Raging Heat

  Rook didn’t miss a beat as they walked toward it. “How could Gilbert not call that a mansion? Jeez, it’s the size of a hotel. No, it’s Downton Abbey’s little brother, only of wood. And did you see the color variation on the roof and siding? That must be the post-Irene repair work he was complaining about.”

  Actually, Nikki had made note of the new shingling, too, first on the old windmill, then on the house and roof; the older squares appeared slightly darker than the replacements. “Lot of work got done on that place since spring.” Meaning a Rook Theory couldn’t be far off.

  “Here comes.”

  “Hey, I don’t think it’s tinfoil hat time to postulate that our dead Haitian’s manual labor job was rehabbing Cosmo. In fact, are you ready for a hypothesis?”

  Heat said no, but he voiced it anyway, one that she herself had been percolating. “You’ve got a guy about to run for political office. Lots of scrutiny. Everybody sniffing through every aspect of his life. And what’s one very damning skeleton he could have rattling in his closet? Employing an illegal alien.”

  “So you think the ten grand was hush money to Beauvais?”

  “Got you thinking, haven’t I?” Then he stretched and grinned. “Validation. Hello, my old chum.”

  Alicia Delamater invited them in. As Heat put away her ID, the woman said, “You didn’t strike me as religious solicitors. Not that you’d get many converts on this stretch of road. Can I offer you anything?” Nikki noticed the half glass of red on the black lacquered hutch where she must have parked it when they rang the bell.

  “That’s very kind. We’d just like to ask you a few questions, then we’ll be off.”

  “Sure. But can you come with me? You caught me in the middle of something.” They followed her from the foyer into the dining room, which had been converted into a home office. “I’m downloading a bunch of baby pictures to make posters for a client’s surprise seventieth for her dad.” She moved around to her Cinema Screen monitor and frowned. “Can you believe people still use DSL? So East Ender.”

  Outside of, maybe, pizza, a meal hadn’t been served in that room for a long time. It bespoke ordered chaos with surfaces and shelves full of large-format planning calendars, catering menus, three-ring binders with client last names on the spines, and event photos with socialites and celebrities. Rook said, “I take it you’re a party planner.”

  “Planner, executor, part-time shrink to the wealthy dysfunctional. I’m also not above valet parking a few Bentleys, if it makes the host happy.” Alicia Delamater radiated a gameness for just about anything. Beyond energy and ambition, she gave off an up-front lustiness, like a skinny-dip or a margarita in a red cup was never out of the question. Nikki took her to be about her age, but showing some mileage that must have gone with the lifestyle. “I’m all yours,” she said, surrendering to the sluggish bit rate.

  “Do you mind if I ask if you’ve been around here long?”

  “About two years. Got sick of the corporate insanity and chose my own brand. Moved here, started my own business, and, Geronimo.”

  “You must be doing all right,” said Rook.

  “Not getting the call from Sean Combs to revive his White Party all right, but all right enough.” She let her gaze linger on the handsome journalist in frank assessment.

  Heat broke that right up with the photo. “Sometime in the last few months would you have seen this man?”

  The woman let out a throaty laugh. “Oh my God, are you kidding? Sure. That’s Fabian.” Then she gave Heat a worried glance. “This is a mug shot. Is he in some kind of trouble?”

  Nikki remained nonchalant, but Rook moved closer in his excitement. “And do you know his last name?”

  “It’s one of those French-Haitian ones. Not Bouvier but close.”

  “Beauvais?” offered Heat. And Alicia affirmed with a nod. “How or where do you know him?”

  “He worked here for me. I had a lot of high-water damage after Irene that I just lived with through the winter. I hired Fab in the summer to get the property in shape.”

  Rook joined in. “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Exactly two weeks ago. He cut his leg on the power clipper. I offered to take him to the ER but he refused. Probably paranoid because he was illegal.” An idea struck her. “You’re not here because I hired an alien…?”

  “No,” Nikki assured her. “We’re just trying to piece together his movements. “Did he have any other interaction around here, perhaps do some work for some of the neighbors?” She held her breath, waiting for the Keith Gilbert connection. But Alicia shook her head.

  “No way. I kept him too busy here, believe me.”

  “Did Beauvais tell you where he was going when he left?” asked Rook.

  “Back to New York was all he said.”

  Heat turned a page on her notebook. “And what about visitors, did anyone come by?” The woman wagged no again. “Did he ever mention any problems or conflicts with anyone?”

  “No, I’m sorry, Detective. He was just a nice guy who worked on my property and left. Not much else to tell.”

  They walked down her driveway in silence. Heat churned conflicted feelings. Not just the surface disappointment that Fabian Beauvais’s connection pointed to Alicia Delamater, not Keith Gilbert, but the wariness she felt that of all the places the Haitian could end up in an area the size of the Hamptons, it was with Gilbert’s neighbor. As he so often did, Rook voiced her thoughts. “Did that pass the smell test for you?”

  “She never asked why we were interested in him.”

  “But you never told her, either. Is that a holdback, Detective?”

  “I want to knock on some more doors.”

  They got no answer at the first four places they canvassed. They agreed to try one more before dark and were greeted on the driveway of a best-selling author, a mystery writer who routinely held the top spots on airport bookracks.

  “Sure, I can spare a minute. Got Connelly, Nesbø, and Lehane waiting for me at Nick & Toni’s, but that’s all right. Good for humility.” He chuckled, and it softened his brawny good looks, making that iconic face appear like his early author photos, the ones before he started wearing sunglasses and black leather coats in a dark alley. He gave a polite nod of recognition to Jameson Rook when Nikki introduced him, but the crime novelist seemed more keen on Heat and her police interview.

  “No, I can’t say that I’ve seen this guy. But there’s a battalion of casual laborers through here. On any given day, somebody’s building something or tearing something down. Have you tried Beckett’s Neck? I swear Gilbert’s been single-handedly turning the economy around this summer.”

  “We didn’t get anybody who could help us there,” said Heat. “Aside from you, the only person we’ve talked to is Alicia Delamater, his neighbor.”

  The author seemed to find that funny. He repeated “neighbor” and made air quotes then leaned forward, as if he could be overheard on his four-acre estate. “Try substituting ‘mistress’ and you’ll have it.”

  “Aha,” said Rook. “So there’s been a little hedge jumping?”

  “And then some. Rumor is Keith Gilbert was doing her when she worked at his shipping company. Must be good because he installed her out here and set up her business.”

  Rook nodded. “That’s what I call a golden petticoat.”

  “Stick to magazines,” said the author.

  When she opened her door to find Heat and Rook, Alicia Delamater’s smile seemed forced. “You back to check on my download? Still cooking, can you believe it?”

  “I had a few more questions, if that’s all right.”

  Alicia shrugged fine and smiled a little more. Heat made it a point to hold her pen over her notebook. “I was wondering, how did you come to hire Fabian Beauvais?”

  Alicia pursed her lips and let her eyes roam the beadboard on the porc
h ceiling. Nikki prodded her. “I mean, could you give me the name of the agency? Or did you drive by and pick him out of the crowd of immigrants who hang out near the train station?”

  “Hmm, can’t remember. But I’ve got your card; I’ll call you when I do.” Heat sensed uneven breathing and decided to push.

  “Are you currently, or have you been, in a relationship with Keith Gilbert?”

  “I…I think you should go.” And Alicia Delamater closed her front door.

  “I’m no detective,” said Rook, “but I would definitely mark that down as a yes.”

  The hostess at the 1770 House gave them the most romantic spot in the restaurant, a table for two against a pony wall for privacy right near the antique fireplace for atmosphere and coziness. “I feel sort of weird checking into a special place like this without luggage,” she said after they sat.

  “See?” said Rook. “A first.” He reached across the linen and took her hand. “You’re not still perseverating on the fact that I’ve been here before.”

  Heat surveyed the subdued dining room’s exposed beams, tasteful oil paintings, and period china displays that adorned the walls. As she watched the hearth’s goldenness flicker on Rook’s face, Nikki felt a warmth and anticipation spread inside her and slid her other hand to caress his. “I can be distracted,” she said.

  Aware of the small world of East Hampton, they had decided in the car not to discuss the case in an open setting, which was difficult because the afternoon had raised as many questions as it answered. But that would wait. A bottle of Lucien Crochet Sancerre sat on ice and the pressing order of business for Heat and Rook was to choose between pan roasted Atlantic cod or the organic chicken with mashed potatoes and kale.

  Rook made a face. “Problem with chicken after today?” she asked.

  “What’s all the excitement about kale? Know what kale is? Kale is the pubic hair of greens.”

  “Shh.” Nikki swept the other tables, but nobody else heard.

  He leaned in and lowered his voice. “Seriously. Know what kale tastes like? The Jolly Green Giant’s nether regions. Don’t ask how I know.”

  They laughed and made a lovers’ tink of their wineglasses. Nikki studied him, fighting her anticipation, just as she also embraced it and felt its thrill. Then her phone buzzed. She stole a discreet look and the caller ID told her it was Detective Ochoa. “I’m sorry.”

  “Please. Take it.”

  Heat excused herself and whispered, “Hang on,” during her walk to the inn’s reception area. Both Ochoa and Raley were on the call and eager to fill her in.

  Ochoa began, “We still haven’t turned any eyewits, and the security cams aren’t pointed in our favor. As for the Wall Street check, so far this guy was a candidate for sainthood. But we’ll still mine that shaft.”

  “Now for the strange. Want to talk odd socks?” asked Raley, employing the term she had coined to instruct her squad always to look for things at a crime scene that don’t match or feel right. “We’ve spent the day here combing through everything with CSU and the inventory specialist from the victim’s insurance company. Nothing valuable got taken. And there’s plenty here. Jewelry, collector paintings, sculptures. Even some gold Krugerrands in a cigar humidor.”

  “Anyway,” continued Ochoa, “drawers have been emptied, bookcases pawed, closets ransacked, you get the picture. But all this valuable stuff around, and nothing seems to have gotten boosted.”

  Raley added, “Oh, and even the maid’s room got tossed. Which is odd. It’s pretty spare. Just some clothes and makeup. And no wall safe in there.”

  “Somebody was looking for something,” she said.

  “And we can’t tell if they found it.”

  “What about the maid?” asked Heat.

  “Nowhere to be found,” said Ochoa. “Missing as missing can be.”

  “And here’s reason we called. The maid’s not only Haitian, but in her room we found a picture of a guy who could be a boyfriend.” Raley paused. “He’s got a tatt on his shoulder.” In butchered pronunciation he said, “‘L’Union Fait La Force.’ Pardon my French.”

  They surrendered their fireside table, checked out of the room—unused—and drove west, pausing only for a pit stop in Sagapanack for takeout at Townline BBQ. “So much for our romantic dinner,” she said.

  “I don’t think of it so much as a romantic dinner as an incursion. But that’s fine. Rain check tomorrow night,” said Rook as they joined the red ribbon of taillights on 495. “How do you feel about an intimate rooftop supper for two? I’m sure Alton Brown has something in his Good Eats repertoire. I’ll look in the index under ‘Fussy, and Travels Well Up a Fire Escape.’”

  “Or you could just consult Alicia Delamater. I’ll bet she’s carried more than one covered dish across the lane to Casa Cosmo.”

  “I’d say a hot dish. Sure explains why Keith Gilbert said his wife never goes there.”

  “Come on, Rook, it’s obviously the other way around. The wife never goes there, so it’s the perfect place to stash his mistress.”

  “Not so stashed, as it happens. That’s the way it is with secrets; we both know that. Sooner or later, it all comes out.”

  There it was, served up like a big softball: Nikki’s opening to come clean about the task force and relieve the pangs that had troubled her all day. She almost seized it, but held back, telling herself it was too speculative, to wait and see. In truth she knew it wasn’t the job’s hypothetical nature, but its disruptive one. Her emotions were swirling enough about his potential marriage proposal, why open the touchy subject of a new gig involving lots of absences for international travel?

  “Wonder if it’s possible Fabian Beauvais sniffed out Gilbert’s illicit relationship and that’s what bought him a skydive without a parachute,” he said. “Like, could that money be a blackmail payoff?”

  “What is that, theory number ten?” Even though Heat teased him, she had already added that notion to her growing list of maybes. But Nikki kept that list stowed away. She had seen too many detectives fall in love with one theory too soon and shut the door to all the other possibilities.

  “An observation?” she said. “Keith Gilbert has to know by now that we were nosing around out there. If his caretaker didn’t tell him, Alicia certainly did. That was almost three hours ago, and yet, no reaction. No call, no text, no thunder from the department’s brass mountain.”

  “You know, Detective, it gets curiouser and curiouser. I had no idea when I pitched this case as a story to First Press it would end up being so juicy. An alien crashing to earth from the heavens now could herald the fall of a rising political star. Writes itself, doesn’t it?” And then he quickly added, “They don’t, just so you know. They never do.”

  If Detectives Raley and Ochoa felt tired, it didn’t show on them when Heat and Rook ducked under the caution tape and entered the apartment on West End Avenue later that night. The exhilaration of piloting their own case had made the day timeless for Roach, who were on opposite sides of the living room, each conferring with a different CSU tech near bright portable work lights that made it feel more like noon than midnight.

  “Oh, sure, you guys flit off to the Hamptons on a mini-vacation and leave the heavy lifting to us,” said Ochoa as the four of them gathered near the bloodstain.

  Heat wanted to get right to the potential tattoo connection, but engaged in the ritual cop game of playing against emotion in response to the masked thanks he’d just offered for the opportunity. “Yeah, well, until you rudely interrupted, we were hobnobbing with J-Lo and Jerry Seinfeld and Martha Stewart. We only came back to laugh at all the evidence you two overlooked.”

  Protocols met, Roach began the recap with a tour. The shambles matched Roach’s phone description. The luxury apartment looked as if a bear had gotten into a cabin and clawed every possible hiding place for food. Bookcases, clothing armoires,
and furniture had all been scraped, dumped, or slashed. Valuables—and there were plenty left behind by the burglar or burglars—had been photographed, inventoried, and filed in banker’s boxes labeled NYPD Forensics. CSU technicians were still dusting for prints and plucking fibers in the maid’s quarters when they got there.

  Heat asked, “Did we flip the mattress like that?”

  “Found it that way,” answered Detective Raley. And then, sensing the graveness that descended on his squad leader as she stooped to inspect the modest personal belongings scattered on the floor—a hairbrush, a small crucifix, store-brand makeup, and a shattered votive candle—he added more gently, “We found bimonthly stubs in the victim’s checkbook made out to her. The name’s Jeanne Capois.”

  “Yeah, I got it on your missing persons call alert.” She rose up and went to the window. “Was this locked like this?”

  Ochoa nodded. “And no sign of exit.”

  “Any blood in here?”

  The tech in the hairnet and sterile suit said, “No. But still checking.”

  Nikki said, “What about the picture?”

  “Pulled these off the floor underneath the box springs.” Ochoa held out three cellophane evidence envelopes. The first two contained group photos of friends: one at a nightclub; another from Battery Park with Lady Liberty in the background. “Must have gotten knocked off the bulletin board.”

  Heat noted the small corkboard, askew on the wall, with a tropical sunset photo push-pinned into it above a trio of faded rectangles where these shots had been posted. Only one woman was common to both pictures. Black, mid-twenties, beautiful. The third shot was a solo of a black man, also mid-twenties. It had been taken on the Coney Island boardwalk, and he had his shirt off. On one of his shoulders the Haitian tattoo faced the camera.

  “We’ll get this to Forensics to verify the tattoo match,” said Raley, anticipating her.