Deadly Heat Read online

  Raley and Ochoa were saddling up for Sotheby’s, to interview a contact that they met last summer when they solved the murder of one of the auction house’s art appraisers. Raley said, “If anyone could tell us what oil painting this hand belonged to, she could.” That made Heat think of Joe Flynn. A top art recovery specialist like him would also be a great resource. As Roach left, she even scrolled her iPhone for his number. But before she pressed Call, Nikki remembered her last visit to Quantum Recovery, and his needy, longing looks. She put her phone away. Flynn could wait until Sotheby’s had a shot.

  Heat checked in with the Sixty-first Precinct over in Brooklyn to get an update on their search for Salena Kaye spottings. After getting bounced to three different voice mails, she hung up, called over Sharon Hinesburg, and assigned her to head out to Coney Island and conduct a search herself. “It’s early in the season for tourists, so hit the hotels and, especially, the by-the-week apartments.”

  The detective gave Heat an exasperated look. “Shouldn’t I be working the serial killer instead of pounding the pavement on this?”

  “Nothing wrong with pounding the pavement.” Nikki couldn’t resist a shot. “I’m sure you’ve got the shoes for it.”

  Early in the afternoon, her cell phone vibrated. Greer Baxter of WHNY, by the caller ID. Heat let it dump to voice mail, then listened back. “Detective Heat, Greer Baxter, Channel 3 News. Have you forgotten that I need you on my live segment? We’d love to hear what’s happening with our serial killer.” Then the news anchor paused for effect and added, “Unless, that is, you’re hoarding this story for your boyfriend’s exclusive. Call me.”

  Heat felt a brief swell of light-headed rage. At the dig, at the manipulation, at the distraction. She set the phone gently on her desk and rested her eyelids to collect herself. “Detective?” She opened her eyes. Feller stood over her, looking ready to burst. “I got one. I just found the coolest connection between our victims.”

  SEVEN

  Detective Feller wanted to show, not tell. Nikki followed him to his desk, where he gestured her to sit. “Like you told us to, I’ve been drilling down on our three victims, searching for anything that ties them together.” He reached for the mouse on the desktop and double-clicked. An image loaded on the monitor, of Maxine Berkowitz seated on a kitchen floor in sweats and Uggs, surrounded by puppies. “Been going over all her social media and found this Facebook posting she made three years ago.” Nikki’s heart grew heavy, as it always did, at the sight of the joyful smile of a murdered young woman beaming at a camera. “Note the beagle pups,” said Feller.

  “Adorable.”

  “You’ll love them even more when you see this.” He opened another window, beside the Berkowitz image. It was an advertisement for Bedbug Doug posed beside Smokey, his bedbug-sniffing beagle. “Apparently beagles are great at finding bedbugs, and exterminators are using them like crazy. Doug even made Smokey his company mascot.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen the ads,” said Heat. “So you’re telling me your connection is that both victims liked beagles? Kind of thin, Randall.”

  “Stand by, please.” With the eraser end of a pencil he pointed to the litter surrounding Maxine Berkowitz. “Mixed litter, lots of colors. You’ve got one here that’s mottled, these two are lemon and white, and then there’s this boy here.” He zoomed on the image of one puppy. “This, they call open marked. White coat with tan and black spots. Notice the pattern of these three black spots on his shoulder?” He zoomed on the image of Smokey.

  “Identical,” she said, more interested now. “Is it the same dog?”

  The detective smiled. “You tell me.” He moused open a YouTube video. While it loaded, he said, “This was shot a year and a half ago in Danbury, at a canine scent-training academy. Basically, it’s Smokey’s graduation from bedbug school.” Nikki watched the amateur video of Douglas Sandmann climbing a riser to applause as he accepted a diploma, with his beagle matching stride, on heel. After Sandmann took the certificate, there was a jump edit to a video that chilled Nikki. Clearly taken in the parking lot after the ceremony, the camera captured Douglas Sandmann and Maxine Berkowitz kneeling and praising her little guy, Smokey, who licked her face.

  Heat gave Feller a nod of appreciation. “Who’s a good boy?” he said.

  Rook came into the bull pen from his lunch meeting and joined Heat and Feller. Nikki recapped Randall’s beagle connection for him then turned to the Murder Boards. “So we already had one connection from Roy Conklin to Maxine Berkowitz. Now we have one from Maxine to Bedbug Doug. We don’t know what they mean yet but it’s something.” She turned to Detective Feller. “What you just did for Maxine? Do it for Douglas Sandmann. And the locksmith, Glen Windsor, too.”

  “Got it. Anything that connects to the other victims.”

  “Or helps us learn who his next one might be,” she said. As Feller left for his desk, Nikki drew a line in marker from Berkowitz and Sandmann and labeled it “Smokey.”

  “Nice name for a beagle,” said Rook as she capped her dry erase. “Barry Manilow had two beagles. Named them Bagel and Biscuit.”

  “Fascinating.” Heat made her way back to her desk, and he followed along, still talking.

  “Speaking of Barry Manilow, I just saw an ad for that sitcom The Middle. So funny, Patricia Heaton walks in on her mom dancing to Barry Manilow. Oh. The mom?” he said loudly to the room. “Played by… Marsha Mason. Even fewer than six degrees, thank you, thank you very much.”

  “Rook, maybe you could save the parlor games until we’re a little less busy,” said Heat. “Like after we finish, I dunno, catching a murderer or two?”

  “Well, Detective Heat, as it turns out, I do have something to contribute to the search for one of your suspects, a certain Tyler Wynn.” He sat on her desk, as was his habit, and she again had to yank a file out from under one of his cheeks.

  “I’m listening.”

  He unwrapped the elastic band from his black Moleskine. “In spite of his misplaced enmity for me that I just don’t get, Eugene Summers gave up some really useful intel on Tyler Wynn at our lunch. He’s a perfect source. Summers not only spied for Wynn all those years, he’s a butler—a combo of observant plus oriented to detail. The man gave me an incredibly complete list of Tyler’s personal buying preferences.” Rook opened to a page he had bookmarked with the notebook’s black ribbon. “For instance, did you know Wynn wears custom shoes? Six-thousand-dollar bespoke loafers from John Lobb boot maker in Paris.”

  That got her attention. Not just the self-indulgence; the price served as a red flag for anyone doing a background check on a government employee. Tyler Wynn’s treason clearly supported his expensive tastes. He looked up from his notebook. “Maybe it’s just I, but if a shoe costs six grand, can it really be called a loafer?”

  “Agreed. And superb use of that personal pronoun.” She habitually needled Rook for being the writer boy, but seeing him riffling through interview notes, she respected his journalistic chops. All the more, if they led her to capture Wynn. Hell, it might even keep her alive.

  “Let’s see what else. Outerwear, only Barbour, only from Harrods. Briefcases from Alfred Dunhill, sweaters from Peter Millar, shirts from Haupt of Germany, and athletic socks from South Africa—Balegas, if you must know. His booze habits are also quite particular. His white Burgundy of choice is Domaine Leflaive Puligny-Montrachet. His red is a Mil-Mar Estates Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa. He goes for WhistlePig rye and Vya sweet vermouth. His Irish whiskey brand is Michael Collins.”

  “What,” she said, “Jameson’s not good enough for him?”

  “Nikki Heat, it’s like you’re reading my mind.”

  Personal habits had a way of becoming a trail, and reality TV’s premier butler had given them a trove of leads. So much to go on that Heat pulled in Detective Rhymer to pair with Rook and start making contact with the retailers and distributors who supplied Tyler Wynn with his unique brands of consumer products. “Your investigative journalist’s
gut is doing the job, Rook,” she told him. “Now take it to the next step and find out if Uncle Tyler’s been buying himself any goodies lately, and where they’ve been delivered.”

  “You can’t have specific tastes like his and fall completely off the grid.”

  “Prove it,” she said. And he and Rhymer got to work.

  Raley called in from the Roach Coach. “Miguel and I are just now wheels-up from Sotheby’s on the East Side,” he said.

  “Do you think they can ID the painting for us?”

  “Already have. It took them five seconds. The hand on that slip of paper was clipped from a work by Paul Cézanne. It’s called Boy in a Red Waistcoat. The appraiser e-mailed me a digital image of the whole painting. I’ll forward it to you or you can pull it up online if you don’t want to wait.”

  “Thanks, I will. That was fast, Rales.”

  “Yeah, well, turns out the painting is not only well known, it’s on everyone’s radar these days.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s hot. It got stolen in 2008 from the… hang on, I can’t read my own writing. The painting got jacked along with a couple others from the Bührle Collection. That’s in Zurich, Switzerland.” After a pause he said, “I lose you?”

  “No,” said Nikki, “I’m with you, just thinking I’ve got a call to make. Good work.”

  She hung up, bit the bullet, and dialed Joe Flynn at his Quantum Recovery office. While the phone rang, she Googled the Cezanne and got multiple hits, most two-year-old news items about its theft. “I’m sorry, Mr. Flynn’s out of the office,” said his assistant. “Would you like to leave a voice mail?”

  After the beep, Nikki left word for him to call. Then she checked her notes for his cell number and left a message there, too. When she hung up, she chided herself for not calling him earlier; she could have saved half a day chasing down the painting. It’s what happened, she thought, when she let her personal feelings interfere with an investigation. Heat vowed not to let that happen again.

  That reaffirmation met a challenge sooner than she’d thought. “Nikki Heat. It’s your number one fan,” said the caller. At the sound of his voice, her guard went up and she cleared everything else from her mind. Zach “The Hammer” Hamner, senior administrative aide to the NYPD’s deputy commissioner for legal matters, never made contact unless he wanted something. And when the man Rook had dubbed the unholy spawn of Rahm Emanuel and Gordon Gekko wanted something, “no” came at your own risk.

  “Glad to know my name’s still alive at One Police Plaza,” she said, keeping her side light; feeling anything but.

  “Oh, you know it is,” he said cheerfully. Guess Zach could keep the weasel out of his voice as well as Nikki could keep the dread out of hers. “Got your hands full, I know. We’re all glad it’s you on point with this serial killer. That’s from the Commish on down.” Zach knew the value of rank dropping.

  “We’ll get him.”

  “If anyone can, Heat, it’s you. Now…” His pause must have lasted five seconds, a deliberate technique to suck in her attention. Superfluous. He had it. “Been getting calls from Greer Baxter over at Channel 3. Media requests usually kick over to Public Information, but Baxter has a relationship with this office, so here I am. You know what this is about.”

  “I do, Zach. But you must know what it’s like running a case like this. If you’re doing the investigation properly, the last thing you have time for is media.”

  “Which is why we’re seeing fucking Wally Irons’s face on every screen. Listen to me while I count fingers. One: Greer Baxter is a friend of the commissioner. Two: Her newsroom lost one of its own to this creep. Three…” He worked another pause. Heat knew what was coming before he said it. “You owe me this.”

  Nikki sank deeper in a quicksand of gloom. Earlier that year Hamner had championed her to become a captain and the precinct commander of the Twentieth, only to have her embarrass him by publicly rejecting the promotion at the last moment. And just within the past month, she had come back to him for a favor when Captain Irons gave her an unfair medical suspension, citing a phantom concern for her mental state following a shooting. The Hammer got her badge back but warned her his bill would come due.

  Today was payday.

  “I’ll bring you out to Greer’s set in two minutes, Detective,” said the stage manager, who then left the small room backstage at WHNY. Rook moved over to stand behind Nikki’s makeup chair. The mirror framed them both. One of them looked unhappy.

  “For somebody who wanted to be an actress once upon a time, I’d think you’d be enjoying this,” he said. “People rushing in saying, ‘Two minutes, Detective,’ ‘Bottle of water, Detective?’ ”

  “Touch up your makeup, Detective?” asked the woman who appeared at the door.

  “See?” said Rook. “Magical.”

  “Thanks, I’m still good.”

  The makeup artist left. Rook asked, “You sure? Almost a million people watch this newscast.”

  Nikki said, “I just want to get this over with. I don’t care how I look.”

  “Mm, OK…”

  “What?”

  “Forget it,” he said. “Well. You’ve got a little… Never mind.” Heat sprung out of the chair and moved close to the mirror. She saw nothing of concern except the reflection of him behind her, laughing. When she sat back in the chair, Rook composed himself and said, “Have you decided what you’re going to say?”

  “Don’t you see, that’s the whole problem with this. I’m being forced to go on live TV when I can’t release anything they don’t already have without screwing our case.”

  The stage manager came back. “We’re ready, if you are.”

  During an arthritis pain commercial, someone clipped a wireless microphone on Nikki’s collar and the stage manager showed her to a leather chair that would have been right at home in an airport first class lounge. It angled toward an identical seat in the tiny interview area off to the side of the stage, away from the anchor desk. Three video cameras glided in to block Heat’s view of the rest of the studio, which she couldn’t see anyway because of the brightness of the lights. “Thank you for coming,” came a familiar voice. Then Greer Baxter materialized from inside the glare with an extended hand. Nikki shook it and was about to lie about how it was her pleasure when the anchorwoman sat and said, “Pretend the cameras aren’t there; focus on me,” and then looked into one of the lenses herself.

  “Tonight I go straight to the source about a serial killer. We are live. We are ‘Greer and Now.’ ” A short theme played under animated graphics and a montage of Greer Baxter interviewing Al Sharpton, Daniel Moynihan, Whoopi Goldberg, Sully Sullenberger, Donald Trump, and Alec Baldwin. When the intro finished, the stage manager used his rolled script to point to the middle camera, which Baxter addressed. “She may be New York’s most famous cop. Homicide Detective Nikki Heat has been written about in national magazines, received decorations for valor, and has the highest rate of case clearance of any investigator in the NYPD. Welcome, Detective.”

  “Hello.”

  “There’s a serial killer out there. He’s claimed three victims so far. An employee of the Health Department, an insect exterminator, and, tragically, News Channel 3’s own Maxine Berkowitz.” On the monitor, Nikki saw photos of the victims superimposed behind her and Baxter. “What can you tell us about the case?”

  “First of all, I want to express my sorrow to you and your colleagues for your loss, as well as to the families of all the victims. As for the status of the case, there’s very little I can contribute beyond what is already known in the media.”

  “Is that because you haven’t made enough progress?”

  “To me, there’s no such thing as enough progress until a killer is captured and taken off the streets. Obviously we aren’t there yet.”

  “What about some of the things that haven’t been reported in the press yet? Is there anything you can share that will make us feel better?”

  “Greer,
if sharing inside information would help capture this individual, I’d be the first to do it. The fact is that there are some details that only we can know because we don’t wish to harm the progress of the case, either by tipping off the suspect or helping create copycat scenarios.”

  “So that’s all you’re giving up.” Greer leaned forward slightly, a pose of cross-examination. “Not to be rude, but why did you come on if you weren’t willing to share more?”

  “I think I made it clear in advance I couldn’t go beyond what’s been released. But if you have any questions, I’ll certainly—”

  “OK, here’s one. We know the killer leaves colored string behind.” She held up the cover of the Ledger. “According to this, the first two strings were red and yellow. My source tells me that there are additional colors now. Like purple? And green?”

  Her source? Nikki wished she had worn more makeup to hide the blush that began filling her cheeks. “Again, I can’t comment on that.”

  “Red, yellow, purple, and green. Sounds like the colors of a rainbow. Let me ask. Have you given this killer a nickname?” Before Heat could respond, she rolled over her. “Know what I would call this killer? The Rainbow Killer.” She turned to the camera and repeated for effect, “The Rainbow Killer.” Satisfied she may have coined a nickname, Baxter said, “Detective Heat, you’re a woman of few words. If you can actually share something with our viewers, I hope you’ll come back.”

  “Most definitely,” said Nikki, but thinking, Only in a straitjacket and wheeled in on a dolly.

  “This is a first. We have thirty seconds left. Seen any good movies, or can’t you talk about that, either?”

  “Actually, I haven’t,” said Nikki. And then she decided to take a leap. “I could talk about another case we are working. We apprehended the killer but are still looking for his accomplices.” The stage manager began a ten-second countdown. Heat reached in her blazer pocket and took out a page with double head shots of Tyler Wynn and Salena Kaye and held it to the camera with the red light. “I’d like to invite the public’s help, asking if they have seen either of these two. The female was last observed around Coney Island.”