Deadly Heat (21 page)

“Nice to get away from the office,” she said, rubbing her toe against his leg under the table.

“Actually, it is.” He set down his glass and lowered his brow. “I miss the ‘us’ part of doing this.”

“We’re working together.”

“Yes and no. It feels more to me like parallel play instead of teamwork. You’re doing your thing, I’m off doing mine. I miss you. I miss our connection. I want it to be like old times. And by that, I mean a month ago.”

“Likewise. But welcome to police work. This is what you do when it all piles on—and why I flared at you earlier today. I’m sorry. However, the beach and the Janet Evanovich are still out there.”

“And the sex.”

“Count on that.” Both their cell phones were in front of them. She swept them aside with her forearm and patted the tabletop. “Right here. Wanna?”

“Detective, please,” he said in mock reproach. “You’re a marked woman. Behave.”

They ordered the grilled day boat scallops and a Colorado lamb cavatelli. While they shared plates, she recapped her visit to Quantum Recovery. After her rundown, he said, “You know what I can’t shake about this Joe Flynn murder?”

“Uh-oh. I know that tone. Do I hear the revving of the conspiracy engine?”

“You hear an inquisitive journalist with an open mind shining light on inescapable considerations. Like how Flynn’s murder just created an intersection of the two cases you’re working. Like how is it that Rainbow happened to find the link between you and Flynn?”

“Rook, did you seriously just call him Rainbow?”

“Hey, even a serial killer needs a brand. Anyway, my point is that the real connection may not be from Flynn to you, but from you to whatever this Tyler Wynn conspiracy is all about.” She smiled dismissively while she chewed a bite of scallop. “Don’t scoff, I’ve thought this through. Tell me it wouldn’t suit Tyler Wynn’s purposes to see you dead.”

“I’m going to ask the waiter if he can go in the kitchen to get some foil to make you a hat. Rook, it’s too convoluted. Kill four people just to get to me? Get real.”

“Curse you, logic,” he said. “Well, at least we discussed it.”

“Don’t feel too bad. I do agree with one thing. You ask a very smart question: How could Rainbow know Joe Flynn was connected to me?”

“Rainbow,” he said. “Catchy.”

After their dishes were cleared, she asked Rook if Yardley Bell had ever worked for Bart Callan. When he said he didn’t know, she told him about her interview with Algernon Barrett and the argument he said he witnessed with the woman who looked like a cop.

“First of all, is the Jamaican jerk your most reliable witness? And secondly, what would that mean, anyway? Is it your turn under the foil hat?”

They both got a chuckle out of that, but she said, “You never know what something means. You just gather what facts you can and hope they land, eventually.”

“Fair enough. Want me to ask her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Just don’t.”

He paused and said, “You could ask Agent Callan.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not? I know you and Bart are on speaking terms. Didn’t you two have cocktails while I was in France?” She eyed him, and he said, “Relax, I didn’t go all jealous. People have business meetings all the time over cocktails. Even at hideaway bars at the Carlyle.”

Nikki felt annoyed and a bit exposed but smiled and said, “But you didn’t go all jealous.”

The cell phone in front of him vibrated. The caller ID read, “Yardley Bell.” “Perfect,” said Heat. “Go ahead, take it.”

He picked up the phone but then handed it to her. “These must have gotten mixed up. This is your phone.”

When Nikki took it from him, the vibration pulsed all the way to her wrist. She pressed to accept and said, “This is Heat.”

“We found him.”

Nikki’s head swooned. She looked to her martini glass, which was still over half-full, and knew it wasn’t the cocktail. “Found whom?” The question sounded dumb to her as the words came out of her mouth—and, damn, sounding dumb to Yardley Bell, of all people—but Nikki sought grounding; she wanted to hear something concrete while she sat there with her vision tunneling and the world slowing down. She wanted to be sure.

Agent Bell said, “We’ve located Tyler Wynn. How soon can you and your people meet?”

An adrenaline surge swept through Heat, but she kept her head. Training trumped emotion, and she flipped the switch from exhilaration to logistics. Before she even got up from the table, she speed-dialed the radio dispatcher at the Twentieth and ordered up a blue-and-white to Code Two it to Boulud and meet her at the curb. This would not be the time to look for a cab.

As they rushed to the door, Nikki stayed on her cell to give Dispatch the list of detectives she wanted mustered to the staging area that Homeland Security had already established on the East Side. Heat didn’t have to do much thinking. She asked for everyone but Sharon Hinesburg.

At the same time, Rook put in a direct call from his phone to Detective Rhymer, whom he knew was still in the bull pen working their RFID detail. By the time he and Nikki hung up, the cruiser’s emergency lights strobed the block and its siren chirped as it cut a U-turn around the median on Broadway to pick them up.

Fewer than two minutes had passed since Bell’s call. To Heat, it felt like forever.

DHS had taken over East 57th and Sutton Place, an area that gave them a quiet residential cul-de-sac that terminated at a pocket park bordering the East River. Plenty of room for the Mobile Command Center and absolute control of the zone. Heat and Rook jumped out of the cruiser at the cordon and single-filed between the line of plain-wrap Crown Victorias, Malibus, fire trucks, and ambulances to the white RV, where they found Agents Callan and Bell standing outside its open door. Twenty feet from hello, Yardley Bell spotted them and called, “Sorry to inconvenience your date night with a little law enforcement.”

Nikki wanted to smack her. So what if it was only dry cop humor? It might have only been that. It also might have been cheap snarkiness from Rook’s ex. For the second time that night, Heat firewalled her feelings and held professional focus. “Agents,” she said, “bring me up to speed on the target.”

Agent Callan beckoned them inside the RV, the interior of which had been fitted with all the tech essentials to command and communicate during a tactical operation. “Cool,” said Rook. “It’s like Air Force One’s dinghy.” He scowled and attempted Harrison Ford. “Get off my RV.” Registering their stares, he said, “Proceed.”

“To the best of our info,” said Callan, “Tyler Wynn has a safe house in a fourth-floor apartment up the block near First Avenue.” A junior agent at the console brought up a satellite photo of the neighborhood with resolution unlike anything available on Google Earth. He then touched the screen to zoom in and highlight the building. Callan continued, “Like the rest of this neighborhood, it’s mostly over-sixty-fives with money.”

“Hide in plain sight,” said Heat.

“Exactly.”

Then she asked, “What do you mean by your best info? Have you had a sighting or an eyewit?”

“We have not seen the target ourselves, although we now have a surveillance dome over this place.” Then the agent went on, “What we did, however, was send in one of our tech units posing as a repair team to service the building’s security cameras. Basically, that allowed us to tap their system without sending up any flares, in case the doorman or concierge are getting spiffed by Wynn for warnings.” Callan signaled the board operator, and a window of security video rolled and then froze on the image of Tyler Wynn getting off the elevator on the fourth floor, holding a tennis racquet. “Is this your man?”

Heat said, “The time stamp is just after ten this morning. Is this the latest hit?”

“Affirm. We scrubbed video from then until now, all possible exits. Target went in this ayem and hasn’t come out.”

“How did you find him?” asked Rook.

“All thanks to you,” said Agent Bell. Nikki caught the shoulder pat Yardley gave him. And how it lingered and trailed across his back.

“Hey, great, I’ll take it, but how?”

“You gave me the idea yesterday of tracking him through his retail purchases. You know, the RFID chips?”

Rook said, “Of course, I know. We are all over that at the precinct.”

“And that’s adorable,” she said, somehow not sounding condescending this time, not to Rook. “But come on, we’re in The Bigs. We have the resources. We do this in our sleep. In fact, we did. Our mainframes were humming overnight, and—thanks to your list of Wynn’s connoisseur tastes—they spit out critical overlaps to this address. We sent in the geeks to tap the security cams, and by noon, we had him.”

“Noon?!” shouted Heat, unable to control the flash bang of rage that had just gone off inside her. “Are you kidding me? You have known this since noon today?” She turned to Rook and saw him fuming, too, which only fueled her anger and resentment. “You walk into my precinct, you essentially hijack my investigation—
plus
, without telling my squad we’re wasting our goddamned time, you duplicate our efforts to follow the RFIDs—and now take a bow like we should throw roses and kiss your ass?” She whipped her head to Callan. “Is this what you feds call cooperative interface?”

Before Callan could answer, Bell jumped in. “Detective Heat, give me a fucking break. Is this your first rodeo? The fact that we’ve known since lunchtime has nothing to do with anything. We needed every bit of that time to set our logistics and bolt this down. He’s in there, we are here, and he’s not going anywhere. And second?” The agent took a step closer to Nikki, literally and symbolically nudging Callan out of her way. “I got him. He’s under the jar. Are you seriously complaining?”

Nikki paused. Her fury cooling to embers, she collected herself and said, “No.” And meant it. Interference aside, Yardley Bell had come through. In one day she had accomplished what Nikki had not been able to in a month. The irony for Heat was that she had only told Bell about tracking Wynn’s consumer habits as a smoke screen for hiding the code. Yardley had not only run with it, but within hours she’d
found the man who ordered her mother’s murder. Her feet back under her, Heat looked from Callan back to Bell and said, “How can I help?”

Special Agent Callan stepped forward, as if to remind everyone of the in-charge part of his title. “You can run the capture,” he said. When Bell turned to him, about to protest, he continued, “We are already utilizing resources from the Seventeenth Precinct. My decision is that we continue our cooperation with local law enforcement by having Detective Heat lead the takedown. End of conversation.”

“Forget it, Rook, you’re staying here,” called Nikki on her way back from mapping out the plan of attack with the Emergency Services supervisor. Rook stayed on her heels as Heat strode between a dozen heavily armed emergency services unit cops—The NYPD’s elite SWAT officers—suited up in black fatigues, ballistic helmets, and Ironclad gloves. The writer stayed close as she walked toward her detectives from the Twentieth, who were pulling on body armor from the trunk of the Roach Coach. “You wanted it to be like old times, Rook, you got it. Stay with the car.”

“How’s that for a stroll down memory lane?” teased Ochoa.

“More like the boulevard of broken dreams,” from Raley.

“Come on, Nikki, I’ve come so far. Why are you leaving me behind?”

“We’ve been through this before. You’ll be in the way. And it’s dangerous.”

“Ah, but this time I brought my own protection.” He unzipped a gym bag. “I called Rhymer so he’d bring this. Tada.” From the bag, he pulled out his own bulletproof vest. One word was stenciled across the chest and back: “Journalist.”

“You are kidding,” said Heat, as she tightened the Velcro tabs on hers.

Standing at the open trunk of his car, Detective Feller said, “Hey, what are these embroidered things on the front that look like two gold coins?”

“These? Pulitzers.” And then he added, “There’s room for a few more.”

Sharon Hinesburg said, “A bulletproof vest with bling?” They all turned as the detective approached, pulling on her own gear. “You guys forgot to give me the heads-up. Good thing I still had the monitor on at home.”

The loose chatter stopped, and the detectives attended their preparations with eyes averted from her. The squad knew the open secret. “Detective Heat, a moment?” Hinesburg beckoned her aside and lowered her voice. “Look. I’m not blind. I’m aware how I get kicked to the curb a lot or get handed the dog assignments. I also know it probably wasn’t any accident nobody called me to roll on this.” Heat saw tears welling in Sharon’s eyes and knew two things: One, Hinesburg was in on the open secret, and two, Nikki didn’t have time for this.

She decided to be honest. At least about the latter. “Sharon, this isn’t the place.”

“I promise I’ll have my head in this. You won’t be sorry.”

Nikki decided these were the last two seconds she could afford on Hinesburg and said, “Get ready.”

Numerous high-rise luxury apartments and office towers didn’t make Sutton Place the friendliest neighborhood for air support. But as the first phase of her deployment began and her unit moved on foot along East 57th to the front door of the Kluga Building, those same elevated rooftops provided the dome of cover Agent Callan had boasted about. In lieu of a chopper, DHS and NYPD sharpshooters kept vigil on the roofs overhead as Heat’s team silently double-timed up the sidewalk. Simultaneously, a contingent from ESU’s fabled Hercules Squad mirrored their movement on East 58th to cover the back exit. When she reached her position mid-block, two doors from Wynn’s entrance canopy, Nikki hand signaled and her troop stopped, all of them planting their backs against the stone façade of the building to minimize their visibility from overhead windows.