“Oh, yeah, that’d be great, Yards,” Heat said, with acid sweetness. “Can I wear my police blues or would DHS rather skip the pretense and have me dress up like a monkey?”
Bell put on a pouty face. “Nikki, honestly, don’t be like this. Did you seriously think this was going to stay your case? What did you think, that you’d transfer these two knuckleheads out to that zoo at Rikers Island? Because let me tell you what would happen out there. One, they’d radicalize the entire Muslim inmate population. And, two, the real ISIS would decide that it would be a marvelous plan to send some heavy-hitter jihadists over here to break them out. Can you imagine what a coup that would be for them? To make America look weak and incompetent on its own soil? You know it wouldn’t be that difficult with that Swiss-cheese jail of yours.”
Bell shook her head. “Sorry, Nikki. You know this isn’t personal. We just have resources you don’t. And needs you don’t. This is bigger than your case clearance rate. You have to see that.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Ochoa shifted his weight, having already made his thoughts on the matter clear. Raley coughed needlessly. Feller crossed his arms. Rhymer was rocking back and forth between the balls of his feet and the heels.
But they were all looking at her. She could feel their eyes on her, and again, she knew she was being evaluated. What kind of leader was she? Would she stick up for her squad, for her department? Was she tough enough to tell the federal government to go and shove it, because this was the NYPD’s case through and through?
She wanted them to know she’d battle for them; she’d battle for justice, tooth and nail and then some.
But, ultimately, there is a fine line between brave opposition and pointless resistance. And this was clearly an instance where trying to get in the Department of Homeland Security’s way would put her on the wrong side of it. Heat reminded herself of an axiom her mother had taught her long ago: Sometimes a good run beats a bad stand.
“They’re in the interrogation rooms,” Heat said. “You should know they’ve both invoked their right to counsel. I don’t think you’re going to get anything more out of them.”
“Thank you,” Bell said. “We’ll be sending a refrigerated truck over for the body tomorrow. I trust the victim can stay in your morgue overnight?”
“That’s fine.”
“Are there any investigative leads you’ve been working on that we can follow up on?” Bell asked.
“Other than what we got from her credit card company? Not a thing,” Heat lied without skipping a beat. “And then there’s whatever our Evidence Collection Team is getting from the suspect’s apartments. But I suppose that’s yours now, too. Otherwise, I trust you’ll keep us apprised of the progress of your investigation?”
“Absolutely,” Bell lied back. “I assume you’ve made contact with next of kin? You must have, since you notified the media.”
“We did,” Heat said. “Are you going to tell them that the brutal thugs who killed their daughter are going to be used as bargaining chips so gas can stay at two bucks a gallon?”
“No, of course not. And I don’t even know if this has to do with oil. But just to ease your mind, yes, the family will be told that El-Bashir and Al-Aman have taken a plea deal to spare themselves the death penalty and are being sent to solitary confinement in a supermax prison for the rest of their lives. They’ll be diverted at some point after that. The family will then be told each man attacked a guard and was killed during the altercation. That’s if the deal goes through. But that’s above my pay grade.”
Bell read the incredulous looks around the room. “Look, guys, this is the way the world works, okay? I don’t like it any more than you do sometimes. But there are considerations here that are bigger than any of us in this room can imagine. Sometimes we’re all just extras who have to play our roles.”
“This movie stinks,” Raley muttered.
“Homes, if I had Jujyfruits, I’d be throwing them at the screen,” Ochoa said, momentarily forgetting his feud with Raley. There was suddenly a bigger enemy in the room.
Bell ignored them. She clapped her hands together and smiled like they had been finalizing plans for a Labor Day picnic. “Well, I guess that just about covers everything.”
“I guess it does,” Heat said.
“It’s been great seeing you again,” Bell said. “And you’ll tell Jamie I said hello?”
“Naturally,” Heat said.
Which was just one more lie.
Heat could feel her detectives’ energy sag as the no-neck guys from the Department of Homeland Security big-footed their way around, collecting El-Bashir and Al-Aman, then signing the appropriate paperwork.
Rather than witness the rapid demoralization of her squad, Heat retreated to her office and took a quick pass through the enormous list of unread e-mail that had piled up, only answering if she was sure ignoring it would get her fired.
Once Bell and her underlings were gone, Heat returned to the bull pen. Her detectives were all in various phases of shuffling meaningless paperwork around their desks, getting ready to go home for the day.
“Okay, guys,” she said. “Back to work.”
“What do you mean?” Feller huffed. “You just let the feds take our suspects so they can be part of something so big that us little people can’t possibly understand.”
“Yeah, but they didn’t take what matters most.”
“What’s that?”
“Our information,” Heat said.
“What are you talking about, Captain?” Ochoa said, rising from his throne of pillows and limping toward her.
“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but there is exactly one way we’re going to ensure that Tariq Al-Aman and Hassan El-Bashir face justice in America.”
“And how is that?”
“We’re going to take everything we learn and leak it to the New York Ledger.”
Faces went slack. Jaws hung open. Heads tilted.
Dogs had just thrown their lot in with cats. Oil and water had just announced they were planning to have a nice mixer. Republicans had just decided they’d just go with whatever the Democrats said. Heat couldn’t have shocked them more if she’d declared she was quitting her job to go work for a defense attorney.
Opie recovered first. Barely. “But…Captain,” he stammered. “Can you…Can you do that? I mean, goll-lleee!”
“No. Of course not. Which is why we are all going to keep this quiet. If any of you don’t want to be part of this, I totally understand. We’ll just pretend this conversation never—”
“That’s not even a question,” Raley said. “We’re in. Right, guys?”
“Yup,” Rhymer said.
“Damn straight,” Feller said.
“No doubt,” Ochoa said.
Raley continued, “The only real question is: Do you think it’ll work?”
“Spooks love to operate in the shadows,” Heat said. “It’s their world. So we’re going to make sure there is so much light on this case they have nowhere to hide. We’re going to cultivate evidence exactly the way we normally would, and then we’re going to turn it over to the Ledger. Every leak is going to be a front page, and then you know other media outlets will follow. If we do it right, the fact that the Ledger is owning the story about its fallen colleague so thoroughly will become its own story.
“The Yardley Bells of the world rely on the fact that people eventually stop paying attention. They thrive on what they can do when everyone else’s heads are turned. We have to make sure that no one forgets for half a second that Hassan El-Bashir and Tariq Al-Aman are in US custody, awaiting trial for their crimes. By the time we’re done, they’ll be celebrities wherever they go. They’ll be too conspicuous to possibly slip out of the system unnoticed.”
“Using the press like a pair of brass knuckles,” Ochoa said, smiling. “I like it.”
“And Tam would love it,” Raley said, piggybacking on his partner’s point. “I know you’re all about honor
ing the victim, Captain. I do believe you’ve chosen the best way possible.”
“I’ve developed a bit of a relationship with Tam’s editor,” Heat said. “I’ll find a way to communicate with him in a way that won’t come back to any of us. I’m sure he’ll jump at the chance.”
“Okay, so what do we do next?” Raley asked.
“We need to keep cultivating information so we can continue to feed the beast,” Heat said. “One thing we need to get a better handle on is how they got Tam in there in the first place. We know they didn’t bring her in the front entrance. So it had to be the back entrance.”
“No cameras, I checked already,” Raley said.
“I know. But someone had to see something back there. Opie and Randy, I know you guys were doing some canvassing around the alley where the Dumpster is. But can you shift a few doors up this time? I want us to talk to anyone whose apartment has a view of the back of the mosque.”
“You got it,” Feller said.
“I’ve also got a thought for something the king of all surveillance media could do.”
“His Highness is at your service.”
“We now have a pretty good sample of both El-Bashir and Al-Aman talking in the interrogation rooms. Can you see if you can start stripping away the filter on the original video and then see if you can match it to those new samples? Maybe if you can even restore some of the video, the computer will be able to find similarities our ears can’t.”
“Got it,” Raley said.
“What about me?” Ochoa said.
“Go home. Take some painkillers. Lie on your belly. You’ve put in your pound of flesh for the day.”
“No can do, Cap. If these guys are working, I have to be, too. That’s how it works. I’ve always wanted to go to Cleveland, you know. Maybe this is my chance.”
Heat shook her head. “No. A well-dressed limping Mexican-American with a cane would attract way too much attention no matter where he went. I can’t have you playing secret cop on turf we don’t control. Plus, I’m guessing Lorain, Ohio is not exactly a throbbing metropolis. If the feds are there, too, they’ll get wind of you in about six seconds.”
Feller piped up: “We could use another pair of shoes to pound the pavement with us on the canvass.”
“Good idea, Randy. Sound good, Oach?”
“You got it.”
Heat looked down at her watch. It was after six o’clock.
“Okay, where is Aguinaldo, anyway?” Heat said. “Has anyone heard from her?”
From the far side of the bull pen, the elevator pinged. The doors slid open and, as if Heat had summoned her by rubbing the side of a magic lamp, Inez Aguinaldo appeared.
“Let’s be very clear about one thing,” she said. “I am never going shopping again.”
Her hair, whose ponytail normally remained neatly within its cage, had gone free range.
Her face, whose makeup needs were typically met by a biannual trip to her local drugstore, looked like ground zero for a Clinique Bonus Week bomb.
Her walk, ordinarily so straight and even, had a wobble to it brought on by the absence of the heel in her left shoe.
“Oh, my,” Ochoa said. “Look at this.”
Feller let out a low whistle.
“Gentlemen,” Raley said, “I think it’s pretty clear there’s only one proper way for us to respond to this development.”
“Insult-off?” Ochoa said, raising his eyebrows.
“Insult-off,” Raley confirmed.
“What’s that?” Opie asked.
“It’s like a Bake-Off. But with insults,” Raley explained. “Twenty bucks a head. Winner takes all.”
Before Aguinaldo could even summon a protest, Ochoa, Feller, and Raley had whipped out their wallets and produced three twenty-dollar bills, which they threw on the desk in front of Feller.
“I want to go first,” Ochoa said. “How about: ‘Damn, girl, why didn’t you tell me they were doing auditions for The Walking Dead?’”
Feller tried next. “See, that’s good. But I was going to go with: ‘I didn’t realize the circus was in town. Does Mrs. Bozo the Clown know you’ve been sucking face with her husband?’”
Raley finished it off. “Naw, you guys are trying too hard. Be a little more subtle, like: ‘Hey, I like your blush. I think I saw it on sale at Home Depot last weekend.’”
“Ohh, good one,” Ochoa said. “Okay, Inez, you get to decide. Who’s the winner?”
Aguinaldo watched them bat her hardship around without amusement. “You guys are super funny. I’m really laughing,” she said in a perfectly flat tone.
Heat was trying not to show any reaction. But then, as Aguinaldo drew nearer, Heat wrinkled her nose, having detected a bouquet of aromas that could never exist together in nature—some combination of lavender, rose hips, vanilla, chamomile, and combat-strength insecticide.
“What…what is that smell?” Heat asked.
“Do you know how many times I’ve been sprayed today?” Aguinaldo said. “Those girls who work at the fragrance counters, they look all harmless. But they’re really like perfume ninjas. All you do is walk through and they come up to you and start a conversation. And it’s like, ‘Hello’—squirt—‘how’—squirt—‘are’—squirt, ‘you’—squirt, squirt—‘today?’ Squirt. And then, once they’ve stunned you, they hit you with another round. They are like walking quality-of-life crimes.”
Heat involuntarily drew back.
“Look, tomorrow?” Aguinaldo continued. “If you need someone to canvass the housing projects? I’m in. Wake up sleeping bums and interview them? No problem. Go undercover as a drag queen? Just strap on a dick and an Adam’s apple and I’m there. But whatever you do, do not ask me to do 5th Avenue again.”
Heat tried to hide her smile but failed.
“So, dare I ask what happened?”
“What happened,” Aguinaldo spat back, “is I had the misfortune of learning very early on that the scarf in the video is an original Laura Hopper.”
“Laura who?” Heat asked.
“Laura Hopper. Apparently, when it comes to scarves, she is the one and only designer in the world. Beyoncé? Adele? Jennifer Lawrence? If they’re going to wear a scarf, it’s going to be a Laura Hopper. They’re hand-painted silk and they retail for something like ten grand a pop. That’s if you can get your hands on one. Laura only makes so many a year. There are fierce bidding wars if one ever comes up for auction. Any time one gets put on eBay it pretty much breaks the Internet.”
“I don’t get it,” Rhymer said. “What could possibly be so special about a piece of fabric?”
“It’s the sheer brilliance of Laura Hopper herself,” Aguinaldo explained. “This is all new to me. But as I understand it, Laura Hopper is like…Well, if Louis Vuitton and Oscar de la Renta had a daughter, and then if that daughter got the best genes from both sides of the family, Laura Hopper would still put her to shame.”
“Yeah, but ten grand for a scarf?”
“Her fans say a Laura Hopper is like a gift, not only to the wearer but to the world as a whole. Each one is unique and tells its own story. It’s like a priceless piece of art you can wear around your neck. And Laura never repeats a design. She even throws out the colors once she’s done and remixes a new batch for the next scarf. No two Laura Hoppers are alike in any way.”
“Well, that’s great news then, isn’t it?” Heat said. “We can just call up Laura Hopper and ask her to see if she can remember who she sold this scarf to? If each scarf is so unusual, maybe she’ll remember.”
“Believe me, I tried that, like, eight hours and forty squirts ago. Laura is based in New York and I was able to get to her personal assistant. The problem is Laura Hopper is right now in Tahiti for her annual three-week totally unplugged vacation. Apparently, the only people who can reach her are the strapping cabana boys who are sent in to give her massages and make her daiquiris. But even they’re sworn to secrecy on pain of death.”
“But doesn’t he
r assistant, I don’t know, keep track of each scarf somehow? Do they catalogue it? Take a picture of it before they sell it?”
“Yes and no,” Aguinaldo said. “They primarily sell to buyers in New York, because that’s where most of the American fashion industry is anyway. The assistant had records of everywhere they’ve ever sold a scarf. But not which scarf was sold. It’s not like they number them. Nor do they attempt to describe the piece—Laura Hopper feels that if you give a scarf a name, it diminishes it somehow.
“So,” Aguinaldo said, making her aggravation clear, “I was left to go around to every name on that list, hoping someone might recognize this individual Laura Hopper as the one they sold.”
“How many were there?”
“Hundreds. And the thing is Laura Hopper has these egalitarian leanings. So it’s not just the super high-end places. Sometimes she’ll give a scarf to, say, Macy’s and ask them to quietly put it on the clearance rack for thirty bucks. That way even the non-rich get a chance to own a little piece of the glory that is a Laura Hopper, if they have a discerning-enough eye.”
“Damn,” Ochoa said. “So Laura Hopper is like Willy Wonka without the chocolate factory.”
“And without the creepy thing for kids,” Feller added.
“Yeah. The problem for us is, let’s just say you’re the lucky consumer who finds that singular Laura Hopper deep in the discount bin at Filene’s Basement,” Aguinaldo said. “The moment you realize that thirty-dollar scarf could get you upwards of ten grand, what do you do?”
“A happy dance that looks ridiculous on a white man?” Raley suggested.
“Well, yes, that,” Aguinaldo said. “But then, chances are, you’ve got bills to pay and kids who need braces, and in any event, everyone at the big party you’re going to is just going to think it’s a knockoff Laura Hopper anyway. So you sell it.”
“Is that what happened to this Laura Hopper?” Heat asked.