Heat Rises

  Buried Anger

  The controversy surrounding a commander under fire, and now a probable suicide, has spilled out of the brick and concrete bunker on W. 82nd that houses the Two-Oh and rattled some windows a few miles south at One Police Plaza. NYPD toppers have reportedly balked at a Full Honors memorial service for the dead captain, leaving some in the ranks of The Finest angered by the lack of wisdom—and compassion—in a decision to dishonor a long career tarnished at its end, but preceded by decades of bravery, spotless service, and sacrifice.

  Angry cops recognize the obvious. The climate of upheaval is not solving any cases. One source summarized it this way. “Whoever killed Father Graf is still out there. In an election year I sure wouldn’t want to have to explain to the citizens of New York City why killers roam free while the brass picks fights over the size of a fallen veteran’s funeral.” Evidence points to one thing that’s certain. The NYPD has one problem that cannot be buried.

  Nikki started to pace. “This is not good, this is not going to help.”

  Rook said, “Last I checked the Ledger wasn’t so much about helping anything except newspaper sales. Seems fine to me. OK, her writing’s a little on the tabloidy side, but that’s not so much a flaw as an editorial policy.”

  She mulled the tone Rook had used for “her writing.” Nikki’s antenna was already up about Tam Svejda, but she had refused to play the role of current girlfriend jealous of the ex. So then, Heat asked herself, why was she obsessing?

  “I don’t see the problem,” continued Rook. “Yellow prose aside, it hits the mark, doesn’t it?”

  “That is the problem. She never names sources but clearly someone in the precinct is feeding her.” And then she stopped pacing and nibbled her lower lip. “They’re going to think it’s me, you know.”

  “Who is?”

  “1PP. The timing of this couldn’t be worse after I lost it with Zach Hamner and threatened to go public.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then don’t worry.”

  “I guess,” she said. And then read the article again.

  Heat’s money was on Sharon Hinesburg as the leak. When Nikki got there the next morning for the start of shift, bull pen chatter was all about the Ledger piece, and when she scanned the faces of her squad, the only one she could picture blabbing to the media was the only detective who wasn’t in on the conversation . . . because she was over at her desk on a personal call.

  One thing was clear under the volcano cloud of negativity. Nobody in that building had mixed feelings about Montrose’s funeral. Roach had already opened an account at a local bank for donations, and everyone said they’d kick in. “Fuck ’em,” said Ochoa. “If downtown won’t give Skip a send-off, we will.”

  Nikki called the squad to the Murder Board to change the channel from gossip to work. “Detective Ochoa, where are we on Mrs. Borelli’s nephew?”

  “Paid a visit to Paulie Borelli yesterday in Bensonhurst, where he’s a part-time chef at Legendary Luigi’s Pizza.”

  “Luigi’s Original?” asked Rhymer.

  “No, Legendary. Luigi’s Original is actually a copy.”

  “What about Paulie?” asked Heat.

  “He says he never even met Father Graf. FYI, Paulie B. doesn’t strike me as much of a churchgoer. He did cop to being a semi-reg at Pleasure Bound, but not the night of the priest’s murder. He alibis out at an establishment in the Alley known as . . . ,” Ochoa flipped a page in his pad and recited, “The Strung and the Restless.”

  There was laughter—the first Nikki had heard in that squad in a long time. She let it play out and then said, “In deference to Mrs. Borelli, we’ll let it drop there.” Compassion ruled. Nikki couldn’t see increasing the old woman’s mortification.

  There was a stirring in the back of the room. Heads turned as a doughy-looking man in a white shirt with two gold bars entered the bull pen. “Oh,” he said, “I see I’ve interrupted.”

  Heat took a half step toward him. “No problem, Captain, may I help you?”

  He came up to join Nikki at the Murder Board and addressed the squad. “Probably best that you’re all in one place for this. I’m Captain Irons. I’ve been assigned as the interim commander of this precinct. My mandate is to get things on an even keel here while the decision is made as to who should be the permanent replacement for Captain Montrose.” He paused, and Nikki saw numerous eyes go to her, but she remained stoic and gave the temporary man her attention. “Now, even though I come from Administration, and it’s been a few years since I was out here in the field, and I know I can’t replace your old cap, I’ll do my best to make this workable for everyone. Fair enough?” The room chorused a “fair enough” back to him. Even though it was limp, he said, “Thank you for that.” He turned to Nikki. “Detective Heat? A moment?”

  They met in Montrose’s glass office and stood because it was still bare following the instant purge by Internal Affairs. “Guess I’ll have to get some furniture, won’t I?” He sat against the lip of the counter that housed the heat register, and Nikki noticed how his soft belly forced his shirt to spread between the buttons. “I know your rep. You’re a heck of a detective.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “I do my best.”

  “Here’s the deal. I have a shot here at turning things around, direction-wise.” Irons gave her a look of significance as she wondered how else one turned things around except direction-wise. “Now, I know you are involved in some holdover cases.”

  Heat put a mildly corrective spin on it. “Actually, I have an active case. In fact, the meeting you . . . ah, joined . . . was about the case I’m working now. The dead priest?”

  “That’s all fine, but that goes back burner. Effective now. I have set a personal goal to show what I can do here. And, for me, that means turning to a fresh page and running hard with cases that start on my watch. Day one. Today.”

  “Excuse me, Captain Irons, but I was attacked in Central Park by five armed men, three of whom are still out there, and I believe it was related to the Graf murder.”

  “You believe? You mean like an assumption? A theory?”

  “Yes, I know it’s not the same as proof,” she said, already feeling herself on quicksand. “I’m working it hard now, sir. And since we got off to a slow start already, I don’t believe this is the time to put it on the back burner.”

  “I understand your personal interest.” It sounded dismissive because it was. He crossed his arms and studied his shoe shine, then said, “The guy you killed, he had gang connections on his sheet, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I’ve been reading all the departmental bulletins about gang initiations, some of which are to target police officers. I think I can work this out for both of us by turning this over to the gang task force. If you’re a target, you can step aside from that case, be safe, and I get my investigative priorities met.” He didn’t wait for her to respond. “Now. Moving forward. I hear some patrol officers discovered a body in one of the pedestrian tunnels in Riverside Park about a half hour ago. Homeless guy. But if there’s foul play, I want to be all over that. Top priority.”

  Detective Heat pondered a moment and smiled. “Then you want my best investigator on this. Sharon Hinesburg.”

  “Can you spare her?”

  “I’ll manage, sir.”

  He seemed happy. Nikki would be happier when she replaced him.

  Detective Rhymer came to Heat’s desk. “Just got back from a meet with our German dancer’s agent. The guy’s a sketch. A support system for a toupee working out of a fleabag office in Chelsea.”

  “Any beefs between the agent and the client?” she asked.

  “Anything but. The rep told me Meuller was a steady client who worked hard, stayed out of trouble, and made him a lot of money. The only bump in the road was that Meuller’s boyfriend died recently,” said Rhymer. “Agent says after that, his top earner changed addresses and basically crawled in
a hole. Didn’t answer calls, like that.”

  “How did the boyfriend die?” asked Heat.

  “Ahead of you. I checked it out. Natural causes. He had some congenital heart condition and the ol’ ticker stopped ticking.”

  Over at his desk, Detective Raley hung up his phone so quickly he missed the cradle. He replaced it while he grabbed his coat and hurried over. “Lawrence Hays’s private jet just touched down at Teterboro.”

  The New York headquarters of Lancer Standard comprised the top two floors of a black glass office high-rise on Vanderbilt a half block from Grand Central. It was the sort of building commuters passed every day hustling to and from trains without giving it much notice, unless they were clients of the custom shirtmaker on the ground floor or the gourmet gym in its basement.

  “Is Mr. Hays expecting you?” asked the woman behind the counter in the reception lobby.

  Detective Heat reflected on the nature of work done by this soldiers-and-spies-for-hire company, and then on the operative that Rook saw casing her apartment, and said, “I’m going to bet Mr. Hays already knows we’re here.” The receptionist invited them to have seats, but the three cops stepped away from the pink marble counter and stood. Roach had insisted they accompany Heat to this meeting. The Discourager, hunkered in his blue-and-white Radio Mobile Unit, may have had her back in transit, but Raley and Ochoa didn’t want her walking into the offices of a CIA contractor alone.

  It was only seconds before they heard a buzz and two very fit men held the wood-paneled door open to the security vestibule. As she passed the pair, Nikki could see their suits were tailored to accommodate shoulder holsters, which made her wonder if the custom shirtmaker twenty-six floors below was the beneficiary of his co-tenants’ outfitting requirements. Before they could proceed, the lobby door needed to close behind them and lock. When the bolt shot, one of the minders pressed his thumbprint to a scanner and the door ahead of them slid open.

  At the top of a carpeted spiral staircase they arrived at the penthouse floor and the anteroom of Lawrence Hays’s executive suite. In a very matter-of-fact way, one of the escorts said, “I’d like to take your firearms.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” said Ochoa, equally as matter-of-factly. There was no way Heat was going to give up her weapon, either, and she wondered how this would play out—three New York cops facing two running backs in a stare-down.

  The door opened and Hays said, “Stand down, they can come in as is.”

  Heat recognized him from the Internet search she had done as well as from a 20/20 profile she had seen on Hays the year before, after he personally led a daring helicopter mission to rescue one of his contractors who had been kidnapped by the Taliban. He was Top Gun handsome but shorter than she’d expected. In the video profile he had laughed and described himself as “five-foot-eight of pissed off cobra,” and he was all that, particularly with his alert eyes and that lean muscle flexing under his black polo shirt and tight Gap jeans.

  Hays picked his travel duffel off the couch, tossed it beside his desk, and gestured for them to sit. He took the tan leather easy chair facing them, which complemented his sandy Steve McQueen hair and desert suntan. The relaxed throw of one leg over the other, the casual dangling of his aviators from the V of his shirt, and the heartland smile were winning enough to Nikki, but as she settled down between Raley and Ochoa, she reminded herself this was the man who might have killed—or arranged to have killed—Father Graf and sent a platoon of operatives to Central Park to cancel her day. Those were two items Nikki wanted to find out about. Or at least hear his answers and put them to the smell test.

  “What can I do for you, Detectives?”

  Heat decided to pull the rug on the laid back pose. “For starters, you can tell me how it felt to kill Father Graf.”

  The response from Hays was curious. No, bizarre. Rather than getting rattled, he lounged his head back onto the chair and smiled. As if narrating a nature video, he spoke to the ceiling. “And so the gal detective begins with a weak attempt to throw the interview subject off balance. Classic opening gambit, which is to say . . . ,” he brought his head forward to look into her eyes and said, “. . . clichéd.”

  “You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Hays.”

  “You’ve got to earn my answers, miss.” And then, narrating again, he said, “Ouch. In the hole on the first Q! Frustrated by the response; distracted by the chaff of implied sexism. What will she do?”

  Heat knew exactly what he was up to. Hays was employing some sort of mind game to fend her off and hijack the interview. Probably some counter-interrogation technique he taught in Ely, Nevada. She told herself to shut out his psychological noise and stick to her agenda.

  “Where were you the night your pastor was killed?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I suspect you may have killed him and I want to confirm your whereabouts.”

  “Strategy Two employed,” he announced. “Stepping it down from the absolute ‘how did it feel’ to the wimpy ‘you may have.’ Why, oh, why do they send me amateurs?”

  “Your whereabouts, Mr. Hays.”

  “Where? Oh . . . about.” He laughed. “About could be so many places. She will be a long time checking that.”

  Nikki decided to shift gears on him. She took out the picture of Sergio Torres and handed it over. “Do you know this man?”

  “This is no man. This is a photograph.” He cocked an eye at her. “Oh, tell me the glorified meter maid doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

  “His name is Sergio Torres,” continued Heat, “and I want to know if you have ever employed him as one of your contractors.”

  He nodded. “That I will answer.” Hays waited until he had milked the moment. “. . . By saying that I do not confirm or deny personnel in my employ for reasons of their own safety. And national security.” He laughed again and said to Raley, “You could ask Julian Assange.”

  Heat persisted. “So you have never seen him?”

  “Mm, they all look about the same to me.”

  Ochoa tensed beside her. She pressed a gentle elbow against him and he settled.

  Hays lifted his arm like a pupil. “May I ask one now?” She waited and he said, “Why are you asking me about this . . . hombre?”

  “Because the same day he tried to kill me, one of your operatives was seen doing surveillance on my apartment.” It was the first time she had seen him thrown. Not much, but the cobra eyes took a hit.

  “Let me tell you something, Officer. If I was going to conduct surveillance on you, you’d never know it.”

  This time Heat provided the narration. She looked up at the ceiling and said, “Invulnerable mercenary general covers ass for sloppy work with bravado, even as he makes mental note to seek and terminate the stakeout driver.” She lowered her gaze to him and said, “Rookie.” While he was digesting that she took out the e-mail from the archdiocese and recited, “ ‘You ever hear of a Tikrit Tune-up? I have, padre. You suffer until you pray to die and then you suffer some more. Lots more. The best part is when you call out to God for mercy and He looks down and spits upon your withered douche bag of a soul.’ ”

  “He covered for that freak who touched my kid.” The CEO swagger was crumbling. The lid was sliding off the parent’s rage.

  “You don’t deny writing this?” she said.

  “You’re not listening! These guys spoil innocence and hide behind their cassocks and cover for each other.”

  Nikki held up the page. “Because this description is very much like how he died.”

  “Good. One less sanctimonious bastard protecting the child molesters of the world.” He sat panting, leaning forward on his thighs.

  Nikki stood. “Mr. Hays, I’d give you my card, but I am sure you have fully researched all the ways to find me. When you have an alibi for that night, you’d better give it to me. Or I’ll be back and arrest you. At your . . . whereabouts.”

  They waited until they got out onto the sidewalk on Van
derbilt, all three detectives assuming the place would likely be wired for sound, maybe even picture.

  “What was that guy on?” said Raley.

  “All calculated, Rales. Psy-Ops smoke screen.” Then Heat said, “I want you guys to dig away on Sergio Torres. Go back to his kindergarten if you have to. Girlfriends, gang members, cell mates, everyone. Find out who he’s connected to and we’ve got our killer.”

  Ochoa looked up to the top of the black high-rise. “We were so close.”

  Heat said, “Not enough. Hays gave us nothing solid. He only said he was glad it happened—not that he did it.”

  “What about the e-mail, though?” asked Raley.

  Nikki shook her head. “Any lawyer would punch holes through it because he never says technically he’s going to carry it out. His verbiage is rhetorical. The threat’s implied.”

  Ochoa said, “Tell that to Father Graf.”

  “We seem to be in the minority, but we all know this is a hell of a lot bigger than Father Graf, guys,” said Heat. “There was the attack on me, plus whatever Captain Montrose was into.”

  “You don’t think he was part of the killing, do you?” said Raley.

  “In my heart, of course not. But we need to keep on this without letting up so we can see where it goes.”

  Ochoa said, “Too bad our new commander doesn’t see it the same way.”

  Heat’s phone buzzed. She checked the screen and it was a text from Zach Hamner. “Pls come to 1PP conf. rm on 10 in 30 mins.” A rush of elation swept in Nikki’s chest. She replied with a yes and said to Roach, “Keep the faith, boys. Remember, Irons is only interim.”

  Snow began falling in fat clumps, making Nikki’s traffic experience getting downtown to Park Row a nightmare. If she had only taken the subway, it would have been a snap just to duck into Grand Central from the Hays meeting and grab a 4 or 5 express to Centre Street. Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes, and done. But with the rest of the shooting team that hunted her down in the park still at large, Raley and Ochoa persisted and she gave in, allowing The Discourager to drive her to One Police Plaza in his RMU.