Deadly Heat

  The knob of the entrance door inside the gate wouldn’t turn, and a serious deadbolt above it was likely engaged. There wasn’t enough light for her to see in the crack if the brass tongue had been thrown. She moved on, inching forward, pressing herself against the corrugated steel siding toward the landing area. She brought her service weapon up to an isosceles brace and peered around that corner.

  A fresh wind rolling down from Hell Gate blew across the blacktop helipad before her. The only other sound to compete with Manhattan’s ubiquitous white noise of traffic came from the lapping of the East River against the pilings. The area was empty but for a single, parked helicopter occupying the space designed for five choppers. Nylon tie-down straps held its rotors in place, although they rocked slightly in the night air. The Sikorsky remained as it had landed, nose-in toward the building, with its tail above the red and white striped curb that marked the edge of the pier as a guide for pilots as they approached over the river. The craft appeared every bit like a stealth bomber’s cousin at that moment: an ominous form, pitch-black except for a faint glow coming from inside. Curiously, that glow was the most foreboding thing on the pier. Because it beckoned to her in the darkness.

  She waited with her back against the steel, measuring risk. Twenty feet of exposure stretched between her and the helicopter. To her right, at the south end of the tarmac, a vacant parking lot—minimal worry there. To her left, a parking lot full of double-decker stacked cars bordered the north end of the blacktop. Lots of cover. That’s where trouble would come from.

  Her eyes became attracted to that light, and she made a decision. She broke across the open space, a crouching silhouette cleaving to the shadow of the helicopter when she got there. She panted, listening. A dinner yacht churned by, a charter spilling party sounds and light. Only when it left did she dare to move and peek inside the cockpit window.

  It was empty. She ducked quickly to stay in the shadows and ran a memory recap. The glow had come from the rear compartment. Duckwalking a little over a yard, she used the body of the chopper for cover. Then she rose up and peered in the window of the rear door.

  What she saw stopped her heart.

  Salena Kaye stared back at her from the passenger seat through dead eyes. Her mouth hung open in a frozen scream, exposing smashed and missing teeth. Welts and cigarette burns marked her face. A picklock protruded from the nearest ear canal, above a dried flow of blood and plasma that had streamed down the side of her neck, staining the shoulder of her white T-shirt. The handle of a large, military-style knife jutted out of her sternum above an oval blotch of red. And around the knife’s knuckle grip, someone had tied a string. An orange string.

  Attached to a dangling bullet.

  At that moment, lying prone atop the flat roof of the heliport’s office, Rainbow watched her silhouette through the sight scope of his rifle. She had come to him like all the others had. Inducing her had taken more doing than with the rest of them; Salena Kaye had required an extraordinary amount of persuasion to make that phone call. But her torture opened a surprising new door to his enjoyment. And the result of it had succeeded in luring her to him. None of them could resist the seduction of a great clue. Not even the famous Detective Heat.

  Rainbow took his time, waiting for the moment. He wanted to witness the juncture of horror’s full absorption—the lightning-crack realization when all the tumblers fell into place, when all the strings connected. The months of planning and the weeks of execution came down to this, and it would not be rushed. The taking of Nikki Heat’s life had to come right at the instant he saw the revelation break across her face.

  To rush made it cheap. To wait made her his.

  Patience. He settled the rifle stock on the sandbag and held the back of her head center-scope so the crosshairs would track across her ear to her temple to her brow to her forehead when she came around.

  At last she began to turn.

  EIGHTEEN

  Rainbow wished he could see more of her face. Too much silhouette and shadow, he thought. Maybe he shouldn’t have killed so many lights, after all. But the glow inside the Sikorsky’s cabin should be enough. If she would only favor him just a bit more. He tensed his jaw and muttered to himself, “Come on, Nikki, let me see you.”

  “You’d have to turn around,” said Detective Heat, “but I wouldn’t advise it.”

  He lifted his head up from the rifle scope and cocked his head slightly to the side. In his periphery he made her out. Heat, not ten feet away, hidden behind the rooftop air-conditioning box with her elbows braced and her Sig aimed right at his head. She spoke quietly, in total control. “NYPD. Move your hands away from that rifle, or I’m going to get your brains all over my favorite jacket.”

  Windsor complied. “How long have you been there?”

  “Well before you,” said Detective Heat, the poster cop for tactics and cover. “Now crawl backward toward me, slowly.” He got up on all fours, creeping in reverse, moving out of reach of the rifle. “Good. Now, facedown, nose to the deck. Spread your arms wide and turn your palms up.” As soon as he parked himself, Heat came around, patted him down for weapons, and stood over him, bending slightly so her head wouldn’t bump the steel girders on the underside of the FDR. “You even scratch, I’ll shoot.” He said nothing, just kept his face to the tar.

  Nikki half-turned to the helipad and called out, “Detective Hinesburg.”

  Below, the silhouette near the helicopter spun her way. In the dim light, Heat could barely make out Sharon Hinesburg’s arms coming up in a combat stance, but then, back-lit by the window of the helicopter, Heat saw her pointing locked hands toward the rooftop of the modular building and sweeping them frantically back and forth. “Hold your fire, Detective,” she shouted. “I’ve got Glen Windsor in custody. Get over here and cover him while I get him down.”

  Hinesburg repositioned the fire safety ladder Heat had used, carrying it to the front of the building where they could take advantage of more ambient light from across the river. From the rooftop, Nikki trained a bright Mag-Tac LED in Glen Windsor’s eyes to glare him out as he descended to Hinesburg. Both detectives held weapons on him. “Kiss the deck again,” said Heat when he reached the bottom. Nikki waited for the other detective to cuff his hands behind his back before she descended.

  “How the fuck?” asked Rainbow, twisting his head to the side.

  “Rule one of an ambush,” said Heat. “Show up first.”

  “But how did you know?” asked Hinesburg. “I didn’t know.”

  Heat didn’t have time for the list of things Hinesburg didn’t know—that would be coming, and soon—so she kept it brief. “Salena Kaye sounded drugged on that call. Tortured, too, it turns out. She even tried to give me a signal by mixing up Dunkin’ Donuts with Starbucks. Those raised my suspicion.

  “But then I got the DMV hit on the minivan you have registered in Connecticut,” she said to Rainbow. “The silver minivan. Same color and model seen taking Salena Kaye away when I chased her. But you didn’t rescue her, did you, Glen? You’d been stalking me and kidnapped her. What did you do, chloroform her?”

  “Chloroform,” he said. “They always go quietly.”

  And then Heat made it all formal. “Glen Windsor, you are under arrest for the murders of Roy Conklin, Maxine Berkowitz, Douglas Sandmann, and Joseph Flynn.” With a glance to the helicopter, she added, “And Salena Kaye.”

  His only response was to ask if he could get up now. Heat had more to accomplish and said no.

  “Want me to get my car?” asked Hinesburg.

  “No. I want you to give me your gun.”

  Sharon chuckled nervously. “Excuse m—?” In a quick, unexpected move, Heat jerked the Smith & Wesson from her hand and slipped it in her jacket pocket. She held on to her Sig Sauer, covering both of them now.

  “Nikki… What was that for?”

  Heat popped her Mag on again and shined it down on Windsor so there’d be some light without blinding her. “This will help
them spot us. I texted for backup while you moved the ladder. I’d like you on the ground, Sharon.”

  “What is going on here?”

  In the new light, Nikki could see the widening of her eyes. And the fear. Heat said, “Glen beat you to it.”

  “To what? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You came to kill Salena Kaye before she could give up the terror plot. Or you came to kill me. Or both.”

  “I… Wha… Seriously?”

  “I knew you would listen to the recording of Salena’s phone call. It’s how you knew to come here. But just in case, I left the pad on my desk with the time and place of our meeting.”

  “You baited me?”

  “It’s only bait if you take it. Right, Glen?”

  “Fuck yourself.”

  Hinesburg said, “This is nuts. I came here to back you up.”

  “Sure, you did. Very proactive of you for a change, Sharon.”

  “OK, know what I think? You need to stop. It’s one thing not to like me, but—”

  “This isn’t because I don’t like you.”

  “Then why?”

  “It’s because you’re the mole.” Hinesburg’s mouth opened to protest some more, but nothing came out. Nikki leveled her gaze at her and said, “I saw you on video at the Coney Crest, Sharon. Salena’s hideout.”

  “Yuh. Because you told me to go there.” Hinesburg sounded worse than unconvincing. She sounded chin-deep in quicksand.

  “I watched the security video from that place. Know what got my antenna up first? When you talked to the manager, you never flashed tin and you never showed him the picture of Salena Kaye.” Hinesburg started to talk, but Nikki pressed forward, cutting her off. “That got my attention, but I could even dismiss that as part of your sloppy work habits. Trust me, the least of your worries. But I let the video roll and I saw you on the other cam. Sharon, you went up to the second floor.”

  “That does not mean anything.”

  “No, but then I kept watching. And when you came down you were putting something in your bag. It looked just like a garage door opener. But it wasn’t, was it, Sharon? It was the remote control for the bomb that killed Tyler Wynn, wasn’t it? That’s why you showed up uninvited for that raid, to get close enough to trigger it.”

  Hinesburg didn’t reply. Her eyes began to fill. She stared into nothingness. Heat waved her gun toward the blacktop. “Assume the position. Don’t make this worse for yourself than it is.”

  Not so much defiant as immobile, Hinesburg stayed put. Her lip began to quiver. “They came to me one day and asked me to stay close to you.”

  “And do what? Screw up my investigation?”

  “No, just to keep track. Let them know what you were doing. And when. That was all.” Even in the dim light Nikki could see Hinesburg’s features draw slack under shame’s gravity. Heat wondered, was Sharon’s incompetence real or, as the playwright said, was she just being wise enough to play the fool? “I never knew it would go this far. When people started dying, I freaked. Nikki, do you have any idea how much pressure I’ve been under?”

  At that point Heat went with fool.

  “Then they started asking me to do more than just inform. When I saw what happened to other people, I didn’t dare say no. They had me slow down the investigation wherever I could. And then warn them when you were coming on a raid. And what did I get for all my stress? A few thousand extra and the joy of fucking Wally Irons to keep my job.” She wiped away a clear string of snot. “They’ll try to kill me, too, you know.” Wheels started turning. “I want protection.”

  Heat had heard those very words a few hours before. From the corpse staring out at them from the rear seat of the chopper.

  “Sharon, the bomb you triggered killed a man.”

  “I’ll deal. I know stuff.”

  “Start now. When and where’s the bioterror event?”

  “That, I don’t know. Honest.”

  “Who’s running it? Who’s running you?” Sirens grew in the near distance. “Now would look better for you, Sharon.”

  Glen Windsor’s play came so suddenly she found herself halfway to the ground before she realized he’d made his move. She didn’t see it, but figured later that it must have been some kind of break-dancer’s body pop. He bounced his chest off the tarmac and flung his calves at the back of Heat’s knees, taking her down. She dropped the flashlight, but held on to her gun. When she came up, he was running toward the river full speed with his hands cuffed behind him.

  Nikki made a fast check of Hinesburg. She stood nearby but had the rabbit look in her eyes. Torn, Heat turned back to Windsor, approaching the tail of the Sikorsky, steps from diving into the water. She braced, called, “Stop, or I’ll shoot,” then fired low, planting one in his calf. He crumpled, moaning on the tarmac against the red and white safety curb at the river’s edge.

  A voice behind her shouted, “Heat, gun!” Nikki hit the deck at the same time she heard the distinctive crack of a .40-caliber. She rolled, presenting the smallest target to the shot direction, and braced to fire. But she held.

  In the shadows, she recognized Special Agent Callan standing over Sharon Hinesburg, who was sprawled on the blacktop under the nose of the copter. “Clear,” he called. Strobing lights from police cruisers and plain wraps flashed outside the gate and reflected off the badges of unis rushing toward them. Heat got up, dragged Glen Windsor away from the river’s edge, and dropped him hard. Then she ran to Callan, getting there just as he kicked a pistol away from Hinesburg’s hand. In his own he held his P226 Elite. Nikki could still smell gunpowder.

  “She was going to back-shoot you,” he said. “You’re fucking lucky I made it.”

  Heat told the uniforms, “Get paramedics, two down. Hurry.” She knelt beside Hinesburg. She had a fat hole in her temple.

  Her eyes looked just like Salena Kaye’s.

  Dry lightning sparked to the north when Heat finished her debrief with the shooting team. Lauren Parry had wrapped up her exams of Salena Kaye and Sharon Hinesburg, preliminarily finding both causes of death obvious, but worthy of follow-up. The ME told Nikki she’d pull an all-nighter and perform the postmortems so she could have the findings first thing in the morning.

  She found Bart Callan sitting with his elbows on his knees on the short wooden ramp that led from the tarmac to the boarding area of the modular. He stared blankly at the sheet over Hinesburg’s body and the numbered yellow marker the shooting team had placed beside his ejected casing. He didn’t acknowledge Heat. She stood beside him and followed his gaze, then said, “Tough to take someone out. Especially a cop.”

  He held up the evidence bag with the pistol inside it. “Hinesburg’s backup piece. Mini Glock Twenty-six. Nine millimeters to spoil your day.” He set the bag down on the ramp between his shoes. “I can live with the kill. Lose a cop, save a cop.”

  She put a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  He gave the shortest nod and said, “Guess you had your hands too full to pat her down.”

  “You could say my attention became somewhat divided by his escape attempt.” She realized her palm still rested on him and drew it away. “You got here fast, thank God. I’d barely put out the ten-thirteen.”

  “I was already en route.” When he saw her reaction, he said, “Soon as I heard about your meet, I thought I’d better get over here and cover your idiotic butt. Any complaints?”

  “None.” Then she asked, “Heard about it how?”

  “Yardley Bell told me.”

  “Agent Bell? How did she know?”

  He picked up the evidence bag and stood. “Didn’t ask. I just assumed she heard it from your boyfriend.”

  Rook spun through the revolving door at the entrance to Bellevue Hospital and shouted her name as the door spit him out into the lobby. “Nikki!” echoed in the cavernous atrium renovators had built five years before, encasing the old stone hospital in glass like a living museum display. When he reached her, Rook grab
bed Heat in his arms, clinging tight, whispering in her ear, “Holy shit, Nik, sometimes you scare the hell out of me.” When they kissed, he sensed her reserve and studied her. “You OK?”

  She considered a moment and let it go at “Been a hell of a night. Glen Windsor is upstairs getting his calf sewn up. Soon as he’s out, he’s mine to interrogate.”

  They found a couch to wait on in the Hospital PD Squad Room near the ER, and she bulleted the sequence of events, first going back to how she knew from the sound of Salena Kaye’s phone call something was up; how she sounded either drugged or under duress, and how she’d even slipped Heat a hidden message.

  “But what gave you the idea to connect her to Rainbow?”

  “That by itself would have been a Jameson-esque leap, but it’s been bugging me how quickly Kaye just vanished off the street when I chased her out of that deli.”

  “After my Jameson-esque takedown?”

  “What have I started?” She pressed her forefinger on his lips and continued, explaining the DMV trace on the silver minivan that made Glen Windsor a probable. “I couldn’t be certain, but I figured, if he was setting me up, I could get there early enough and get in position to take him.”

  “And if it hadn’t been a setup by Rainbow?”

  “Then, worst-case scenario, I could still apprehend Salena Kaye.”

  He processed it and said, “Well done. Very Nikki-esque.”

  “Don’t even.”

  “Hinesburg, though… Man.”

  “I have to admit, I feel sort of blindsided, too. I guess I started to have inklings that I must have denied—I mean she was a flake—but that security video from Coney Crest was the big domino, knocking down all the others. Every one of her cute little screwups and oversights started looking more like sabotage: telling me Wynn’s bomb was a timer when it was a remote…”