Driving Heat (37 page)

“Croatia,” said Rook with appreciation. “Have you ever been? Croatia has everything. Castles, beautiful woman…Stunningly. Beautiful. Women. Oh, and no extradition agreement
with the United States.”

“The perfect vacation spot for a Person of Interest in a multiple homicide,” observed Heat. “Terrific.”

As everyone scattered on their assignments, Heat returned to her desk, which had taken on the appearance of an urban curbside on recycling day. The collateral effect of the cyber attack was the
rapid, seemingly endless generation of paper. The height of the stacks, however neat, could be measured with a ruler, and they formed a bulwark around Nikki’s blotter. On the upside, they
served as a graphic example of how the digital age had cut environmental waste. Plus it gave her a degree of privacy in her goldfish-bowl office.

The captain compliantly went about her administrative duties: meetings with the union steward, the vending machine supplier, and the lead officer in the precinct’s Traffic Division about
staggering the maintenance of the Cushmans. None of these made her feel like she was fighting crime.

Detective Raley showed up at her door, a welcome interruption, with the word on his call to the ER up in the Hudson Valley. “Records indicate Nathan Levy showed up there in the middle of
one night complaining of severe pain from an injury to his right leg. He reported that he whacked it on a table. His chart said he had a large amount of swelling and bruising. They did an X-ray
that showed he had a hairline fracture of his tibia, right below the knee. They treated him, gave him some crutches, and he self-released.”

Nikki sat back and crossed her arms. “That must have been some table.”

“Yeah, doesn’t pass inspection to my nose, either.”

“What do we know about our patient?”

“Our boy liked his cars,” said Raley.

“And to drive them fast.”

“I’ll contact State and County up in that area and see if they worked any accidents around that date.” The detective got up from the guest chair. “Not quite sure what it
means to us.”

“Never know until it does,” said Heat. “Or doesn’t. But let’s at least close the loop.” Then, before he left, she snagged him. “Hey, Rales? Things any
better between you and Miguel?”

He almost answered, but left it with, “I’ll make those calls now,” and went back to his desk in the squad room.

The Office of Chief Medical Examiner had been slammed by the hacking
event just like other city MISD services, so Lauren Parry called
Heat personally with her postmortem results on Nathan Levy. “By the way, how many more of these cranials am I going to be doing?”

“Working on it. Hopefully the last one.”

“Good, ’cause I need another one of these like I need a—”

“Lauren, stop. You stop. If you were about to say ‘hole in the head,’ cease. I have all I can stand of that with Rook.”

“Oh, and now you’re complaining about him instead of getting hammered in your bathtub? Besides, I’m working morning and night with dead bodies down here, and I have one chance
for a little human interaction, and you cut me off.”

“Damn right. You want to amuse me? Brief me on your post.”

Dr. Parry’s narrative regarding Levy echoed her reports on Lon King and Abigail Plunkitt, as expected. Small entry wound made by a .22-caliber slug, severed brain stem, no exit wound.
Also, as with the other two, indication of a close-range weapon discharge, as evidenced by gunshot residue and muzzle burn.

“What about the condition of the bullet?”

“Not bad. I already gave the slug to ballistics.”

“Thanks,” said Nikki. “I’ll task a detective to go over to Jamaica and get the report personally. Last time they practically used a carrier pigeon.”

“Still beats my intranet. Other items of note that you’ll see in my write-up: I saw a recent hairline fracture—”

“Of the right tibia? Just below the patella?”

“OK, now that’s just weird. How’d you know that?”

“See, that’s how you create human interaction, Doctor. Take note.” After a chuckle Heat told her about the ER report she had just received, and the ME agreed that, although it
was not impossible, such a fracture was unlikely to be the result of walking clumsily into a piece of furniture.

“Question,” said Nikki. “Oil residue. Any sign?”

“No, and I was looking for it, especially after we found traces on the other two.”

“I’m asking because I looked real closely at the door of his pickup, and I didn’t see any. I’ll check with Forensics.”

“I already have. No oil residue.” After a long pause, Parry asked, “You still there?”

“Yeah, I’m just thinking about that.”

“One of your Odd Sock moments?”

“When something breaks a pattern, that’s what we call it around here,” said Heat. “A pleasure interacting with you on a human level, Doc.”

After Nikki hung up, she started feeling unsettled. And she liked that. Things that didn’t feel right had a funny way of turning into clues.

About an hour later, as Heat was returning from briefing the new patrol squad she had formed to discourage smart-phone thefts on subway platforms, Raley waved her into the bull pen. “I
made the rounds of NY State Police and county traffic enforcement in Westchester and Putnam, which would be nearest the ER in Cortlandt. It’s mostly a lot of the garden-variety rural stuff.
Rear-end taps, flat tires, engine stalls, missing license plates, broken headlights, kids driving on lawns, failures to yield, and drunk drivers. But there was a fatality.”

Without realizing it, Nikki took a seat at her former desk. Rook came over and sat on it. Old habits. “Where and what?” she asked.

“A stretch of the Cold Spring Turnpike between the Taconic and Route 9.”

“I’ve been there,” said Rook. “They call it a turnpike, but that’s a backcountry road.”

“Quite isolated,” continued the detective. “And a lot of twisty-turnies. The fatality involved a single-car accident. The driver was alone. She somehow veered off the road and
smacked head-on into a tree.”

“Impaired?” asked Heat.

“No. And the autopsy showed no physical issue like heart attack, aneurism, or anything like that.”

Heat’s mind raced to a hundred places all at once. “And it was a solo event.”

“That’s the conclusion. Staties are sending me the MV-104, but that’s their finding. They said things like, it could be a deer reaction or a coyote swerve. Or a distraction.
Except the driver had her cell phone inside her purse, and there were no messages or calls preceding the crash. Also no suicidal indicators.”

Rook swiveled on the desktop to face Nikki. “Do you think this could have anything to do with Nathan Levy? Let me rephrase that. What do you think Nathan Levy had to do with this? Like,
instead of a deer or a…I dunno…a rabid woodchuck, or Toonces the Driving Cat…was he the one who made the driver lose control?”

Raley chimed in. “My contact at the state troopers said their investigation had ruled out a phantom vehicle.”

“But still,” said Nikki. “A little coincidental, wouldn’t you say?”

Bobbing his head, Rook added, “And I know what you say about coincidences. They’re like seagulls. You’ve never seen one that didn’t lead someplace fishy.”

Nikki winced. “I never said anything like that.”

“I’m a writer. Take the sound bite, OK? All yours.”

Heat instructed Raley to put in a call to Inez Aguinaldo, who was up in Throggs Neck scrubbing through Nathan Levy’s house with the Crime Scene Unit. He briefed the detective on the ER
report and the fatal solo crash that had happened the same night. “Which we aren’t buying it as solo,” Heat said.

“I’ve already asked Forensics to check his F-450 for damage or recent repairs. Why don’t you have somebody up there with you in a bunny suit take a close look at his
BMW?”

Aguinaldo called back less than a half hour later. It wasn’t difficult for the CSU tech to note that the M3 had a replacement front spoiler bumper cover and brand-new wheels and tires on
the front, as well. There was no other evidence of bodywork. The airbags had not been deployed; however, it did look like the factory glove box door had been replaced. “I searched his desk in
the living room and dug out a receipt for the work. It was done last month at a specialty Bimmer shop here in the Bronx. The owner remembered the job and said it was a flatbed truck-in.”

Raley clicked his pen. “From where?”

“I’ve got the address. It’s a wreck-and-tow service up in Peekskill.”

“Hard to ignore how this hooks up,” Raley said when he rushed back into
Heat’s office. “Levy’s damaged
car gets towed from Peekskill—the town that’s right in-between where the accident happened and the hospital where he dropped into the ER.”

Not yet knowing if this was a meaningful development or just a seductive trail leading into a dead end, Heat was too seasoned to get excited. And yet, she did give herself permission to feel at
least intrigued by the news.

“Next step is to get in touch with the tow company,” she said.

“Going to call them now. I just wanted to loop you in first.”

“Hang on.” Nikki had an idea forming and took a moment to reason it through before she spoke it. “I think we need to get some eyes on this situation instead of just
calling.”

Raley awakened his phone to check the time. “I could be in Peekskill before lunch. You want me to go up there?”

“No.” When he gave her a puzzled look, she tapped her knuckles on her window. Inside the bull pen, Detective Ochoa turned from the Murder Board and came in. “I want you guys to
fire up the Roach Coach for a field trip. Your partner has the details.” She watched the two of them sweep each other with side-glances.

At last Ochoa spoke. “You think that’s a good use of our time?”

Heat already had thought about it. She had witnessed how focusing on the search for Rook had rallied them. Another mission might be just what these two needed: a couple of hours in the car.
Together. Raley and Ochoa, just like before. Before her promotion had made them competitors instead of partners, instead of Roach. “Actually, I think it’s the best use of our
time.” Then she added, “I want you fellas to do what you do best. Get a sense of things, up close and personal.”

“Oh, I get it,” said Ochoa. “This some takeaway of yours from the cyber attack? Be more hands-on?”

“Something like that.”

On their way out the door, Raley said, “We’re all over this. Like a seagull on a tuna boat.”

“Careful, or I’ll make you take Rook, too,” she called after them.

The young woman with the sad eyes said, “I’m sorry, Nikki, I truly am. You
know I’d like to help you, but I
can’t.” They were sitting in Lon King’s office. Correction: his former office. Josie Zenger had taken the far end of the couch and twisted to face Heat. The receptionist and
office manager for the practice had avoided the shrink’s beige lounge chair on the other side of the coffee table. It remained, and would remain, empty as long as it was there, Heat thought.
That was a safe assumption. King’s desktop, always uncluttered, was cleared and dusted, its contents—everything from surface knickknacks to storage drawers—had been boxed and
labeled by Josie and now sat in a double row of containers under the window, every one numbered and marked. The books and awards from the shelves must have been in there, too. If it weren’t
for the carpet, the room would echo.

Nikki wasn’t so sure she wanted to hear any of those echoes.

The place felt so strange and beyond silent to her. When this was all done, another practice would fill this space. Maybe another psychologist. Perhaps a dentist or pediatrician, creating a more
active and noisy suite. For now, though, there was the hush. And Josie’s sniffle. The box of tissues hadn’t been packed yet. Nikki pulled one and handed it to her. Heat waited for her
to settle and continued gently, “But you can confirm the incident, right? I have an eyewitness, Joseph Barsotti, who says he walked in on an altercation in the waiting room.”

“Yes, two and a half weeks ago,” the receptionist said. “I can confirm that much because I was there. It was ugly. But I am ethically bound by the Health Insurance Portability
and Accountability regulations not to disclose confidential patient names or records.”

“Well, Lon King was there. And you also confirmed that Fred Lobbrecht was there.”

“Yes, but they are deceased.” Josie choked up a little at that and took a moment to recover. “Our lawyers say it’s all right to cooperate about decedents. And I want to
cooperate. But I can’t give you the names of anyone else who was there because they were patients and are living. Or could have been patients.”

“Explain that, if you don’t mind.”

“Even if someone wasn’t formally enrolled, their presence assumes a privileged doctor-patient relationship.”

“So you mean someone seeking help? Shopping doctors? A guardian, a visitor, what?”

“You can get what’s called an administrative subpoena, then I’d be free to answer all these questions and help you.”

“Thanks, Josie, I understand. I’ll do that.”

“Or, if you’d like, I can contact the individuals and see if they’ll give permission.”

“No, don’t.” Nikki said it sharply enough to make the woman flinch. She smiled and softened her voice. “Sorry, I just don’t want to set off any alarms for people
unnecessarily.” Meaning,
Don’t tip anyone off
. “I’ll look into the subpoena, as you suggested.”

Heat paused before she left for one last look at the beige-and-creamy-vanilla room where she had cried, laughed, worried, sighed, and ultimately found a measure, if not of
peace, at least of herself. No box could contain that, she thought as she closed the door. Nikki was glad she had stolen a few tissues for herself.

Rook had lunch waiting on her desk when she got back from her visit to
York Avenue. “How did you know I’d be starved? And
Spring Natural Kitchen, great.” Heat lifted the takeout lid. “And you got me my favorite.”

“Thai falafel salad, madame.”

“And what the hell is that?”