooms—all the better to expose inconsistencies in their stories and then play them against each other. Heat started with El-Bashir.

  At least at one point, he had been less adherent to Islam. Maybe, Heat reasoned, that made him less radical now. And that, in turn, might make him easier to break.

  This much was clear: the young man standing in the corner with his hands cuffed was very different from the one who had sneered at an NYPD camera as a teenager. His chin was now covered in a bushy beard that would have made any Brooklyn hipster proud. His head was wrapped in a turban.

  There wasn’t much recognizable about him, except for the scowl. That hadn’t changed a bit.

  “Man, this is bullshit, I ain’t done nothing,” El-Bashir announced as soon as she entered the room.

  “Hello, Hassan, my name is Captain Nikki Heat. I’m the commander here at the Twentieth Precinct. Please have a seat. We need to talk.”

  “Fuck that,” El-Bashir said, still standing, now crossing his arms.

  “Look, Hassan, there are two ways this can go. One, you can have a seat and we can talk. Or, two, I can ship you right out to Rikers, where due to a paperwork slipup, we’ll put you in with the white supremacists and accidentally mention that you’re a terrorist who cut off a pretty white girl’s head. Maybe we’ll even show them the video, just to see if it gives them any ideas. Up to you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Okay. Next bus leaves for Rikers in about twenty minutes. Have a nice trip and pray all they do is pin you down and give you an Aryan Nations neck tattoo.”

  Heat stood up. El-Bashir sat down.

  “Good choice,” Heat said.

  “Look, I told this to the other guy: I didn’t do nothing. I don’t know nothing about this girl, or no beheading, or nothing like that. Just because I’m Muslim don’t make me a terrorist. Damn. I’m an American, just like you.”

  “No, you’re right, Hassan. Being a Muslim doesn’t make you a terrorist. This is what makes us think you’re a terrorist.”

  Heat pulled a sheet out of the manila folder Raley handed her and began reading:

  “‘I will cast terror into the hearts of those who disbelieve. Therefore strike off their heads and strike off every fingertip of them. Quran 8:12,’” Heat said. “That was what you wrote on Facebook on September eleventh, Hassan.”

  El-Bashir didn’t reply.

  “I’ve got another one, too,” Heat said, then read: “‘Oh, Prophet! Strive hard against the unbelievers and the hypocrites and be unyielding to them; and their abode is hell, and evil is the destination. Quran 9:73.’”

  Finally El-Bashir spat out: “That motherfucker.”

  “What are you talking about, Hassan?”

  “Imam Qawi gave that to you, didn’t he? He’s like a motherfuckin’ Muslim Uncle Tom.”

  “Maybe. But you’re still the one who wrote it on Facebook.”

  “Whether I did or I didn’t, that don’t make it illegal. Damn, ain’t you ever heard of freedom of speech?”

  “I have. I’ve also heard of surveillance cameras. Tell me about this.”

  Heat slid a still photo of Hassan El-Bashir just as he was entering Masjid al-Jannah.

  “That was taken around eleven o’clock Saturday night. We’ve got another one showing you leaving about two hours later.”

  “What, now it’s illegal to go to mosque at night?” El-Bashir growled.

  “No. But that just so happens to be the exact time that my medical examiner tells me our victim was killed. Care to explain that?”

  El-Bashir sat in stony silence.

  “Why Tam, anyway? Was it because of something she wrote? Something she was going to write?”

  El-Bashir continued staring straight ahead.

  “Hassan, none of this looks very good for you. We’ve got you at the crime scene at the time when the murder occurred. We’ve got our crime scene people crawling through your apartment right now. Maybe they’ll find the murder weapon, maybe they won’t. But there’s something I can guarantee you they will find. Tam Svejda lost an awful lot of blood when you chopped her head off and I don’t know if you know this about blood, but it gets everywhere. Even if you think you’ve cleaned it, it’s still there. So we’ll find some. And when we do, we’ll match it to Tam, and that will be it.”

  This animated El-Bashir again.

  “You ain’t gonna find shit, because I ain’t done shit,” he said defiantly. “Look, your boy showed me that video. I don’t know who those motherfuckers were, but it wasn’t me and Tariq. That don’t even sound like us.”

  “The voices were digitally disguised, Hassan.”

  “Yeah, but damn, we don’t talk like that. All that ‘imperial Yankee scum’ stuff. Yo, I’m from here. I root for the Yankees, okay? I cried the day Derek Jeter retired.”

  “Look, Hassan,” Heat said, folding her hands in front of her. “I’ll be honest. You’re in a world of trouble. And nothing is going to keep you out of prison for a long, long time at this point. But you really can make things better for yourself if you start cooperating. I’ve noticed something on that video, and it’s something that I think is going to help us both out.”

  El-Bashir didn’t reply. He was now looking at her with genuine curiosity.

  “You and Tariq keep looking just to the left of the camera. You’re looking at someone, aren’t you?”

  “Man, I keep telling you, that wasn’t—”

  “You’re going to tell me who that someone is, and it’s going to make both of our lives a lot easier. You tell me who was calling the shots and I’ll make sure you’re treated as well as possible. They have Muslim-only cell blocks. You’ll be safer there. You just tell me who made you do this, sign a confession, and I’ll make sure you’re treated with dignity.”

  El-Bashir stood back up. “Oh, no. No, no. Don’t you go talking about no confession. I read enough of those stories about black dudes who got put away for shit they didn’t do, and it always starts with a bullshit confession that they got tricked into signing. Nuh-uh. I ain’t playing that game. This is like some Twilight Zone shit here. Don’t you come near me with no motherfucking confession. This is being taped, right?”

  He started looking around wildly for a camera. “I didn’t sign no fuckin’ conf
ession, okay? You hear that? I ain’t confessing shit.”

  “Sit down, Hassan.”

  Just then, Feller broke into the room, half out of breath.

  “Captain, Captain,” he said. “We got a confession. Al-Aman confessed!”

  “He what?” El-Bashir burst out.

  “Shut up, shit bird, I ain’t talking to you,” Feller said, then turned back to Heat. “He admitted they had Tam at the mosque already on Saturday night, and that they were coming back to finish the job. He said he didn’t want to do it, but shit bird here made him. He said his roommate brainwashed him with Muslim mumbo jumbo and got his head all turned around. He also said shit bird was the one who did the cutting.”

  “Oh, my God, no way. No way. He’s lying. He’s lying!” El-Bashir screamed. He was now clutching his turban with both hands.

  “The only thing we haven’t gotten from him yet is whoever the big boss is,” Feller continued. “I guess whoever tells us first gets the best deal from the D.A., right?”

  “Yep,” Heat said. “That’s how it usually works.”

  “No, no. That is not how this works, because this is some bullshit! This is…I don’t know what y’all did to Tariq or what crazy pills you made him take, but he is lying! He is lying his fool head off. There’s no way you can believe him.”

  El-Bashir sat back down and leaned across the table, his eyes wide and wild.

  “Look, yes, we were in the mosque, okay?” he said. “We were there for two hours, it’s true. But all we were doing was Skyping. We don’t have Internet access in our apartment, so we use the computer at Masjid al-Jannah. Eleven o’clock New York time is six A.M. in Riyadh. There’s an imam there, he gets on the computer and talks with us after his morning prayers. But that’s it. All we did was talk. If you go on the computer and load up Skype, you’ll see he’s one of the contacts. You can ask him if you want or…I don’t know, can’t you check the computer and see when it’s been used to make calls or something? Please. I’m begging you.”

  “Sorry, shit bird. But even if you were Skyping, that doesn’t prove squat,” Feller said. “How do we know you didn’t just pull up that imam so he could tell you the proper Islamic way to behead someone? Or so he could watch your progress and give you critiques?”

  “Holy fucking shit,” was all El-Bashir could say.

  “Was that who you were looking at to the side of the camera, Hassan?” Heat asked. “Not an actual person but a computer monitor image of an imam in Saudi Arabia?”

  “That’s it,” El-Bashir said, standing up again. “Y’all are straight trippin’. It’s like everything I say, you just twist it like cops do. I want a lawyer. Right now. I want a motherfuckin’ lawyer.”

  Heat stared at him for a long moment. She was now on shaky ground legally. The interrogation was being recorded. The moment the suspect invoked his right to counsel, she had to stop the interview. She was aware of trials where everything, even righteous confessions, said after the suspect asked for a lawyer were later ruled inadmissible.

  “All right, Hassan,” Heat said. “If that’s what you want. Your lawyer will have to meet you at Rikers, of course. Because as far as I’m concerned this interview is over.”

  “Fuck yeah, it’s over,” he said. “I don’t care if Tariq has gone cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, you ain’t getting no bullshit confession out of me.”

  Heat stood up and followed Feller out of the room.

  “Good work on Tariq,” Heat said as soon as the door closed. “Is he working on the confession right now or has he already signed something?”

  “Are you kidding me? The only thing he’s said the whole time is ‘lawyer, lawyer, lawyer,’” Feller said. “I could tell Hassan was about to lawyer up, too. I figured the ol’ false confession trick was worth a try.”

  Heat just shook her head. “For what it’s worth, you even had me going for a second.”

  “I know,” Feller said, then smiled broadly. “Maybe I ought to talk to Rook’s mom about getting an agent. My talents are being wasted this far off Broadway.”

  Heat was about to make a joke about Feller’s future in Actors’ Equity when she heard a voice coming from the bull pen.

  It was a voice she knew all too well.

  “Jamie’s not here?” Yardley Bell was saying, sounding some combination of disappointed and put out. “Oh, that is such a pity. I really was looking forward to catching up with him.”

  Heat rounded the corner to see a slender, attractive brunette dressed in a sharply tailored pantsuit. Captain Heat and Department of Homeland Security Agent Bell were more alike than either woman would have wanted to admit. In addition to having the same coloring and build, they had the same professional ferocity and the same weakness for the substantial charms of Jameson Rook.

  Despite that source of antagonism and the natural antipathy that came from representing different levels of government, the women had overcome a contentious start to their relationship and forged a detente. So, at least in theory, Heat should not have been displeased to see Bell.

  Except Heat knew Bell hadn’t simply shown up at the Twentieth Precinct to exchange pleasantries with her and the other detectives. Nor was Bell curious about whatever her ex-boyfriend was up to.

  This had two possible endings. One went badly. The other went worse.

  “Hello, Agent Bell,” Heat said, feeling a sudden pressure in her sinuses as she spoke.

  “Oh, really, after all this time, it’s ‘Agent Bell?’ Honestly, ‘Captain Heat,’ I thought we were past that.”

  Bell was joined by two beefy agents who, between them, had perhaps half a neck. That confirmed for Heat everything she needed to know. There was only one reason why a Department of Homeland Security Agent would show up at the Twentieth Precinct with two agents—and probably an SUV parked outside.

  “You’re not taking my suspects, Yardley,” Heat said, jamming her hands on her hips.

  Bell, who had obviously been hoping to soft sell the purpose of her mission, looked down at the carpet for a moment, almost like she was embarrassed for Heat.

  “Oh, Nikki, let’s not make this difficult. I’m afraid they’re not your suspects anymore.”

  “The hell they’re not. This is a murder. Since when is murder not the purview of the local jurisdiction?”

  “Sorry, but you’re not the only one who subpoenaed Tam Svejda’s credit card information, you know. We know she was in Ohio.”

  “You wouldn’t have even known the identity of the victim if it weren’t for us.”

  “You and the New York Ledger’s Web site,” Bell said. “Be that as it may, there is clear evidence the victim was transported across state lines, which makes it our case. Kidnapping makes it our case, too. Plus, these men were already on the Terrorist Watch List—their Facebook posts had gotten our agents’ attention. And this is an act of domestic terrorism, with potential ties to international terrorism. So that’s at least five ways in which these are now our suspects. Plus there are…diplomatic considerations.”

  “What does that mean?” Heat asked.

  “Let’s just say there are things ISIS might be willing to give us in exchange for the right prisoners.”

  “But they’re not even real ISIS,” Ochoa said. “They’re a couple of kids from New York.”

  “Yes, but ISIS hardly knows that, now do they?” Bell said. “Our operatives are already picking up chatter that the ‘New York video’—that’s what they’re calling it—has been very popular over there. The stars of that video could be viewed as a very valuable commodity.”

  “So, what, a prisoner exchange?” Heat said. “Two of ours for two of theirs?”

  “No, no,” Bell said. “The United States does not negotiate with hostage-takers. That’s a longstanding policy. If we broke that, it would be open season on Americans around the globe.”

  “What, then?” Heat asked. “What else could be worth not giving these two scumbags the punishment they deserve? Some American company that gives gene
rously to its federally elected officials gets to keep tapping some oil well over there?”

  Bell just smiled. “I’ve probably said too much already. All you need to know is that your government appreciates your cooperation. And your confidence.”

  “You’re saying we’re not only going to let two murderers go free, we’re going to keep our mouths shut about it?” Ochoa said, making a face like the thought of it hurt him even more than the slug the doctors had recently dug out of his posterior.

  “Welcome to the world of international relations, where you can have your morality in whatever color you like, so long as it’s gray,” Bell said.

  “Unbelievable,” Ochoa muttered.

  “Oh, and I almost forgot reason number six these guys are ours now,” Bell said, pulling two sheets of tri-folded paper out of the breast pocket of her suit coat. “We’ve got a judge’s order. Habeas corpus. That’s Latin for ‘seize the body,’ you know. In English, it means ‘sorry, Nikki, you’re going to have to turn them over.’”

  Bell held the papers between two fingers. Heat stalked over and snatched them. Sure enough, it was an order issued by a federal judge from the Eastern District of New York.

  Heat frowned at it, some combination of furious and impotent, knowing there was little she could do to fight it. No matter what a judge had to say about it, she had no intention of stopping work on this case. Not as long as Rook was still in danger. Not as long as she still suspected there was a greater threat out there, one that went beyond two New York kids who got some twisted ideas about Islam in their heads.

  But if she even tried to escalate a local vs. federal turf war right now, it would result in a phone call from The Hammer, who would casually mention that he had just come from the commissioner’s office, where everyone was pleased this was no longer the NYPD’s problem. And, oh, by the way, how were her CompStat numbers looking?

  “You should know, the Department of Homeland Security greatly appreciates the solid work of the NYPD,” Bell said, as if the case were already wrapped up. “You really did a great job identifying the victim and the place where the crime was committed. We’ll be sure to mention that when we announce the charges. We’ll even let you stand in the background at the press conference if you’d like. It’d be nice to have someone from the NYPD near the podium anyway. The taxpayers do love to see interagency cooperation.”