The world still hadn’t caught up to Heat speed. When Nikki was closing in, it had little chance.
Detective Heat returned to the bull pen from Forensics an hour and a half later wearing the game face Rook had seen when she was staging for the body shop raid.
“What did you learn?” he asked.
“Oh, just that Matthew Starr’s art collection was all forgeries.”
He sprang to his feet. “The whole collection?”
“Fakes.” She slung her bag on the back of her chair. “The ones in the insurance pictures are real. The ones in Barbara Deerfield’s camera? Not so much.”
“That’s big.”
“It sure provides a motive for someone to murder an art appraiser.”
He gestured, punctuating with his forefinger. “I was thinking the same thing.”
“Oh, you were, were you?”
“I am a trained journalist. I’m capable of reading clues, too, you know.”
He was getting cocky and she decided to have some fun with him. “Great. Then tell me who had the motive.”
“You mean who murdered Barbara Deerfield? Pochenko.”
“On his own initiative? Doubt that.”
He pondered and said, “What do you think?”
“I’ll tell you what I think. I think it’s too early to go shooting my mouth off.” She went to the board and put a check mark beside her notation to screen the insurance photos. He followed her like a puppy and she smiled to herself.
“But you’re on to something, aren’t you?” he said. She just shrugged. “Do you have a suspect in mind?” Nikki flashed a grin and walked back to her desk. He trailed her and said, “You do. Who is it?”
“Rook, aren’t you doing this whole ride-along so you can get into the mind of a homicide detective?”
“Yeah?”
“Just telling you wouldn’t be helping you. Know what would help you? For you to think like a homicide detective and see what you come up with on your own.” Nikki picked up her desk phone and pushed a speed-dial button.
Rook said, “That sounds like a lot of work.”
She held up a staying palm while she listened to a ring at the other end of the line. He brought his knuckle up and pushed it to his lips, agonized. She loved driving Rook crazy like this. It was fun, and besides, if she was wrong, she didn’t want him to know.
Finally, someone picked up. “Hi, it’s Detective Heat at the Two-Oh. I want to arrange for transport of a prisoner you’re holding. His name’s Buckley, Gerald Buckley…. Yeah, I’ll hold.”
While she was waiting, Rook said, “Aren’t you beating a dead horse? That guy’s not going to tell you anything. Especially with that ambulance chaser of his.”
Nikki beamed a smug grin. “Ah, but that was yesterday in Interrogation. Today, we’re going to stage a little theater.”
“What kind of theater?”
“A play. As in,” she switched to an Elizabethan accent, “‘The play’s the thing, Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king.’” Then she added, “That would be Buckley.”
“You really wanted to be an actress, didn’t you?”
“Maybe I am,” said Nikki. “Come along and see.”
Heat, Roach, and Rook were waiting in the hallway at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in Kips Bay when the corrections officers delivered Gerald Buckley with his attorney in tow.
Nikki looked him up and down. “Coveralls flatter you, Mr. Buckley. Rikers all it’s cracked up to be?”
Buckley turned his head away from Heat the way dogs do when they’re pretending they didn’t deliver the nearby turd to the new carpet. His lawyer stepped between them. “I’ve advised my client not to answer any further questions. If you have a case, bring it. But no more interviews unless you have lots of time to waste.”
“Thanks, Counselor. This isn’t going to be an interview.”
“No interview?”
“That’s right.” The detective waited as his lawyer and Buckley traded confused looks, then she said, “Step this way.”
Nikki led the entourage, Buckley, his lawyer, Roach, and Rook, into the autopsy room where Lauren Parry stood beside a stainless table with a sheet over it.
“Hey, what are we doing in here?” said Buckley.
“Gerald,” said the lawyer, and he pursed his lips. Then she turned to Nikki. “What are we doing in here?”
“They pay you to do that? Repeat what he says?”
“I demand to know why you dragged my client down here to this place.”
Nikki smiled. “We have a body that needs identification. I believe Mr. Buckley may be able to provide it.”
Buckley leaned toward his attorney’s ear and got as far as muttering, “I don’t wanna see any—” when Heat signaled Lauren Parry, who whipped the sheet off the table and revealed the corpse.
Vitya Pochenko’s body was still clothed as they had found him. Nikki had phoned ahead to debate the subject with her friend, who felt that naked-for-the-autopsy was an impactful display that was tough to beat. Heat managed to persuade her that the Great Lake of dried blood on his white T-shirt told a better story, and so that was the presentation the M.E. made.
The Russian lay on his back, eyes left open to make the maximum impression, the irises fully dilated, leaving only pupil, the effect exhibiting the darkest window to his soul. All color was gone from his face except for blotches of deep empurplement near one jaw, where gravity had pooled blood in the direction of his bench slump. Then there was that gruesome butterscotch and salmon burn welt covering one side of his face.
Nikki watched the color drain from Gerald Buckley’s cheeks and lips until he was only about two hardware-store paint chips from matching Pochenko.
“Detective Heat, if I may interrupt,” said Lauren, “I may have a determination on the caliber of the weapon.”
“Excuse us just one moment,” Nikki said to Buckley. He took a hopeful half step to the door, his disbelieving eyes still riveted on the body. Ochoa stepped to corral him and he stopped without contact.
Gerald Buckley stayed put, staring. His lawyer had found a chair and was sitting sideways, at a right angle to the play. Nikki snapped on a pair of gloves and joined the M.E. at her table. Lauren placed expert fingertips on Pochenko’s skull and gently rotated it to expose the bullet hole behind his ear. A small puddle of brain fluid pooled on the gleaming stainless steel under the wound, and Buckley moaned when he saw it. “I did critical measurements and ballistics comparisons after our on-site angle-of-entry reconstruction.”
“Twenty-five?” asked Nikki.
“Twenty-five.”
“Mighty small caliber to bring down such a big man.”
The medical examiner nodded. “But a small-caliber round delivered to the brain can be remarkably effective. In fact, one of the highest one-shot-stop ratings is the Winchester X25.” In the metal pan of the hanging scale, Heat could see Buckley’s reflection, craning to hear every bit as Lauren continued. “That round is fabricated like a hollow point, but the hollow is filled with a steel BB to aid expansion inside the body once the slug is delivered.”
“Whoa. When that puppy hit his brains, it must have been like taking a hammer to a plate of scrambled eggs,” said Raley. Buckley was regarding him with fearful eyes, so the detective added for good measure, “Like the front row of a Gallagher concert in there.”
“Quite,” said Lauren. “We’ll know more once we cut open his brain for the treasure hunt, but one of those slugs would be my guess.”
“But such a small gun would mean whoever did this knew they’d get a chance to work close.”
“Sure,” said Lauren. “Definitely knew what they were doing. Small-caliber mouse gun. Easy to conceal. Victim never sees it coming. Could be anytime, anywhere.”
“Pop,” said Ochoa.
Buckley yipped and flinched.
Heat crossed over to him, making sure to leave an unobstructed view of the dead Russian. The doorman was a fish on a dock.
His lips opened and closed but no sound came. “Can you positively identify this man?”
Buckley belched and Nikki was afraid he’d ralph on her, but he didn’t, and it seemed to help him locate his voice. “How could somebody…get to Pochenko?”
“People involved in this case are dying, Gerald. Are you sure you don’t want to give me a name to help stop this before you join them?”
Buckley was incredulous. “He was a wild animal. He laughed when I called him Da Terminator. Nobody could kill him.”
“Somebody did. Single shot to the head. Bet you know who.” She waited a three count and said, “Who hired you to steal that art collection?”
The lawyer got to her feet. “Don’t answer that.”
“Maybe you don’t know who,” Heat said. Her tone was all the more intimidating because she was so casual. Instead of shouting or grilling him, she was washing her hands of him. “I’m thinking we’re chasing our tails. We should spring you. Bail you out on your own recognizance. Let you think things over out there. See how long you last.”
“Is that a bona fide offer, Detective?” asked the attorney.
“Ochoa? Get the keys to unlock his handcuffs.”
Behind him, Ochoa rattled a set of keys and Buckley recoiled, hunching his shoulders at the sound as if it was a bullwhip cracking.
“Isn’t that what you want, Gerald?”
The man was swaying where he stood. White saliva strings connected the roof of his mouth to his tongue.
“What…” Buckley swallowed. “What’s happened to his…?” He gestured up and down his own face to indicate the burn area on Pochenko.
“Oh, I did that,” said Nikki, sounding casual. “Burned his face with a hot iron.”
He looked to Lauren, who nodded affirmation. Then he looked at Heat and then Pochenko and back to Heat. “All right.”
“Gerald,” the lawyer said, “shut up.”
He turned to her. “You shut up.” Gerald Buckley then looked at Nikki and spoke gently, resigned. “I’ll tell you who hired me to steal that art.”
Nikki turned to Rook. “You’ll excuse us, won’t you? I need you to wait outside while Mr. Buckley and I talk.”
EIGHTEEN
On their drive back from the M.E.’s office, Nikki didn’t need to turn around to know Rook was pissed off in the backseat. She was dying to, though, because seeing his torment would have added to her wicked pleasure.
Ochoa was sitting back there with him and said, “Hey, homes, you carsick or something?”
“No,” said Rook. “Unless I caught a chill when I got sent out in the hall when Buckley was going to talk.”
Heat wanted to turn around so bad.
“Some play. You kicked me out during the last scene.”
Raley braked at the light on Seventh Avenue and said, “Hey, when a subject’s about to open up, the fewer the better. You especially don’t want a reporter there.”
Nikki leaned back on the headrest and scoped the digital temperature on the JumboTron outside Madison Square Garden. Ninety-nine degrees. “You probably know who Buckley named anyway, right, Rook?”
“Tell me and I’ll let you know.”
That brought a round of chuckles inside the Crown Vic.
Rook snorted. “When did this become a hazing?”
“It’s not a hazing,” she said. “You want to be all with the detectives, right? Do what we do and think like one.”
“Except Raley,” said Ochoa. “He doesn’t think right.”
“I’ll even help you out,” said Heat. “What do we know? We know the paintings were fake. We know they were gone when Buckley’s crew got there. Shall I go on, or do you have it figured?”
The light changed and Raley drove on. “I’m developing a theory,” Rook said.
At last, she hooked her elbow over the seat to face him. “That doesn’t sound exactly like naming a name.”
“All right, fine.” He paused and blurted, “Agda.” Rook waited for a response and just got stares, so he filled the silence. “She had full access to that apartment that day. And I’ve been thinking about her interview. I don’t buy the naïve nanny pose and the innocent shoulder rubs. That girl was doing Matthew Starr. And I think he dumped her like he did all his mistresses, only she got pissed enough to want some payback.”
Heat said, “So Agda had him killed?”
“Yes. And stole the paintings.”
“Interesting.” She thought a moment. “And I guess you also figured out why Agda killed the art appraiser. And how she got the paintings out.”
Rook’s eyes lost contact with hers and fell to his shoes. “I haven’t plugged every hole, this is still a theory.”
She looked around to poll her colleagues. “It’s a process. We get it.”
“But am I right?”
“I don’t know, are you?” Then she turned all the way around so he wouldn’t see her smile.
Rook and Detectives Raley and Ochoa had to hustle to keep stride with Heat when they got back to the precinct. As soon as she entered the bull pen, Nikki beelined for her desk and pulled open the file drawer.
“All right, now I’ve got it,” said Rook as he arrived in her wake. “When did Agda start working for the Starr family?”
“Two years ago.” Heat didn’t bother to face him. She was occupied sorting through pictures in a file.
“And when did Casper say that painting was fenced? That’s right, two years ago.” Rook waited, but she just kept shuffling her deck of pictures. “And Agda got the paintings out of the Guilford because she doesn’t work alone. I think our Swede could be part of some art theft ring. An international art theft and forgery ring.”
“Uh-huh…”
“She’s young, she’s pretty, she gets into the homes of wealthy people and has access to their artwork. She’s their inside man. Woman. Nanny.”
“And why would an international forgery ring be dumb enough to steal a bunch of fakes?”
“They weren’t fakes when she stole them.” He crossed his arms, quite satisfied with himself.
“I see,” said the detective. “And you don’t think they’d notice their nanny going out of the apartment with a painting? Or the space gaping on the wall?”
He reflected then shut down. “You have a question for everything, don’t you?”
“Rook, if we don’t poke holes, the defense attorneys will. That’s why I need to build a case.”
“Didn’t I just do that for you?”
“Notice I’m still building.” She found the picture she was looking for and slipped it into an envelope. “Roach.”
Raley and Ochoa stepped over to her desk. “You’re taking the Roach Coach on a short drive out of town with this photo of Gerald Buckley. Go to that place he mentioned back at the M.E.’s. Shouldn’t be hard to find. Show the picture, see if you get any hits, and then I want you back here, pronto.”
“Going out of the city, how’d I miss that? Oh, right, Buckley freeze-out again,” said Rook. “Let me guess. You’re going to see if Agda lied about NYU and was really somewhere else with the paintings?”
“Raley, do you have a map?”
“I don’t need a map.”
“No, but Rook does,” said Heat. “He’s been all over his.”
After Raley and Ochoa left, she put the file away in her desk. Rook was still lurking. “What are we going to do?”
Nikki indicated a chair. “We? We, which is to say you, are going to park your Pulitzer Prize–winning butt and stay out of my way while I scare up some warrants.”
Rook took a seat. “Arrest warrants? Plural?”
“Search warrants, plural. I need two of them plus a warrant for a wiretap.” She looked at her watch and whispered a curse. “Day’s half-shot and I need them like now.”
“Um, I believe I can be of service if you’re in a hurry.”
“No, Rook.”
“It’s cake.”
“I said no. Stay out of this.”
“I did
it before.”
“Ignoring my instructions.”
“And getting you your warrant.” He glanced around to make sure the bull pen was empty and lowered his voice. “After the other night, aren’t we past this?”
“Don’t. Even.”
“Let me help you.”
“No. Do not call Judge Simpson.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“Because now that the judge and I are poker buddies,” she grinned and picked up her phone, “I can call him myself.”
“You sleep with me, then you make fun of my theories and steal all my friends.” Rook leaned back and crossed his arms. “Just for that, you’re not meeting Bono.”
Horace Simpson came through with the warrants, accompanied by a judicial warning that Heat had better get her heinie back to Rook’s poker table so he could win back his losses. And to think all these years the detective had been going through channels to reach judges.
Getting the search warrants in hand turned out to be the easy part. Her wiretap required time to set up, meaning several hours of waiting. Not Nikki Heat. She strode into the bull pen from Captain Montrose’s office and grabbed her bag.
“What now?” asked Rook.
“Cap sprung a team off patrol for me. We’re rolling to execute my search warrants.” When he stood up to join her, she said, “Sorry, Rook, we’re at a critical phase. This is police-only.”
“Come on, I’ll stay in the car, I promise. It’s hot, but just leave the window open a crack for me. They say that’s dangerous, but I’m tough, I’ll bring water.”
“You’re better off right here reviewing your evidence. You’ve got the whiteboard to study, you’ve got air-conditioning, and you’ll have time, lots of time.” As she crossed the room with her back to him, she said, “Remember, think like a detective.”
“You might as well take me, I know where you’re going.” That stopped her. When she turned to face him from the doorway, he said, “The Guilford and to a personal storage place on Varick.”