Driving Heat Read online

  “Seemed like routine meeting prep to me.”

  That was one of many reasons Nikki liked Inez. She was always thinking, always anticipating.

  “He said that, in addition to the wallet contents you guys bagged,” Aguinaldo continued, “when they removed the body from the kayak, they were able to access a cargo pocket on his pants thigh with some loose cash in it. Mostly singles and a five. Also…one custom clay poker chip. Detective DeJesus texted me this photo of it.” She stepped up to the front and showed Heat the shot on her iPhone. “You can see it has a molded rim of a repeated hourglass design. And it’s purple.”

  “That means it’s worth five hundred bucks,” said Feller. “I worked vice. Purple is the traditional color casinos use for five yards.”

  “They haven’t run it for prints yet, but the RTCC traced this unique design and pattern to a place called Fortuna’s Wheel, per the Organized Crime Unit database.”

  “Got to love those monster computers downtown,” said Heat.

  “I know Fortuna’s Wheel,” said Rook.

  Feller chimed in, “Me too. There’s a big not-so-secret secret gambling den in the basement. Very mob.”

  “Run by my old friend and yours…” Rook slapped his knee and said to Nikki, “Fat Tommy.”

  “He’s not my friend.” Then, as Heat wrote Fat Tommy’s name on the Murder Board, she added, “But I am going to renew my acquaintance with Mr. Tomasso Nicolosi this morning.” Then she turned to the group. “Time to make some assignments. Detective Aguinaldo: nice work following up on the chip. Since you did so well with the RTCC, contact them again. Lon King was an NYPD contractor, so have them run any threats against him. Then hit Personnel. Find out about family, next of kin, whomever. Pay his loved ones a visit and interview them about the usuals.”

  Aguinaldo nodded as she made notes, saying, “Last seen, state of mind, friends and enemies, financial worries, affairs, drugs, drinking, unusual behavior.”

  “Also ask about his kayaking. How often he did it, where he stored it, places he put in and liked to go.”

  “And did he belong to a club or float with a regular buddy?” suggested Rhymer.

  “Good thought, Opie,” said Nikki, using the clean-cut detective’s squad nickname. “And since you know a little bit about the sport, call DeJesus in Forensics and find out all there is to know about the boat. Not just fingerprints, hairs, and damage or wear to the hull, but maybe there’s a serial number that tells you where it was bought or perhaps a sticker from REI or Eastern Mountain Sports. If not, door-knock the local kayak retailers and outfitters. See if anyone knew King and if he hung out with anyone in that world. Visit the float and nature clubs, not just for members who knew him but for any habitual spots for a sunset excursion on a spring evening.”

  “I didn’t see any paddle at the crime scene,” said Detective Rhymer. “Not sure what to do with that, but it’s worth noting. Also no cell phone on him.”

  Taking her own advice that nothing is nothing, Heat posted that, too: “no paddle.” “Detective Feller, contact the NYPD Harbor Unit and the Coast Guard. Chances are, if they had seen anything, they would have responded, even if it was just because he was adrift, but ask anyway to cover the base. What we really want is what they have on any known barge or shipping traffic yesterday in the TOD window and after. Contact the shipping companies and talk to the captains, pilots, and crew. Might as well work in the Circle Line and the other tour and booze cruises while you’re at it. Somebody might have seen something they shrugged off but that would make sense now.”

  “Coast Guard would also have accurate tide tables and currents,” Feller added. “I’ll check that, too.”

  “How is my King of All Surveillance Media?” asked Nikki with a grin.

  “Somehow, I knew this was coming,” said Raley, who had earned his title by breaking numerous cases over the years thanks to his talent for—and sheer tenacity in—scanning video recordings from surveillance cams.

  “Really? Then what else do you know is coming?”

  “Well, my liege, if His Highness was to guess, it would be a request to locate any cams that pick up pieces of the Hudson or other waters the kayak could have been on yesterday.”

  “Uncanny,” said Heat. “And when you find footage, also look for shipping. Get the names of the vessels and share them with Randall to cross-check. Sadly, I’m going to have to separate you from your partner.”

  Feller chuckled. “You’ll need a garden hose.”

  “Detective Ochoa, I’d like you to visit Lon King’s practice on the Upper East Side.”

  “On it,” he said. “Interview his receptionist and colleagues. Basically, the same drill Inez is doing with family, only at his workplace.”

  “Right. We’re going to want to ask if they know about any disgruntled clients. It’s a sensitive area, since he dealt mostly with police officers past and present, but all possible motives need to be explored. Especially if any threats were made.”

  Rook shifted in his chair and exhaled loudly. When Nikki turned to him, he said, “Sorry. Missed breakfast. I need a muffin.” He smiled thinly and looked away. She wondered what was up with him.

  Ochoa said, “Captain?”

  Which made Nikki glance to the back of the squad room, expecting to see the precinct commander watching in the doorway. But she quickly realized he was addressing her and chuckled. “Sorry. Not quite used to that,” she said. “Changes.”

  “That’s what I wanted to ask about,” Miguel went on. “The squad wanted me to ask, actually. Now that your promotion has finally come down, have you made a decision about who will replace you as squad leader?”

  Heat had anticipated this and took a moment to survey the five detectives surrounding her: one new addition, curious about who would be her new boss, and four veterans showing various degrees of eagerness to be the one chosen. “That’s a fair question. But this is my fair answer: I’ll make my appointment when I am ready.” Nikki saw the tide of dissatisfaction rising in the room and added, “Obviously, I’ve had some time to think about this. And, yes, I do have some leanings. But I’m two hours into my first official day. I haven’t even turned on the lights in my office yet. And now we have this case in which the victim is one of us. Or as close to being one of us as you can get. So I’m making a decision on the fly to keep one foot in this bull pen as we move the investigation forward. All while I juggle my new responsibilities. Which are considerable. So to backstop me, that is why I am naming—on a temporary basis—Miguel Ochoa and Sean Raley as interim squad co-leaders.”

  To characterize the ensuing applause as a smattering might be generous. It began with Detective Aguinaldo and Rook. Rhymer and Feller joined in a few beats too late to be considered gracious. Raley and Ochoa regarded each other with a bit of surprise but only a bit of pleasure.

  “I’m going to ask you to coordinate all your moves with Team Roach who, in turn, will coordinate with me,” Nikki concluded. “One more thing. This is the best homicide squad in the department. We are going to keep that good thing going. You have my word that, as soon as we wrap this case up, I will name your permanent squad leader to carry on the success of this group. Now. Let’s go find a killer.”

  “Tell me about Lon King,” said Rook as Heat steered into the rotary at Columbus Circle on their way to brace Fat Tommy.

  “What’s to tell? Like I said, he was the department shrink Wally Irons forced me to see. You know about that.”

  “I do. I also know, down by the river this morning, you made it sound like you only went to your one assigned session.”

  “So I went a few other times. The squad didn’t need to know my personal business. It’s not relevant.” Nikki cranked the wheel to turn onto Broadway, at the same time steering the conversation in a different direction. “Is that what’s been up your butt?”

  “Speaking as one who ass-iduously self-monitors, last check, I detected nothing foreign.”

  “If you say so. All I know is th
at I’ve been reading a vibe off you since we hit the crime scene.”

  “By staring at my butt?”

  “Joke it off if you want to, Rook. I know what I see.” At the stop light in front of the Ed Sullivan they sat in silence. Heat waited him out. Rook peered up at the Letterman marquee. “Is it the wedding plans? Am I pressing too hard?”

  When the light changed, it became his turn to deflect. “Let’s talk about Management 101.”

  “OK…”

  “Just an observation from your loving spouse-to-be.”

  “I already don’t like where this is going.”

  He rested a gentle hand on her thigh and smiled. “Relax, just something to put in your head. Your squad is not only ambitious. My take is they’re also worried about loss of leadership.”

  “Which is why I appointed Roach to run the shop.”

  “Using the words temporary and interim in the same sentence, you anointed them. If they’re your guys, why not just pull the trigger?”

  “Because I’m not sure.”

  “So not like you,” said Rook, and he was right. In the months when Nikki had been kept on a string, wondering when the nod would come for her own promotion, she had done all sorts of forecasting about long-range goals as well as nuts-and-bolts thinking about the short term. She had drawn up wish lists and org charts in her head, some of which made it to paper or to her Evernote app. All her plans became the subject of continual revision and second-guessing as her own appointment process became ever more protracted. Now, on her first official day on the job, she had what golfers call the yips. Instead of hitting the ground running, she had balked.

  “My original plan was to have Sean and Miguel share the job.”

  “What happened?”

  “I can’t describe it. Overthinking. They have been in my squad the longest.”

  “And they are amazing. When you let them take point on the murder of that old stockbroker on West End, they kicked ass. They even tied his missing maid into your skyfall case.”

  “True.”

  “I’m hearing a yeah, but in your voice.” He regarded her. “Are you holding a grudge because they also gave you a ration of shit along the way?”

  Nikki shook her head no. “All about passion for the job. They never made it personal, and we all came out better on the other side. Maybe it’s the partner idea. That made me reconsider. Then I started to choose, OK, which of the two? And then I saw nothing but a rift there. So then I started wondering whether they would be as good if I busted up the set. And that led me to wonder if a solo choice should put Feller in the running. And Rhymer.”

  “Food truck!” Rook pointed to a produce delivery van with its blinker signaling a parking spot about to open up in front of Keen’s Chophouse. When Nikki had eased into the space and killed the engine, he said, “As your trusted advisor, may I make two observations?”

  “Sure.”

  “First, careful consideration is one thing, but when you can’t make a decision, something else is going on.”

  When he said it, the words made her feel exposed, affecting her in a way that resonated beyond the task at hand. “And second?”

  “You’re going to make ’em scatter like cockroaches when you walk in this club dressed like that.” He chuckled and got out.

  Fortuna’s Wheel sat mid-block, a former restaurant fronting the sidewalk between a watch repair shop and a nail salon that advertised foot rubs. The club’s original neon sign, dating from the 1940s, hung like a flag above a heavy wooden front door painted chocolate brown to match the faux-Tudor half-timbering inset in the tan stucco wall. At ground level the plaster was scalloped by ancient gingery piss stains of passing dogs and carefree drunks. The smell of CDC-strength disinfectant, already conspicuous from the street, prickled the backs of their throats as Heat and Rook entered the dim nightclub with an unwelcome blast of light.

  As Rook had predicted, heads ducked low and back doors slammed as half of the dozen morning rummies in the place caught sight of Nikki’s captain’s uniform and scrammed. “Help you?” said the bartender, a big woman with an eyepatch. She didn’t sound like she meant it.

  “I’m here to see Tomasso Nicolosi,” said Heat.

  Just to be a smartass, Rook jerked a thumb toward Nikki in her uniform and added, “NYPD.”

  After an exchange of whispered intercom chatter, a busboy opened a door for them hidden behind some heavy velvet curtains and they descended a winding oak staircase to the secret gaming parlor, which amounted to an unoccupied craps setup and seven poker tables, also not in use. The dusky lighting in the windowless basement put everything in shadow, but there was just enough to make out Fat Tommy sitting at a back booth in his signature circa-1979 tracksuit and oversized shades. The closer they got, though, it was apparent things had changed since they last saw him. “I’ve been sick,” he explained without being asked, even before a hello. Fat Tommy had slimmed down years before at his wife’s behest, but now he had gone beyond thin. Not only was Fat Tommy no longer fat, he’d become so emaciated he could hide behind a stack of poker chips. Instead of a mobster, he looked like ET in Jackie O’s sunglasses.

  They took seats facing him. “Sorry to hear,” said Rook with genuine sadness. He had met Tommy years before while researching an article on the mid-level New York crime families, and the two had struck up an arms-length friendship. Subsequently, Rook had set Nikki up with confidential meetings to get information on cases from time to time, with nothing even close to a relationship developing between the detective and the hood.

  “Yeah, well I’m gonna beat this.” Tommy slapped the table and laughed. “The fuck I will. Look at me. Say your good-byes.” In the awkward pause that followed, sounds of men and women laughing bled through a closed door behind him. “Friendly card game among friends. Nothing you need to worry about, right?”

  Nikki took that as her opening. “We’re not here to hassle your little enterprise, Mr. Nicolosi.”

  “Good. And Tommy would be nice.”

  “I want to know if you recognize this man.” She held out her iPhone with the shrink’s ID photo on it. Fat Tommy lifted his sunglasses to give the pic a once-over and leaned back. “His name is Lon King. I have reason to believe he may have had a connection here. Perhaps as a customer.

  “See, here’s the thing. This little enterprise, as you call it, is confidential. You know, discreet. Just like you.” He chuckled. “What are you dressed up for, the St. Paddy’s parade?”

  When Heat gave him a stone face, Rook jumped in. “Tommy. The captain is here about a homicide.”

  “Uh-huh. And you want to know if I had him whacked? The answer is no.”

  Heat opened her notebook and uncapped her pen. “Then you did know him.”

  “Now that I’m getting the drift that he’s dead, I’m not feeling the need to be so, um, circumspect.” He turned to Rook. “How’s that for vocab, writer boy?”

  Nikki kept to her all-business tack. “And I can take that as your statement? You did indeed know him?”

  Fat Tommy waved his hands in front of himself as if to warn off an oncoming car. “Let’s just get to it, all right? Yes, I knew him. Yes, he was a regular. No, I did not have anything to do with his death. It’s generally considered bad business to kill someone who owes you money.”

  “How much did he owe you?” She held her pen poised.

  “Thirty-two thousand, one hundred. I staked him for his losses.”

  Rook said, “That’s a mighty big stake.”

  The mobster shrugged. “Is it? Keeps them in the game’s another way to see it.”

  “Do you recognize this?” Heat showed her cell phone shot of the custom poker chip that had led them there.

  “It’s a fiver. I use them as coasters for my Ensure.”

  “This one was found on Lon King’s body.”

  “I gave it to him. Last week after he got cleaned out at Hold ’Em, I figured he shouldn’t leave with nothing.”

  “It’s
not like he could spend it anywhere. Are you that generous?” asked Nikki.

  “Just a reminder of his debt.”

  “Or intimidation?” she asked. Heat’s phone vibrated.

  “Either way, see? It worked. He kept it on him.” He tapped her notepad with his forefinger. “Meanwhile, I’m out thirty-two large. Get that down.”

  The buzz was a text from Ochoa. She showed it to Rook and they both immediately stood to go. “You guys got a plane to catch or something?”

  Nikki flipped her spiral notebook closed. “I may be back in touch, Mr. Nicolosi.”

  Fat Tommy mopped his mouth with a soiled handkerchief and called after them as they bounded up the creaking stairs. “Wouldn’t wait too long.”

  The Crime Scene Unit hadn’t even gone in yet. When Nikki and Rook stepped off the elevator onto the twelfth floor of the medical tower where Lon King kept his practice, the CSU team was just bootying up in the hallway. Snapping on blue nitrile for the second time that morning, Captain Heat self-consciously returned their salute with a gloved hand and went inside.

  Detective Ochoa saw them enter and handed off the sobbing receptionist to the uniformed policewoman he’d requested from the Nineteenth. As he crossed over to her, the sight of the young woman smacked her with a sudden rush of dread. Heat had been there for an appointment just two weeks before. How awkward would it be if the receptionist, Josie, recognized her and said something? Nikki positioned herself with her back to the lobby desk and drew Ochoa and Rook into the adjoining room. She knew it was only a stall. Heat would somehow have to try to deflect the receptionist’s familiarity, but later. Her immediate concern was what Ochoa could tell her about the burglary, in hopes it would give up a clue to finding Lon King’s killer.

  “So here’s how it came down,” began the detective. “I got here at ten of nine and waited in the hall for King’s receptionist…Josie,” he said after consulting his notes. “I ID’d myself, told her I needed a moment of her time, she unlocked the door, we came in, and, as you saw, the news hit her hard.”

  “The break-in wasn’t apparent right away?” asked Heat.