High Heat

  “Can you give me a freeze-frame at a spot that shows their faces?” Heat asked.

  Raley complied, halting the video during a moment when the men were passing directly under a streetlight.

  “Okay, zoom in a little.”

  “I already tried,” Raley said. “The resolution is pretty lousy. If you go too far, they just look like blobs.”

  “Can you sharpen it at all?”

  “The light is pretty low. There’s just not enough data for the computer to work with.”

  “Do your best.”

  Raley fumbled with it for a few minutes, slowly improving the image. But he was right. There were limits based on the raw material.

  “Okay, that’s probably as good as we’re going to get,” Raley said. “What do you think?”

  It might have been their suspects. But it also might not have been. It wasn’t easy comparing a mug shot—especially one several years old, as El-Bashir’s was—to a piece of grainy surveillance footage.

  “Give me a printout of that, along with a zoomed-out full-body picture of the two of them,” Heat said.

  “You got it.”

  “So two hours,” Heat mused as she waited for the images to roll off the printer. “That’s more than long enough to shoot a decapitation video, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Sure. Only thing is, we never see them hauling the victim in there.”

  “There is a back entrance,” Heat said. “They could have brought her in that way. They probably did it earlier. The last prayer call of the day is at sundown. Mosques tend to be pretty empty after that. No different from a church, really.”

  “So they haul her in there sometime earlier in the evening, tie her up somehow, then come back in the dead of night to finish off the job?”

  “That would be the theory.”

  “Any cameras on the back entrance?”

  “Negative.”

  Heat stared at the screen, still frozen on the young men’s faces.

  “The only thing that doesn’t really make sense is that, okay, let’s say El-Bashir and Al-Aman killed our victim in the early hours of Sunday morning,” Heat said. “But the body wasn’t dumped until sometime after eleven Monday night, when the dishwasher at Pho Sure went home. That’s twenty-four hours or more when that body is totally unaccounted for.”

  “Maybe they stashed it at the mosque somewhere?” Raley suggested. “They’d know the mosque well enough. It had to have a closet or a basement or someplace where they knew it was unlikely for the body to be found. Then they came back Monday night or early Tuesday morning to get rid of it.”

  “Possible,” Heat conceded. “But why wait? You’d think they’d be eager to get rid of it.”

  “Well, hopefully we’ll have a chance to ask El-Bashir and Al-Aman real soon.”

  “If it’s them. Speaking of which,” Heat said, grabbing the printouts from the printer and walking back to Interrogation One.

  As she entered the room, Rook was in the midst of a sentence.

  “…so the guy goes to his local camel dealer, and he says—”

  Rook stopped when he saw Heat’s glare.

  “Camel jokes? Really?” Heat said. “When I left you were talking about the commonalities of two of the world’s great religions, and now you’re telling camel jokes?”

  “What’s wrong with camel jokes?” Rook said. “Camels happen to be very important in Arabic culture. I realize here in America they’re mostly seen as smelly, ill-tempered ungulates. But did you know that the word ‘camel’ comes from an Arabic word that means ‘beauty’?”

  Rook leaned toward Qawi and said, “I only know that because it was mentioned in a thriller I read. Wild Storm by this guy named Richard Castle. Ever heard of him?”

  “He sounds like a total hack. I am surprised a man of your intellect reads such lowbrow, pulpy trash.”

  “I guess I just have a weakness for books that are actually entertaining,” Rook said. “You do realize, of course, that many of the world’s most enduring writers—like that Shakespeare fellow, to name just one—were actually considered the lowbrow pulp-style entertainment of their time?”

  Heat cleared her throat.

  “Another time,” Rook said. “Sorry. You were saying?”

  Heat shook her head, then placed the photos on the table in front of Qawi.

  “I know these aren’t the greatest quality,” Heat said apologetically. “But I was hoping you could tell me if these men are Hassan El-Bashir and Tariq Al-Aman.”

  After just one glance, Qawi’s hand flew to his mouth. The gesture told Heat all she needed to know, but Qawi still followed up with the words.

  “Oh, Hassan. Oh, Tariq. What have you done?”

  “So that’s them.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m afraid so.”

  “This was taken from a surveillance camera at approximately eleven o’clock Saturday night. They stayed inside for about two hours, then left. Can you think of any reason they would have to be at the mosque during that time?”

  “Well, the mosque is open at all hours because we believe spiritual needs can arise at any hour on the clock, but…but, no. Unless it was Ramadan, there would be no reason I can think of for them to be there at that time.”

  The look on Qawi’s face spoke to his misery at the confirmation that two members of the flock had strayed so far.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” Rook reassured him.

  “This is very hard, very hard,” Qawi said. “But I know it is harder still for the family of this victim. Can you…Can you tell them that I would like to pray with them? It is important to me the family understands this killing is an abomination to Allah.”

  “I would if I knew who the victim was,” Heat said. “We still don’t have an ID.”

  At that moment, Randall Feller burst into Interrogation One, waving a photograph.

  “We do now,” he said triumphantly. “Uniforms found the head in a Dumpster two doors down from where they found the body.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  “Sorry, Rook,” Feller said. “I know you had some history with her.”

  “With whom?” Heat said. “Come on, out with it.”

  “Okay, okay,” Feller said. “Meet the victim in the American ISIS beheading case.”

  Feller flipped a professional portrait on the table. There, looking confidently back at Heat, was the smiling face of New York Ledger Senior Metro Reporter Tam Svejda.

  Rook’s reaction was small at first: his mouth turning slightly down, his cheeks sinking a few centimeters, his chin giving a little quiver.

  It is a strange thing for the heart, knowing that an ex-lover is gone. Because the heart thinks it has moved on from its one-time love. Until it learns that other heart is no longer beating.

  Heat could see Rook was trying to keep up a brave front in front of Feller. Or perhaps he was attempting to seem disinterested for her sake. Possibly, he was maintaining a mask of impartiality in front of Qawi, who Rook was already prepping as a future source.

  It just wasn’t working. The human being in Rook far outweighed the tough guy, the loyal spouse, and the journalist.

  Finally, he gave up.

  “Oh, Tam,” he said, reaching for the picture, tears welling in his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

  “She was a friend of yours?” Qawi asked.

  “Yes. Briefly. Long ago. It was…It was never going to work, two journalists who had to compete with each other for scoops, trying to be in a relationship. Especially when one of them reported for a place like the Ledger. So we broke it off. But we had some good times. Off the job, she really was a lovely person. She had this way of—”

  Rook looked up and saw everyone was staring at him.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “No, it’s okay,” Heat said, walking over to him, bending down, and wrapping her arms around him from behind.

  Rook grabbed her hand and took a deep breath. Even Feller seemed to be taking a moment of silence.


  In life, Heat and the other detectives of the Twentieth Precinct had viewed Tam Svejda as lower than the stuff they scraped off their shoes after a careless walk in the dog park. She was some combination of the festering abscess that appeared on their faces on prom night, the neighbor who refused to turn down her stereo at 2 A.M., and the post-nasal drip that wouldn’t go away.

  Cops had that kind of enmity for journalists. Ultimately, they were two groups whose goals and aims were often diametrically opposed. It was a cop’s job to make sure nothing that would harm an investigation or tip off the bad guys became public. It was a journalist’s job to make sure more-or-less everything—or at least everything they could reasonably source as true—became public.

  But those kinds of work-a-day antagonisms were gone. She was now their victim. Their cause. And they would stop at nothing to make sure her killers were brought to justice.

  “Mr. Qawi,” Heat said. “Did either Hassan or Tariq know Tam Svejda at all?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “Did they read the New York Ledger?”

  “If they would have read any paper, it would have been the Ledger. But I never saw them showing much interest in the news.”

  “Tam was out on the streets all the time,” Rook said. “Especially when she was reporting on crimes. It’s where she felt like the best information was. She might have just been a target of convenience for them.”

  “Or they might have singled her out for some reason,” Heat said. “Or maybe they knew about her aggressive reputation as a reporter and found a way to—”

  Heat dangled the thought out there, but cut it off, half finished. Even though she no longer suspected Qawi, she still didn’t fully trust him. She didn’t want to be trying out theories in front of him.

  “Mr. Qawi, you’re free to go,” she said, removing his handcuffs. “We appreciate your help with our investigation. To show our goodwill, we’re not going to press charges for evading arrest.”

  “Thank you.”

  “However, as a continued sign of your cooperation, can you please send us any evidence you can find of Hassan El-Bashir and Tariq Al-Aman radicalizing? Anything they might have posted on the Internet or any other signs they may have had ties to the extremist community?”

  “I’ll see what I can find.”

  “I’d also ask you to stay in New York and remain available to our investigators for further questioning. Is that fair?”

  “Yes, Captain Heat, thank you,” Qawi said. “And I want you to know, Masjid al-Jannah is going to be holding a prayer service for Miss Tam Svejda. Our congregation will join all of New York in mourning her loss.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Qawi,” Heat said.

  Qawi rose from his chair. Heat and Rook followed him out of Interrogation One, then saw him to the elevator, where they said their good-byes.

  As Heat returned to the bull pen, with Rook still in tow, she was already thinking of next steps.

  “Okay,” Heat said. “Feller, grab Opie. I want you to put together a team to collar El-Bashir and Al-Aman. Start at their apartment. Bring the Bomb Squad and put caution first. They might be lying in wait for you and I don’t want to take any chances.”

  “You got it,” Feller said.

  Heat turned to Rook. “Do you know where Tam’s parents live?”

  “Pennsylvania, I think. Somewhere outside Philly. Main Line, if I recall. Or near enough to the Main Line that the realtors call it Main Line. But beyond that…”

  “Okay. I’m sure a name like Svejda won’t be hard to track. Rales, can you figure out where her parents are, call the local PD and ask them if they’ll do next-of-kin notification for us?”

  “You got it.”

  “Also, get El-Bashir’s and Al-Aman’s heights off their driver’s licenses or their mug shots and compare it to the men in the video. Let’s see if we can get a match there. It’s not exactly a fingerprint but it’ll be better than nothing at trial.”

  “Will do.”

  “Speaking of matches, where the hell is Aguinaldo, anyway?” Heat asked. “Doesn’t she have anything yet on that scarf?”

  “She’s still shopping, as far as I know,” Raley said. “I’ll check in with her.”

  “Please do. And have we heard anything about Ochoa?”

  “Good news there,” Raley assured her. “The wound was superficial. The doctors said the bullet ricocheted off something before it wedged in his ass. That’s why it didn’t go in more than an inch before it stopped.”

  “Do you think whoever shot him called backboard?” Feller asked.

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Heat said. “The docs know that slug has to be sent to ballistics for testing, right? One PP is going to want to know whose gun it came from.”

  “Already done,” Raley said.

  “Good work,” Heat said, then turned her attention to Rook. “Now, as for you—”

  Rook was already recoiling. “Not the radiator again. Anything but the radiator.”

  Heat laughed. “Well, that’s one possibility. But I feel like if I keep you at arm’s length, you’ll be safe enough. Want to join me on a field trip?”

  “Oh! Oh! How about the zoo? Can we go to the zoo?”

  “In a manner of speaking, we will be,” Heat said. “I want to talk to Tam’s editor at the Ledger. It’s possible these lunatics just grabbed the first journalist they found on the street. But if they found some way to lure her or if they had some specific reason for going after her, I want to know about it.”

  “Mmm,” Rook said. “Walking into the belly of the beast, huh?”

  Rook knew that for Heat, wading into the offices of the New York Ledger and asking for an audience was roughly akin to taking a dinner cruise down the River Styx and inquiring if the host had a minute to chat.

  “That’s why I’m bringing you along,” Heat said. “I figure you know how to speak Journalist.”

  “So I’m being used.”

  “You can always spend more time with the radiator.”

  “In that case,” Rook said, “use me like a rented donkey.”

  The newsroom of the New York Ledger occupied several floors of a large building on 6th Avenue in midtown, nearly thirty blocks south of the Twentieth Precinct. Heat thought about grabbing a pool car, but decided a cab would be quicker. The NYPD required paperwork. Cabbies didn’t.

  Rook settled in next to her. They took a right turn on Columbus and hadn’t gone more than a block before Rook spoke.

  “You’re looking for your mother, aren’t you?” he said. “Even as we were hailing the cab, I could see your eyes were looking elsewhere.”

  Heat took in a deep breath. “I know I’m supposed to be focused on the investigation. And I am.”

  “But?”

  “But, yeah, I can’t help it. Even when I was running after Muharib Qawi, I think I was keeping half an eye out for her.”

  “I keep finding myself doing the same thing. I spent half the time I was chained to that radiator looking out the window, studying everyone who walked by.”

  “Thank you,” Heat said quietly, sliding her hand over his.

  “We just have to be patient,” Rook said, giving her hand a squeeze. “Lauren will get us answers soon enough.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe all she’ll get us is a thousand more questions.”

  They didn’t speak for the remainder of the ride. Heat took a moment to enjoy just being next to Rook. It continued to amaze her he could be so many things to her: not only her favorite sex toy and best friend, but also her comfort animal.

  The cab let them out on the corner of 55th Street. As they gathered themselves, a slender dark-haired woman walked by them, engrossed in a conversation she was having on her cell phone.

  “Look, you have to be willing to be a total slut here, okay?” she said. “That’s our mantra, you know.”

  Heat waited until the woman passed by, then said, “High-end madam?”

  “Literary agent,” Ro
ok said. “Though, admittedly, with the best ones, it can be hard to tell.”

  Heat looked up at the building they were about to enter. “Okay, so what’s the scouting report on Tam’s editor?”

  “His name is Steve Liebman. I met him once or twice. He’s the metro editor, if you know what I mean.”

  “No, actually, I don’t.”

  “Metro editors are the stressed-out middle managers of the newspaper world. They are constantly being hounded by the editors above them in the food chain to produce sensational front-page news that will send copies of that day’s paper flying off the newsstands and clicking all over the Web, whether or not anything sensational has actually happened. His job is to then take the misery of those impossible expectations and pass it on to his reporters tenfold, making their lives living hells if they don’t deliver the exact story the higher-up editors think exists, even if the only place it exists is in their imaginations. It’s a job that basically involves sucking dry every soul that wanders into your vicinity.”

  “Sounds charming.”

  “He’s a pretty good guy, actually,” Rook said, then added: “For an editor.”

  “Think he’ll help us?”

  “Under ordinary circumstances, if an NYPD captain stormed into the Ledger newsroom and demanded to know what one of his reporters was up to, Liebman would be professionally obligated to laugh you out of his office,” Rook confirmed. “But, of course, these aren’t ordinary circumstances.”

  “Well, then here goes nothing,” Heat said. “Let me take the lead, okay? I want to have you around to make things right if I get off on the wrong foot and make a mess.”

  “I’ll be your Mr. Clean,” Rook said. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in some dark glass and ran a hand through his thick, stylishly cut mane. “With, you know, much better hair.”

  Heat led them into the building’s lobby and announced herself to the rent-a-cops at the security desk.

  Five minutes later, once they had been outfitted with paper badges bearing their names and pictures, Heat and Rook were met by a clerk. She was a frazzled-looking young woman who escorted them up fourteen floors to a large, open room with a sea of desks in the middle. Roughly half of them were occupied, with men and women in equal measure, most of them also young and harried. Newspaper economics had been so bad for so long, places like the Ledger were now chronically understaffed. Most of the employees were fresh-out-of-college rookies who would allow themselves to be scandalously underpaid in return for the “experience” of working at one of the country’s largest dailies.