“You killed my mother. You lied about loving me. Take me out of my misery, you son of a bitch!”
“I’ll do it,” he said.
Nikki smiled and spread her arms before him, daring him to go ahead.
And then she heard the whine of a small power tool and metal grinding. Sparks showered down through the ventilation grate at the top of the stairway, falling into the dark tunnel like fireflies.
Petar turned to look at them.
Nikki made her move.
She threw herself toward him, leaping inside the danger circle of the gun on his right side. Her arms were already up from her “go ahead and shoot me” gesture, and as she brought her body next to his, her right hand was in position to lock onto his wrist to aim the gun away. At the same time, Heat brought her left elbow up over his shoulder and spiked it into his nose.
He cried out but managed to keep his grip on the pistol. Heat delivered a sharp knee to his quad. With her right hand still clamping his wrist, she wrapped her left on top of the Glock and began to twist the barrel inward to point back at him.
Petar must have had some combat training, too. He surprised her by suddenly dropping his butt to the floor, pulling her off balance. Nikki fell forward and hit the deck on top of him, still clutching his gun wrist, but her other hand had come free of the Glock.
He tried to head butt her nose. She slipped it and went for the gun again with her free hand, but he pulled it away.
She called out to Rook, but he couldn’t hear her over his grinding.
Nikki leaped back to her feet. Keeping her joint lock on his wrist, she yanked his arm to full extension and smacked it, trying to break the elbow. But Petar jerked his arm back defensively, just enough for her blow to hit his forearm instead. She didn’t disable the joint, but the punch did loosen his hold on the Glock. It dropped to the floor.
Heat dove for it, but the gun landed just beyond her reach, skimming across the deck. Scrambling to snatch it, she reached the edge of the platform just as the pistol tumbled over the side onto the tracks below.
She almost went over after it. But bright light grew in the tunnel. The train raced toward her, seconds away.
Heat shouted for Rook again.
The sparks continued to fall.
Petar got to his feet. He reached for her Sig Sauer in his waistband.
Nikki scoped the platform in the light from the train. No cover for her.
The Sig came out.
The train broke the mouth of the station.
Petar brought it up to aim.
Heat made a choice.
She dove over the side.
Nikki stretched herself out lengthwise and hunkered as flat as she could in the grimy ditch between the rails. In the two seconds before the lead car got to her, she flashed on news stories she’d seen on subway commuters who had fallen on the tracks and survived that way. And those who hadn’t; it all depended on the terrain.
Heat had never been in a tornado, but that’s what it felt like to her. A ten-car cyclone of howling wind and screaming steel. The ground quaked, her body shuddered. She screamed a scream that nobody heard.
On the hike to get there, Nikki had cursed the deep depression in the railroad bed. It had created an obstacle course, making her climb up and over the crossties. Now she hoped that trenching would save her life. She pressed her face hard against the soil and emptied her lungs to make her torso smaller. The tiny breath she dared take made her mouth taste of stagnant water and rust.
Unable to count the cars, they seemed to go on forever. Hundreds more than ten. Which car, she worried, would be the one with the protruding bolt that would carve her open? Or have the dangling loop of chain to snag her and decapitate her?
Then, sudden silence. Except for the grinding of Rook’s power tool, above.
Nikki didn’t wait. She rolled under the edge of the platform and looked for the Glock in the dim spill from Petar’s Maglite. She swept the area but couldn’t see the gun. Only more plastic soda bottles and old spray cans left by taggers.
The flashlight beam hit the tracks. He was searching for her body.
Heat didn’t call to Rook again. She scrunched herself further underneath the lip of the platform and waited quietly. The concrete felt cold on her back where her flesh touched it. The bottom of one of the cars must have sliced her coat and blouse.
The light grew more intense directly in front of her. That put Petar right over her head. “Nikki?” he said tentatively. She had never hated the sound of her name so much as in his mouth just then. Heat readied herself. Made sure of her footing. Waited for his next “Nikki,” and then sprung.
She popped up and twisted to square herself with Petar where he knelt, peering over the edge of the platform, and sprayed his eyes with aerosol paint. He screamed and put his hand to his face, dropping his flashlight but not the Sig. Nikki tossed the spray can and reached up for him with both hands. Clawing him by the shirtfront, she hauled him over the side, letting go of him midair. He landed shoulder-first on the railroad bed and screamed again.
Nikki went for him, reaching for her handcuffs, but he rolled over onto his back and swung a beer bottle at her. It connected with her jaw hard enough for her to see stars. She staggered back, dazed, and sat down clumsily, just breaking her fall by putting one hand behind her.
Petar got up. His hands were empty. He wanted the Sig. Nikki had heard it hit the ground when he landed but couldn’t see it in the bad light, either.
He tried to boost himself up on the platform to get his flashlight, but it was too high. Petar had gotten to the metal ladder but had only cleared two rungs when she grabbed him again to pull him back down with her. He didn’t resist. Instead, he tried to pile drive her, letting himself be pulled and falling on top of her.
When they landed in a heap, he didn’t go for the ladder again. He tried to make a run for the station at 96th.
Without good light, he misjudged the height of the crossties and tripped, once again, landing between the rails. He hauled himself up to his feet but too slowly. Nikki hopped on him, throwing a blindside tackle. He spun himself on the way down, making her take the brunt of the landing. The wind got knocked out of her, and she ached for air so she could go after him. But he wasn’t running. Petar had her by the lapels of her coat. He was dragging her. When Heat turned her head and could see where, she was inches from the third rail.
In seconds he would drop Nikki on it and she’d take six hundred fifty volts.
Heat kicked a leg up into his crotch. They were too close together for her to generate the swing power to drop him, but it hurt enough to make him moan and loosen his grip. The back of her head hit the ground an inch from the hot rail.
He staggered away.
A downtown express was coming on the center rails. Petar started for those tracks. He was going to try to beat it across and put the train between them to give himself a chance to get away. Nikki stopped him before he got there.
She slammed a fist behind his ear and his knees buckled. He grabbed a metal beam with one hand to support himself and used it to swing his body around to strike back. But his own momentum carried him into her next blow, a fist to the temple. His eyelids fluttered and he started to lose balance.
The express train was fast approaching behind him. Heat pulled him up and slammed him against the steel beam. He took a looping swing at her. She tilted her head to dodge it and hit him with another punch in the nose. And then another. Blood gushed out his nostrils, mixing with the blue spray paint on his face.
As the telltale rush of wind from the oncoming train pushed into the tunnel, he lolled his head north, turned glazed eyes over his shoulder at the approaching headlight, and then back to her with resignation. He regarded her with the look of a man prepared to receive his fate. They both knew there were no witnesses.
This perfect moment was Heat’s chance to avenge her mother. The stuff of both dreams and nightmares.
Nikki gathered him up by his armpi
ts and yanked him clear of the post, balancing him on weak legs as the first car broke the entrance to the Ghost Station.
He closed his eyes and waited for the push.
But when the speeding train got there, she threw him to the ground away from it. With his face in a puddle in the ditch, Nikki pulled his hands behind his back. She said, “Petar Matic?” And then Detective Heat paused before she gave voice to the words she had waited a decade to speak. “I am arresting you for the murder of Cynthia Heat.” She swallowed hard and continued, “You are also under arrest for the murder of Nicole Bernardin.”
After she put the cuffs on her prisoner and read him his rights, Heat looked up, choking back tears, and saw that Rook was still sawing at that bolt. Nikki took a moment to wipe her eyes and watch the sparks fly.
In spite of the late hour, when Heat stepped into the Observation Room on her way into Interrogation One, she found that, in addition to Rook, a small audience of detectives had come in to the precinct that night. Roach had made the trip, as had Rhymer and Feller. Malcolm and Reynolds would have been there, but they were still on Staten Island working Carter Damon’s van with Forensics. She felt all their eyes on her. They knew what this arrest meant. They also knew the ordeal she had suffered through that night, and this was a turnout for their team leader. But cops being cops, the show-up itself was the message of support. They weren’t going to express any sentiment.
To make sure of that, Ochoa said, “Real nice of you to get dolled up for us, Detective. Special.”
Heat resembled the cover of one of those commando video games. She hadn’t changed clothes, plus her face and hands were scuffed and filthy. In the hallway coming from the bull pen she had pulled a wad of grape chewing gum from the back of her hair. “Been a tad busy.”
Nikki stepped up to the magic window to look in on Petar Matic, who sat alone, in shackles, at the conference table on the other side. “Surprised you didn’t waste the asshole when you had the chance,” said Detective Feller. “Him and you? Nobody would ever know.”
“I would. Besides, he’s worth more alive. I want to know the whole story. Everything he did. Everyone he worked with. Who else he might have killed.”
“And where’s Tyler Wynn,” said Rook.
“Especially that.”
When Heat went into the box and sat across from Petar, she could see the fight all over him, too. The only difference was he’d been changed into jailwear. He bore more than his share of cuts, bruises, caked dirt, and dried blood. He even still wore the stripe of blue paint Nikki had tagged his face with. In his orange coveralls, he looked like he’d gotten ejected from a Florida Gators game.
The two stared at each other in frosty silence. Nikki didn’t like what she saw. Not just that she saw the man who had stabbed her mother to death and killed at least one other woman. Or that she saw the ex-lover who had called their relationship a job, merely a means to an end. What Nikki didn’t like was in the eyes. His submissive, resigned, defeated eyes from his takedown in the subway were history. Petar Matic had always been a strategic thinker, and his eyes told her he had done some brainstorming since they brought him up from the tunnel in handcuffs.
“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” he said.
“A lot of people around here think the same thing.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I’m not the jury. I’m just the cop. At the end of the day, I have to stand for something. You do, too. We both know what that is.”
“The ever-righteous Nikki Heat. Saint and soldier.” He leaned forward over the table and smiled. “Too bad lover doesn’t make the list.”
When she felt her face flush, Nikki reminded herself to separate. Petar was going to try for any leverage he could get, especially messing with her head to gain an advantage. She tried to ignore the emotional stab-and the fact that, even if her squad had left the Ob Room to work the assignments she had just given them, Rook stood on the other side of that mirror. She drew a slow breath to get her focus back. “Tell me exactly when you got the contract to kill Cynthia Heat.”
“Very good. So professional to depersonalize. Your specialty.”
“Who approached you about it?”
“See? You remain focused on the work, as always.”
“I want some answers.”
He grinned. “I want a deal.”
“You don’t have anything to deal with. I already know you killed my mother and Nicole Bernardin.”
“Says who?”
“You.”
“When?”
“Tonight in the subway.”
“Prove it.”
Petar smiled his grin again, only bigger and more self-assured. It was the attitude she had seen in his eyes when he’d disarmed her earlier in the night’s drama. It was the arrogance that had made her consider killing him then. For a moment, as she knew she might from that day on, she wondered if she should have.
They both knew that this interrogation was not perfunctory. As a homicide detective, Heat recognized that any case required solid proof for the DA. Which was why she had just assigned detectives to search Petar’s apartment as well as his office at the TV show he worked for. In addition, they’d run his entire life through a sifter for any evidence they could find. And that was just the start.
But Petar was trying to seed her with doubt. Nobody else had heard him admit to the murders any more than anyone else would know if she had shoved him in front of that train. If she couldn’t find physical proof that would stand up in court, Petar Matic would walk. Keenly aware of those stakes, he played his ace card. “I have something you want, you know.”
If she blinked and showed interest she would lose ground, and that could be the beginning of the unraveling of this case. So Heat remained stoic. She betrayed no tells and said nothing.
“And maybe it’s not just information about your mother’s killing. Or the other one.” He tossed it off as if these murders were just inventory items to be noted then dismissed from reflection. “Something is coming. It’s big and it’s bad. This has been in the works for ten years-if that period creates a context in any way for you.” His allusion to the decade that bookended the two stabbings was his way of teasing her interest without admitting guilt. Petar was smart. Nikki had to be smarter.
Without taking the negotiation bait, she said, “If you know Something about a pending crime, you are obligated to share that information.”
“Sound advice, Detective. Maybe I will.” He flashed her his arrogant grin again and said, “I guess that depends on the right arrangement.”
Irons was in the Ob Room with Rook when she came through the air lock from Interrogation. The captain rushed over to Nikki. “You’re not really going to bargain with this creep, are you?”
Heat glanced up at the wall clock. “What are you doing here after midnight, Captain?”
“I heard you nabbed our man and I wanted to be here.” She noticed he was freshly shaved and dressed in his duty uniform, with extra starch in the white shirt. Wally had taken time to get himself camera-ready. “You’ve got him to rights, don’t you?”
“Not that simple. He told me he murdered both victims, but it’s my word against his, unless we button him down hard. Even beyond that, there are things we need to know that his cooperation will bring to light.”
Irons scoffed. “Sure. And long as you’re letting him call the tune, why don’t you just spring him?” And when he remembered who else was in the room, he said to Rook, “Don’t print that.”
“Never heard it, Captain.”
“Petar is not going to spring anywhere, sir. I just think the prudent course is to take a breath, bide our time, and confer with the DA first thing in the morning.”
Irons said, “You just want to drag this out so you can satisfy your own personal curiosity about every little detail and loose end about your mother.”
Heat said, “Listen to me, Captain, nobody wants to see this guy sent away forever more than I. B
ut that means getting it right so he doesn’t walk because someone got hasty and sloppy. We have him. Our job now is to make it stick.” Irons started to interrupt, but she plowed right over him. “And what if he’s not posturing? What if he does know something that will help us arrest conspirators and prevent someone else from getting killed? Do you call that just a loose end?”
She didn’t wait for Irons’s permission. Nikki opened the door to the hallway where a pair of uniforms waited on post. “Take my prisoner down to Holding.”
It felt like any normal workday in the bull pen, except it was coming up on two A.M. on the biggest night of Heat’s career as a detective. Nikki had Ochoa hitting the phones, extending her initial APB on Tyler Wynn to CIA, DHS, and Interpol, as well as making sure the spy’s name and image made all airport checkpoints plus Amtrak police and Port Authority PD. She’d sent Feller and Rhymer to search Petar’s apartment with special instructions to quarantine all documents, receipts, photos, and computer data. Detective Hinesburg was MIA again, so Heat put Detective Raley on scrubbing those OCME security tapes that had been sitting around to see if they could get a face to go with the gas truck driver who’d sabotaged the toxicology test. No detail of the case existed in isolation for her anymore. Every thread they could eventually connect to Petar would keep him from walking.
Rook came over to Nikki’s desk when she hung up her phone. “Malcolm and Reynolds checked in while you were on your call, so I took the message for you. Let’s see if I got all this. They said they’re glad you’re not dead… At least I think that’s what they said.” He shrugged. “Oh, well. And then they gave me an update on the Forensics work at Carter Damon’s storage unit. How’m I doing?”
“Ass like yours, you could be my personal secretary anytime. What’s up with the van?”
“They found a set of work boots in it. Size eleven, same as the kind that stomped through Nicole’s apartment. Lab will check them for a carpet fiber match.”
Nikki moved over to the Murder Boards, where she made a notation for the boots next to the other data for the Bernardin apartment. “What else?”
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