Heat Wave

by Richard Castle

  “Bitch.”

  “You know it,” she said with a smile. He turned his head away and just sat there. “So much to talk about.”

  Ochoa spoke from the living room. “Detective Heat?” Raley came in to take her place with the prisoner as Nikki excused herself.

  Buckley looked at Rook and said, “What are you staring at?”

  “A man in deep doo-doo.”

  Ochoa stood at the far end of the couch, where the liquor cabinet door was open. He pointed inside and said, “I found this stashed in here behind the peppermint schnapps and gin bottles.” With his gloved hand, he held up a camera. An expensive, high-quality digital SLR.

  “Check it out.” He turned the camera body upside down so she could read the tiny rectangular inventory label with the bar code and serial number on the bottom. And the print above the code read, “Property of Sotheby’s.”

  FIFTEEN

  Jameson Rook stood in the precinct Observation Room staring in at Interrogation, where Gerald Buckley waited, fully involved in picking his nose. The door opened and closed behind Rook. Nikki Heat glided up to his elbow and looked through the window with him. “Charming,” she said.

  “Know what’s worse? I can’t look away.” Indeed, Rook kept watching as he said, “Don’t they know people are watching them on the other side of that mirror? And the guy’s got to want it, manacled like that.”

  “Are you quite done?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sotheby’s confirms the serial number as Barbara Deerfield’s camera. The memory chip is full of shots she took of Starr’s art collection.”

  “Taken that morning?” he asked. “The shots will be time stamped.”

  “Ooo, scary good. Somebody’s catching on.” He took a small bow and she continued. “Yes, from the morning of. Raley’s copying all the photos to his hard drive.”

  “Raley, the new king of all media.”

  “I believe that would be czar.”

  “So that means Buckley was either there when she was killed, or he got her camera from Pochenko after.” He turned to her. “Or am I offending your methodical ways with my reckless speculation?”

  “No, actually, I’m right there with you this time, writer boy. Either way, that camera connects Buckley and Pochenko.” She moved toward the door to Interrogation. “Let’s see if I can get him to say how.”

  She was just reaching for the door when Ochoa came in from the hall. “His lawyer just got here.”

  “You know, I thought I heard the garbage truck.”

  “You may have a little time. Somehow her briefcase got lost when she was coming through security.”

  “Ochoa, you dog.”

  “Woof.”

  Buckley sat upright when Detective Heat came in, a sign he knew this wasn’t the foreplay interview he’d had in that very room earlier. He tried to wear a look of defiance, but his concentration on her, trying to get a reading of how deep this shit was, told Nikki he could be had at some point. Maybe not in this meeting, but he’d fall. Once she saw that look, they all toppled, eventually.

  “The bitch is back,” she said and then eased into her chair. Nikki was in a hurry. The lawyer would be there too soon, she knew that. But she had to play the poker game. Buckley’s tell gave him away; she wasn’t about to level the playing field by letting her impatience show. So she sat back with her arms crossed like she had all the time in the world. He did his nervous mouth lick. Soon as she saw the dry tongue squeegee across the gums, she began.

  “Would you be offended if I said you don’t strike me as the art thief type? I could see you doing a lot of things, dealing drugs, stealing a car, dine-and-dash. But masterminding a multimillion-dollar art heist? Sorry, I’m just not seeing it.” The detective sat up and leaned toward him. “You put out the call for Doc the Biker to get a crew up for the burglary, but somebody had to call you first, and I want to know who that was.”

  “Where’s my lawyer?”

  “Gerald. You ever watch those infomercials where they say special limited time offer, so act now? With the shit storm you’re facing, we’re in that zone now, you and I.” His eyes were flicking but he wasn’t budging yet. She pressed him from another angle. “Of course, you don’t see a lot of those infomercials. Mostly, they’re on late at night and that’s your usual door shift.”

  He shrugged. “You know that, everybody knows that.”

  “But it leads me to wonder. As we went over the surveillance video from the Guilford the day of Matthew Starr’s murder, we saw you were there in the early afternoon.”

  “So, I work there.”

  “That’s what I thought when I saw you on video the other day. But recent events have me looking at your presence in a whole new light.”

  “Hey, I did not kill Mr. Starr.”

  “I’ll make a note of that.” She flashed a smile and dropped it. “I’m wondering about something else, and you’re just the guy to ask. You didn’t by any chance help anybody into the building during your off-the-clock visit, did you? I know there’s a locked access door on the roof. Is it possible you opened it up for somebody when you were hanging around at about 12:39 P.M.?”

  There were two light knocks on the door. Damn, Ochoa signaling the attorney.

  “Gerald? Limited time offer.”

  A woman’s muffled rant seeped through from the Ob Room. “Sounds like my lawyer,” said Buckley.

  Sounds like a dental drill, thought Nikki. “Well? Did you let someone in from the roof?”

  There was an air suck as the door opened. Ochoa came in with a brittle woman in a mud-colored suit. She reminded Nikki of someone who would hold up the grocery line insisting on a price check for parsley. The woman said, “This is not appropriate.”

  Nikki ignored her and pressed on. “Where did you get the camera?”

  “Don’t answer that.”

  “I’m not.”

  With the attorney as room monitor, Heat shifted to a new tack. She stopped looking for answers and started planting seeds. “Did Pochenko give it to you as a gift in exchange for the favor?”

  “My client has nothing to say.”

  “Or did you rip the camera off from him? Pochenko’s not the kind of guy you rip off, Gerald.”

  “Detective, this interview is over.”

  Nikki smiled and stood up. “There’ll be others.” And she stepped out.

  Shortly after Roach clocked out for the day, Nikki heard Rook amble up behind her chair and watch her computer slide show of the pictures from Barbara Deerfield’s camera. The photography was not the best. Straight-on flat shots of every painting snapped in pairs, one in natural light followed by a twin but using flash.

  “Clearly these were for internal reference only. You wouldn’t put them in a brochure or on the Web site,” she said.

  “So these were like her notes from the meeting with Matthew Starr.”

  “Right. And Lauren, my, what did you call her—my ghoul friend—called and confirmed her time of death as sometime around noon that same day.” Nikki continued to click through each of the shots.

  Rook must have read her mood, because instead of a victory gloat, he watched silently for a while. But only a while, before he said, “Are you free tonight?”

  She continued to click the mouse, maintaining a cadence, enjoying her private art show, or looking for clues, or both. “I’m going to be working tonight.”

  “This is work. How would you like to meet New York’s greatest art thief? Well, retired art thief.”

  A tiny thrill buzz hit Nikki and she spun around to face him. “Casper?”

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him. I read the profile you did on him for Vanity Fair a few years ago.” She regretted it the moment she said it. But it was out there now.

  “You read my article?”

  “Rook, I read. I read a lot of stuff. Don’t get yourself in a lather.” She was trying to downplay it, but she’d shown her hand.

  “Anyway,” he sai
d, “I was thinking if someone’s trying to move art in this city, Casper would know.”

  “And you can arrange for me to meet him?”

  Rook hit her with a faceful of mock disdain.

  “Right,” she said, “what was I thinking? You’re Mr. First-name-basis.”

  He got out his cell phone and scrolled through the contacts. Without looking up at Nikki, he said, “That Vanity Fair piece was five years ago. And yet you remembered it?”

  “It was good. Informative.”

  “And you remembered I wrote it?”

  “…Yes.”

  Then he looked up at her. “Informative.”

  In the ghetto of antiques galleries south of Union Square, a dictionary’s toss from the Strand Bookstore, Heat and Rook approached a single glass door between a Shaker furniture house and a rare maps shop. An eye-level door sign in 1940s style gold leaf read, “C. B. Phillips—Fine Acquisitions.” Nikki reached to press the buzzer embedded in the metal frame. “I wouldn’t do that,” said Rook.

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t insult the man.” He held up a forefinger to say, Wait a sec. It was actually two seconds before the buzzer sounded. Rook said, “He’s Casper. He knew, he always knows,” and pushed the door open.

  They climbed a flight of polished blond hardwood stairs through a mellow downdraft, the ghost scent of an old public library. At the landing, Nikki took in the room and was reminded of one of the Truths of New York City: You can never tell from the door what’s behind a door.

  The hushed showroom of C. B. Phillips Fine Acquisitions sat one flight of stairs from Broadway but was a time journey across latitudes, to a vast drawing room empty of people and teeming with dark, heavy furniture in velvets, and needlepoints lit low below the tasseled maroon shades of small table lamps and muted ochre wall sconces. Clubby artworks of maritime scenes, bulldogs in military dress, and cherub architects adorned walls and carved mahogany easels. Nikki looked up and was staring at the pattern of the vintage stamped tin ceiling, when the soft voice right beside her made her jump.

  “It’s been too long, Jameson.” His words were whiskey soft, carried on candle smoke. In it, there was a hint of Euro-somewhere she couldn’t pinpoint but found pleasant. The dapper old man turned to her. “I apologize if I startled you.”

  “You came out of nowhere,” she said.

  “A knack that has served me well. Leaving as quietly, that’s a diminishing talent, I’m sorry to say. It has led to a comfortable retirement, though.” He gestured to his showroom. “Please, after you.” As they crossed the thick oriental rug, he added, “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a police detective.”

  Nikki paused. “I never said I was a detective.” The old man simply smiled.

  Rook said, “Wasn’t sure you’d see me if I told you that, Casper.”

  “I probably wouldn’t have. And it would have been my loss.” From anyone else it would have been a laughable bar pickup line. Instead, the dashing little man made her blush. “Have a seat.”

  Casper waited until she and Rook took places on a navy corduroy sofa before he folded into his green leather wing chair. She could see the outline of a sharp kneecap through his linen trousers when he crossed his legs. He wore no socks and his slippers looked custom-made. “I have to say, you’re every bit what I pictured.”

  “She thinks my article made you sound debonair,” said Rook.

  “Oh, please, that old label.” Casper turned to her. “It’s nothing, trust me. When you reach my age, the definition of debonair is that you shaved this morning.” She noticed that his cheeks gleamed in the lamplight. “But one of New York’s finest doesn’t have time to come here simply to visit. And since I’m not wearing bracelets and being read my rights, I can safely assume my past hasn’t caught up with me.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” she said. “And I do know you’re retired.” He answered with a little shrug and opened a palm, perhaps hoping she’d believe he was still an art thief and cat burglar. And, in fact, he convinced her at least to wonder.

  “Detective Heat is investigating an art theft,” Rook said.

  “Rook tells me you’re the one to talk to about major art sales in the city. On or off the books.” Again, he answered with the shrug and hand wave. Nikki decided the man was right, she didn’t have the inclination to sit and visit, and dove in. “During the blackout someone burglarized the Guilford and stole the entire Matthew Starr collection.”

  “Ho, I love it. Calling that glorified hodgepodge a collection.” He shifted and recrossed his bony knees.

  “Good, then you are familiar with it,” she said.

  “From what I know, it’s not a collection at all so much as a Cobb salad of vulgarity.”

  Heat nodded. “Similar comments have been made.” She handed him an envelope. “These are copies of photos of the collection made by an appraiser.”

  Casper shuffled through the prints with undisguised disdain. “Who collects Dufy together with Severini? Why not add a toreador or a clown on black velvet?”

  “You can keep those. I was hoping you could look them over or show them around, and if you hear of anyone trying to sell any of the pieces, let me know.”

  “That’s a complex request,” said Casper. “One side of that equation or another could involve friends of mine.”

  “I understand. The buyer doesn’t interest me so much.”

  “Of course. You want the thief.” He turned his attention to Rook. “Times haven’t changed, Jameson. They still want the one who took all the risk.”

  Rook said, “Difference here is that whoever did this probably did more than steal art. There’s a possibility of a murder, maybe two.”

  “We don’t know that for a fact,” Heat said. “Just to be honest.”

  “My, my. A straight shooter.” The elegant old thief gave Nikki a long look of appraisal. “Very well. I know an unorthodox art merchant or two who might be of service. I’ll make some inquiries as a favor to Jameson. Plus it never hurts to pay forward a bit of goodwill with the gendarmerie.”

  Nikki bent over to pick up her bag and started to thank him, but when she looked up he was gone.

  “What’s he talking about?” said Rook. “I think he still makes a great exit.”

  Nikki stood in the precinct break room staring through the observation window of the microwave at the spinning carton of barbecued pork fried rice. Not for the first time, she reflected on how much time she spent in that building observing through windows, waiting for results. If it wasn’t into interrogation rooms at suspects, it was into microwave ovens at leftovers.

  The chirp sounded and she took out the steaming red carton with Detective Raley’s name Sharpied on two sides, triple exclamation points included. If he really meant it, he would have taken it home with him. And then she thought about the glamour of the cop’s life. Finishing off the workday with more work, eating a dinner of leftovers that aren’t even your own.

  Of course, Rook had tried to press for an evening. The obvious advantage of his generous offer to engage Casper was that the meeting ended at dinnertime, and even on a humid, uncomfortable night, there was nothing like sitting outdoors at the Boat Basin Café with some baskets of char-grilled burgers, a galvanized bucket of Coronas planted in shaved ice, and a view of the sailboats on the Hudson.

  She told Rook she had a date. When his face started to rearrange, she told him it was in the bull pen with the whiteboard. Nikki didn’t want to torture him. Yes, she did, just not like that.

  In the after-hours quiet of the bull pen, without phones or visits to interrupt her, Detective Heat once again contemplated the facts laid out before her on the landscape of the jumbo porcelain enamel board. Just half a week ago she had sat in this very chair with the same late night view. There was more information for her to look at this time. The board was filled with names, timelines, and photographs. Since her previous night of silent deliberation two more crimes had gone down. Three, if you counted the
assault on her by Pochenko.

  “Pochenko,” she said. “Where did you Pochenk-go?”

  Nikki went meditative. She was anything but mystical, but she did believe in the power of the subconscious. Well, at least hers. She pictured her mind as a whiteboard and erased it. Clearing herself, she became open to what sat before her and whatever patterns formed in the evidence so far. Her thoughts floated. She batted stray ones away and stuck to the case. She wanted an impression. She wanted to know what spoke to her. And she wanted to know what she’d missed.

  She let herself travel, gliding above the days and nights of the case using the big board as her Fodor’s. She saw Matthew Starr’s body on the sidewalk and revisited Kimberly surrounded by art and opulence in her faux-preppie grief, saw herself interviewing the people in Starr’s life: rivals, advisors, his bookie and Russian enforcer, his mistress, doormen. The mistress. Something the mistress said pulled her back. A nagging detail. Nikki paid attention to nags because they were the voices God gave to clues. She stood and went to the board and faced the mistress info she had posted there.

  Office romance, love letter intercepted, top performer, left the company, muffin shop, happy, no motive. And then she looked to the side. Nanny affair?

  The former mistress had seen Matthew Starr in Bloomingdale’s with a new mistress. Scandinavian. Nikki found Agda personally inconsequential and, more importantly, properly alibied for the murder. Yet what was that nag?

  She put the empty Chinese take-out carton on Raley’s desk and slapped a Post-it note to it, thanking “Raley!!!” and taking perverse glee in her triple exclamations. Underneath, she wrote another note to bring in Agda for a 9 A.M. chat.

  There was a blue-and-white from the One-Three parked outside her apartment when she got there. Detective Heat said hi to the officers inside it and went upstairs. She didn’t call her captain to wave it off that night. Barbara Deerfield’s neck bruises were fresh in her mind. Nikki was exhausted and ached for sleep.