Heat Rises (28 page)

“I’ve got this one,” said Rook. He took a photocopy of the surveillance shot and stepped up to a woman leaning against the wall and smoking outside a diner. “Morning, miss.” She looked him up and down and began to step away. “Please, this will just take a second. I’m trying to find one of your colleagues, a fellow prostitute and—”

The woman flicked her cigarette at him and it bounced off his forehead. “Asshole. Calling me a hooker . . .” She hurried away, shouting something about calling the cops mixed in with more curses until she rounded the corner.

As amused as Heat was by Rook’s gaffe, she didn’t have much better luck. Sure, Nikki was better at spotting the working girls, having worked vice herself, but they smelled cop on her and either closed up or just ran as soon as she approached. “This could take forever,” said Rook.

“It’s too early in the day for most of them to be out; we’ll do better as we get more to talk to.” That was fine to say, but Nikki was still striking out at noon when the sidewalks started filling in front of the hot sheet motels.

They ducked into a coffee shop to warm up and Rook continued his skepticism about the plan. “All they do is run. And you don’t have any authority to stop them.”

“Thank you for defining my newly impotent status,” she said.

“I’ve got the solution,” said Rook. “It’s ingenious.”

“This worries me.”

“One word: Fishnets.” As she began to wag no, he lowered his voice and pressed on. “You always talk about how you worked undercover in vice, right? Walk the walk. Put your stuff on the street. . . . Unless you have a better plan.”

Nikki considered it awhile and said, “I suppose there’s a cheesy clothing store around here somewhere.”

“There ya go,” he said way too loudly. “You’ll make a great hooker.” Nikki didn’t have to turn to know the whole coffee shop was staring at her.

Rook rented a room for the afternoon at the Four Diamonds, which he observed was the only way that number of diamonds would ever be attributed to that establishment. It smelled of strong disinfectant and boasted unlimited ice, no doubt to go along with the unlimited nicotine burns dappling the bathroom counter and the nightstand. Nikki changed into her new clothes, and while she slathered on the makeup she had chosen, Rook called from the bedroom, “I feel like we’re in
Pretty Woman
. I’d take you right now in the bubble bath except the cockroaches are still using it.”

“What do you think?” asked Heat. She stepped out of the bathroom and posed, showing off her heavy makeup, hoop earrings, leopard-print Uggs knockoffs, ripped tights, and a lime green plastic raincoat.

Rook appraised her from his seat on the corner of the bed and said, “So, this is what your life has come to?”

Out on the sidewalk Nikki kept her distance from the other working girls up the block, giving them time to get used to her. Some of the women were territorial, seeing Nikki as an income threat, and gave her a hard time or moved along, wary of the undercover cop vibe that still came through the mascara and false lashes. Most were cordial, though. Introducing themselves, asking how she was getting by. Then, when she had their confidence, Nikki said she was looking for a lost
BFF
she was worried sick about. Out came the picture, which was studied and passed around, but got no response.

The hardest part was fending off the johns. Just telling them as they drove by—some whistling or patting the roof of their cars with open palms—that she wasn’t interested didn’t suffice. A few times she had to duck into the lobby of the Four Diamonds, and that took care of it. Once, though, a persistent guy, an intense construction worker who said he was off shift and had a big drive to Long Island, double-parked his pickup and followed her into the lobby. There, Rook appeared, announcing congratulations, that he was on the pilot of a new reality show,
To Catch a John
. Problem solved.

Nikki was standing on a corner with a few of the girls when her phone buzzed. It was Deputy Commissioner Yarborough. “Is this a bad time?”

“No, Phyllis, never a bad time for you.” Nikki was glad this wasn’t Skype.

“Just wanted to let you know I had them run Sergio Torres through the database. Sorry, but no hits beyond what appears on his rap sheet.”

“Oh. Well, thanks for trying.” It was hard to mask her disappointment.

Yarborough said, “Doesn’t seem like Torres is your problem, anyway. Saw on the morning report you had a visit from the bomb squad.” After Heat filled her in briefly on those events, the deputy commissioner asked, “Any idea who your perp is?”

“Not by name,” said Heat. “He’s a John Doe I’ve had my eye on in the Graf case. In fact, he’s got a distinctive tattoo we ran through your
RTCC
but came up empty.”

“I’ll find the request and have them put it through again. And to make sure we turn over all the stones, I’ll supervise the run myself.”

Nikki was just thanking her when a horn blared and a carload of drunk frat boys shouted, “Aw-woo! Hey baby! Yo, skank!”

“Where the hell are you, Nikki?”

“Oh, just hanging with some friends. We’re watching
Jerry Springer
.”

About four o’clock, when Nikki was discouraged, cold, and ready to pack it in, a young woman with a kind face and a greening bruise below one eye looked at the picture and said, “That’s Shayna. Doesn’t do her justice, but that’s Shayn, for sure.” Nikki turned the folded page over and asked if she recognized the man with her, the one with the coiled snake tattoo on his bicep. She didn’t. But she had seen her friend recently. Shayna Watson was rooming at the Rounders Motel in Chelsea.

Sometimes they run, sometimes they hide, sometimes they just don’t answer the door, hoping you’ll go away. Shayna Watson slid the chain, opened up, and invited them in. She seemed drained of emotion—or self-medicated, Nikki couldn’t determine which. But when the hollow-eyed woman moved some laundry off the bed so they could sit, Heat was relieved that this didn’t look like it would be a fight.

Rook let himself fade into the background, leaving it to Nikki to connect. Mindful of her fragility, Heat spoke gently and steered away from any information that might spook her. For instance, omitting that this was part of a murder investigation entirely. Shayna Watson didn’t need those particulars to tell Nikki two simple things. “You are in no trouble of any kind, Shayna, OK? I’m just looking for this man,” she said, holding out the picture. “I’d like to know his name and where I can find him, then we’ll be on our way.”

“He’s a bad dude,” she said in a distant voice. “When Andrea . . . she’s my roommate . . . left for Amsterdam, he made me steal her keys to the bondage place she works at. That’s why I ditched my apartment. And I liked that place. I had to hide from him. Oh, God . . .” Her face paled and her brow knotted with worry as she surveyed the door, like she was playing out a private nightmare. “You found me. Do you think he will now?”

Nikki gave her a reassuring look. “Not if you help me find him first.”

On their cab ride to Hunts Point, Heat decided this was not a mission to bluff through with mascara and spunk. She called the police. Protocol would have been to phone the Forty-first Precinct, since that’s whose turf they were heading to. But that would require some awkward explanation of her departmental status unless she wanted to lie and pretend she was still officially on the job. So the police she called was Roach.

“The guy in the photo with the snake tattoo is named Tucker Steljess, no middle name yet,” said Heat. She spelled the last name so they could run it and see if any priors or last known addresses spit out. “Rook and I are getting off the Bruckner now on our way to the address we got for him. It’s a motorcycle repair shop on Hunts Point Avenue where it crosses Spofford. Don’t have the street number, but you can dig it out.”

“Will do,” said Ochoa. “And you’re quite the good citizen to phone in this tip.”

“Hey, I support our local police,” Nikki said. “Speaking of which, might do a courtesy heads-up to the Four-one.”

“Raley’s on it now. What’s your plan?”

“I’m two minutes from the location. Good citizen that I am, Rook and I are going to observe until you arrive. Don’t want this
SOB
slipping away.”

Ochoa said, “Just watch your back, citizen. Let the pros handle this.”

The winter darkness fell early, and from their window seats at Golden Dip’d Donuts, Heat and Rook watched lights shutting off across the street, in the back of the repair shop’s garage. Then they saw movement. Wife beaters were out of season, so they couldn’t get a positive ID of the snake tatt under the long-sleeved waffle tee, but Nikki’s heart double pinged when the big man pulled down the corrugated rolling door and she eyeballed Tucker Steljess.

“He’s going to leave,” said Rook.

Heat speed-dialed Ochoa. “What’s your ETA?”

“We’re just clearing the
RFK
toll plaza.”

“Subject’s getting ready to go on the move,” she said.

“We’ve already put it out on the air,” replied Ochoa. “You should see units any minute.”

When she hung up, Rook was already out the door, crossing the street. She cursed to herself and caught up with him outside the rolling door. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Slowing him down. You can’t, he knows you. I can go in and play lost driver looking for directions. Or better yet, mid-life orthodontist seeking advice about Harleys versus BMWs.”

Behind Rook, keys jangled. Steljess stepped out the office. And made Nikki.

He pushed Rook into her and they both staggered into the metal rolling door, which thundered and shook as they crashed into it. Steljess was rounding the corner when they recovered. Heat slipped Rook her cell phone and, as she ran, called out, “Hit redial. Tell Ochoa I’m pursuing eastbound on Spofford.”

He had a block on her by the time she turned the corner. For a big man he was fast, but Nikki was faster. She poured it on and was soon gaining. Since she was unarmed, her strategy was to stay only close enough to keep him in sight until backup arrived, so she gave it enough tempo to tighten the distance yet lag far enough back to evade if he was carrying.

Steljess did what most fleeing suspects do, lost speed by looking back to see how he was doing, and soon Heat had a sweet twenty-five-yard pace to maintain. He didn’t like the company and tried to slip the invisible leash. At Drake he made a sudden left, threading himself across the street through rush hour traffic. Nikki lost a few yards on him dodging cars but picked him up again as he ducked into the driveway of an auto salvage yard.

She stopped outside the gate and listened. This would be a good place to lose her, especially if he knew the layout and could use a back exit. It would also be a good place to make herself vulnerable if she blundered in unarmed. So she eased closer to the side of the open gate to hear if she could pick up any footfalls.

Heat caught the flash of motion in the convex mirror overhead, but it was too late. Tucker Steljess pivoted around the edge of the fence she was hiding behind, clutched the front of her coat with both hands, and swung his weight, lifting Nikki up off her feet and tossing her across the yard.

She landed back-first against a detached car door that was leaning against a metal paint locker. He threw her with such force that the steel locker tipped forward, landsliding small cans of paint and supplies down on top of her.

Nikki grabbed a paint can and threw it at him, missing, but his flinch gave her a precious second to clear the other cans off her so she could get up before he came at her. But he didn’t come. Instead, Steljess was starting to crouch in what she recognized as a shooting position as he reached inside his down vest. She threw another can that hit him in the shoulder, but didn’t deter him.

In fact, he smiled.

Heat saw the Glock clear his vest and felt stupid and helpless. In a futile move she clawed for the car door, hoping as a shield it would at least slow the bullet. As soon as Nikki pulled it over herself, she heard the crack of the gunshot.

She didn’t feel the bullet hit the door or her body. In the blink between synapses, in which Nikki wondered if she didn’t sense it because she was already dead, she heard two familiar voices shout, “
NYPD
, freeze!” then three rapid shots followed by a body falling heavily against her improvised shield. As she lay there, pinned, feet pounded toward her. Then came the welcome sound of a gun being kicked and skittering away across asphalt.

“Clear.” The relaxed voice belonged to Dutch Van Meter.

Detective Feller called, “Heat, he’s down. You all right? Heat?”

Feller holstered his weapon and got her out from under the pile. Even though Nikki insisted she was fine, he made her sit down on a ratty office chair that was rotting in the yard beside a plastic tub of spent cigarette butts. Blue-and-whites from the Forty-first were pulling up outside the gate behind the undercover taxi. The emergency lights flashed into the entrance to the salvage yard, giving the night a surreal quality, especially as the colored lights strobed on Van Meter. Still holding his Smith & Wesson 5906, he stood up beside Tucker Steljess’s body, after trying in vain for a pulse. He made a smooth sideways palm chop to his partner, signaling a flat line.

“Don’t worry about me, fellas, I’m fine. I’m just the one who got shot at.” Rook pulled himself up from his hiding place behind a corrugated cardboard carton labeled “Brake rotors—Fair to OK” in black marker. Rook was putting on a show of mock indignation, but Nikki knew the signs, having seen them . . . having experienced them herself. . . . He was shaken. Getting shot at does things to you.

In his statement to the incident commander, Rook said he had phoned Ochoa while he was on the run behind Heat, giving block-by-block scouting that Roach relayed over the radio. After following her across Spofford Avenue, he saw Nikki get pulled into the salvage yard. That was the last of his play-by-play. He pocketed her cell phone and snuck up to peek in the gate just as the paint locker spilled down on her. Without hesitating, he started out for Steljess, figuring he could blindside tackle him. But half the distance to him, just as Heat pegged the big man with a paint can, Rook saw the gun clear the vest. And then Steljess must have seen him out of the corner of his eye because he spun, starting to bring the Glock up in his direction. Not knowing what else to do, Rook took a dive behind some boxes just as he fired. The cops from the Forty-first, plus Raley and Ochoa, who were also in the semicircle around Rook, turned as one to look at one of the boxes. Indeed, there was a fat, nine-millimeter’s worth of bullet hole in it.