Heat Rises (22 page)

Detective Ochoa said, “I may have something to make you feel a little better. I couldn’t let go of why Father Graf’s housekeeper, Mrs. Borelli, is being be so cagey about our mystery guest.” He pointed to the unidentified man in the Pleasure Bound surveillance still. “So I ran her last name through priors.”

“Great idea,” said Sharon Hinesburg, whose responsibility it was to ID him, and who hadn’t thought of it.

“Anyhoo,” continued Ochoa as if Hinesburg hadn’t spoken, “I got a hit on a Paul Borelli in Bensonhurst. Nothing big, a few busts for weed and disorderly conduct.” He handed her the mug shot. It was a match for the man on the board.

“Her son?”

“Nephew.”

“Still enough to embarrass his aunt. Pay him a visit.” Nikki posted the mug shot on the Murder Board next to the surveillance photo. “Oh, and nice one.”

“Yeah,” said Detective Hinesburg. “Nice one.”

When Nikki came home to her apartment and opened her front door, it banged into something after a few inches and stopped. “Oof,” said Rook on the other side. “Hang on a sec.” Then he pulled it open wide. He was holding a screwdriver and standing beside a stepstool.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I have a surprise for you.” He pointed above the door, to where he had mounted a wireless lipstick camera. “Huh? What do you think?”

“Rook, a NannyCam?”

“Correction: NikkiCam. After the fingerprint team left, I thought you needed some extra security, so I went over to the spy store on Christopher Street. I could spend hours in there. Mainly because I can see myself on every monitor.” He struck a pose in the hall mirror. “I really am ruggedly handsome, aren’t I?”

She stepped past him and looked up at the camera. “Not a bad installation.”

“Oo, this is starting to sound like one of those porn videos where I’m the casual laborer.” Rook smiled. “As you know, nothing casual about how I work.”

“No, quite diligent. You’re on my list for employee of the month.” She kissed him and went to the counter to drop the stack of mail she had brought up along with the evening newspaper.

“What’s your pref for dinner? Take out or go out?” When she didn’t answer, he turned. Nikki’s face had gone pale. “What?” Rook got up and stood beside her at the counter where she had unfolded the front page of the
New York Ledger
. When he saw the headline, he looked at Nikki but didn’t dare interrupt her. Heat was too engrossed, too stunned by what she was reading.

INFERNAL
AFFAIRS

Suicide Cop, Infighting Tarnish 20th

Insider Exclusive

By Tam Svejda, Senior
METRO
Reporter

Just how bad can it get for the NYPD’s 20th Precinct? Yesterday this paper reported bickering and disarray within the station’s Homicide Squad over what has been characterized as “a rudderless, wheel-spinning” probe into the shocking sex dungeon strangulation of a local priest. First it was the good father, now it seems it’s his investigation that’s choking.

Frustrated detectives were openly questioning the leadership of longtime precinct commander, Captain Charles Montrose. According to those familiar with the situation, the captain had recently become more of a part-time visitor than a full-time commander at his Upper West Side cop shop, spending increasingly more hours outside his office, and closing himself off from staff the few hours he was present.

Friction . . . and Heat

Sources agreeing to speak on condition of anonymity confirm the captain’s absences were only one element that failed to get the investigation into Father Gerry Graf’s murder out of the starting blocks. Montrose’s disputed choices hamstrung detectives (led by magazine cover-cop Nikki Heat, whose dazzling rate of case clearance made her a rising star among hero-hungry commishes downtown). For instance, he banned Detective Heat and her ace squad from following promising leads, instead ordering them to pursue a grand tour of Dungeon Alley, even though it was a road that continually proved colorful yet fruitless.

Members of the 20th also recently witnessed an in-house throw down between Heat and Capt. Montrose over the stalled case, complete with desk pounding and finger pointing. “It was
NYPD
black and blue,” said one insider who asked not to be identified.

Bad To Worse

The latest installment in this melodrama was written in blood. Yesterday police responded to a gunshot victim in a parked car. The man was none other than Captain Charles Montrose. Pronounced dead at the scene, he was killed by a single bullet wound to the brain from his own gun. The incident occurred at the curb of Our Lady of the Innocents—poetically, ironically, but not so coincidentally—the very parish of the murdered priest.

Buried Anger

The controversy surrounding a commander under fire, and now a probable suicide, has spilled out of the brick and concrete bunker on W. 82nd that houses the Two-Oh and rattled some windows a few miles south at One Police Plaza.
NYPD
toppers have reportedly balked at a Full Honors memorial service for the dead captain, leaving some in the ranks of The Finest angered by the lack of wisdom—and compassion—in a decision to dishonor a long career tarnished at its end, but preceded by decades of bravery, spotless service, and sacrifice.

Angry cops recognize the obvious. The climate of upheaval is not solving any cases. One source summarized it this way. “Whoever killed Father Graf is still out there. In an election year I sure wouldn’t want to have to explain to the citizens of New York City why killers roam free while the brass picks fights over the size of a fallen veteran’s funeral.” Evidence points to one thing that’s certain. The
NYPD
has one problem that cannot be buried.

Nikki started to pace. “This is not good, this is not going to help.”

Rook said, “Last I checked the
Ledger
wasn’t so much about helping anything except newspaper sales. Seems fine to me. OK, her writing’s a little on the tabloidy side, but that’s not so much a flaw as an editorial policy.”

She mulled the tone Rook had used for “her writing.” Nikki’s antenna was already up about Tam Svejda, but she had refused to play the role of current girlfriend jealous of the ex. So then, Heat asked herself, why was she obsessing?

“I don’t see the problem,” continued Rook. “Yellow prose aside, it hits the mark, doesn’t it?”

“That is the problem. She never names sources but clearly someone in the precinct is feeding her.” And then she stopped pacing and nibbled her lower lip. “They’re going to think it’s me, you know.”

“Who is?”

“1PP. The timing of this couldn’t be worse after I lost it with Zach Hamner and threatened to go public.”

“Did you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then don’t worry.”

“I guess,” she said. And then read the article again.

Heat’s money was on Sharon Hinesburg as the leak. When Nikki got there the next morning for the start of shift, bull pen chatter was all about the
Ledger
piece, and when she scanned the faces of her squad, the only one she could picture blabbing to the media was the only detective who wasn’t in on the conversation . . . because she was over at her desk on a personal call.

One thing was clear under the volcano cloud of negativity. Nobody in that building had mixed feelings about Montrose’s funeral. Roach had already opened an account at a local bank for donations, and everyone said they’d kick in. “Fuck ’em,” said Ochoa. “If downtown won’t give Skip a send-off, we will.”

Nikki called the squad to the Murder Board to change the channel from gossip to work. “Detective Ochoa, where are we on Mrs. Borelli’s nephew?”

“Paid a visit to Paulie Borelli yesterday in Bensonhurst, where he’s a part-time chef at Legendary Luigi’s Pizza.”

“Luigi’s Original?” asked Rhymer.

“No, Legendary. Luigi’s Original is actually a copy.”

“What about Paulie?” asked Heat.

“He says he never even met Father Graf.
FYI
, Paulie B. doesn’t strike me as much of a churchgoer. He did cop to being a semi-reg at Pleasure Bound, but not the night of the priest’s murder. He alibis out at an establishment in the Alley known as . . . ,” Ochoa flipped a page in his pad and recited, “The Strung and the Restless.”

There was laughter—the first Nikki had heard in that squad in a long time. She let it play out and then said, “In deference to Mrs. Borelli, we’ll let it drop there.” Compassion ruled. Nikki couldn’t see increasing the old woman’s mortification.

There was a stirring in the back of the room. Heads turned as a doughy-looking man in a white shirt with two gold bars entered the bull pen. “Oh,” he said, “I see I’ve interrupted.”

Heat took a half step toward him. “No problem, Captain, may I help you?”

He came up to join Nikki at the Murder Board and addressed the squad. “Probably best that you’re all in one place for this. I’m Captain Irons. I’ve been assigned as the interim commander of this precinct. My mandate is to get things on an even keel here while the decision is made as to who should be the permanent replacement for Captain Montrose.” He paused, and Nikki saw numerous eyes go to her, but she remained stoic and gave the temporary man her attention. “Now, even though I come from Administration, and it’s been a few years since I was out here in the field, and I know I can’t replace your old cap, I’ll do my best to make this workable for everyone. Fair enough?” The room chorused a “fair enough” back to him. Even though it was limp, he said, “Thank you for that.” He turned to Nikki. “Detective Heat? A moment?”

They met in Montrose’s glass office and stood because it was still bare following the instant purge by Internal Affairs. “Guess I’ll have to get some furniture, won’t I?” He sat against the lip of the counter that housed the heat register, and Nikki noticed how his soft belly forced his shirt to spread between the buttons. “I know your rep. You’re a heck of a detective.”

“Thank you,” she said, “I do my best.”

“Here’s the deal. I have a shot here at turning things around, direction-wise.” Irons gave her a look of significance as she wondered how else one turned things around except direction-wise. “Now, I know you are involved in some holdover cases.”

Heat put a mildly corrective spin on it. “Actually, I have an active case. In fact, the meeting you . . . ah, joined . . . was about the case I’m working now. The dead priest?”

“That’s all fine, but that goes back burner. Effective now. I have set a personal goal to show what I can do here. And, for me, that means turning to a fresh page and running hard with cases that start on my watch. Day one. Today.”

“Excuse me, Captain Irons, but I was attacked in Central Park by five armed men, three of whom are still out there, and I believe it was related to the Graf murder.”

“You believe? You mean like an assumption? A theory?”

“Yes, I know it’s not the same as proof,” she said, already feeling herself on quicksand. “I’m working it hard now, sir. And since we got off to a slow start already, I don’t believe this is the time to put it on the back burner.”

“I understand your personal interest.” It sounded dismissive because it was. He crossed his arms and studied his shoe shine, then said, “The guy you killed, he had gang connections on his sheet, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’ve been reading all the departmental bulletins about gang initiations, some of which are to target police officers. I think I can work this out for both of us by turning this over to the gang task force. If you’re a target, you can step aside from that case, be safe, and I get my investigative priorities met.” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “Now. Moving forward. I hear some patrol officers discovered a body in one of the pedestrian tunnels in Riverside Park about a half hour ago. Homeless guy. But if there’s foul play, I want to be all over that. Top priority.”

Detective Heat pondered a moment and smiled. “Then you want my best investigator on this. Sharon Hinesburg.”

“Can you spare her?”

“I’ll manage, sir.”

He seemed happy. Nikki would be happier when she replaced him.

Detective Rhymer came to Heat’s desk. “Just got back from a meet with our German dancer’s agent. The guy’s a sketch. A support system for a toupee working out of a fleabag office in Chelsea.”

“Any beefs between the agent and the client?” she asked.

“Anything but. The rep told me Meuller was a steady client who worked hard, stayed out of trouble, and made him a lot of money. The only bump in the road was that Meuller’s boyfriend died recently,” said Rhymer. “Agent says after that, his top earner changed addresses and basically crawled in a hole. Didn’t answer calls, like that.”

“How did the boyfriend die?” asked Heat.

“Ahead of you. I checked it out. Natural causes. He had some congenital heart condition and the ol’ ticker stopped ticking.”

Over at his desk, Detective Raley hung up his phone so quickly he missed the cradle. He replaced it while he grabbed his coat and hurried over. “Lawrence Hays’s private jet just touched down at Teterboro.”

The New York headquarters of Lancer Standard comprised the top two floors of a black glass office high-rise on Vanderbilt a half block from Grand Central. It was the sort of building commuters passed every day hustling to and from trains without giving it much notice, unless they were clients of the custom shirtmaker on the ground floor or the gourmet gym in its basement.

“Is Mr. Hays expecting you?” asked the woman behind the counter in the reception lobby.

Detective Heat reflected on the nature of work done by this soldiers-and-spies-for-hire company, and then on the operative that Rook saw casing her apartment, and said, “I’m going to bet Mr. Hays already knows we’re here.” The receptionist invited them to have seats, but the three cops stepped away from the pink marble counter and stood. Roach had insisted they accompany Heat to this meeting. The Discourager, hunkered in his blue-and-white Radio Mobile Unit, may have had her back in transit, but Raley and Ochoa didn’t want her walking into the offices of a
CIA
contractor alone.