Driving Heat

  “Not to mention, our own experience as unfortunate victims,” added Rook.

  “So getting back to my meeting,” Heat said. “I want to hear what your client has to say about why. Why did he need to kill these people?” She waited, knowing that the silence was a pose. Nikki had determined she was dealing with a highly egotistical type, probably a narcissist. The Julian Assange posters spoke volumes about his fantasies and self-image. She would lay it all out and see if that overwhelming jones for attention would get her what she needed.

  “I have a theory, you know. Want to hear it? Why not, and you can tell me if I’m wrong.” When Nikki had their curiosity sufficiently aroused, she resumed. “People kill for many reasons. Heat of passion—that’s usually a one-off. Same with robbery, burglary…violent criminal stuff. Revenge, now that can be either a singleton or a multi. This doesn’t smell like revenge. But. If you’re stepping outside the world of serial killers or mass murderers, the motive my experience leads me to is…” Heat paused. Their heads flicked her way, which was just what she wanted—a sign of their chasing the bait.

  “Let’s do some show-and-tell,” she said. “This is what I believe these murders were all about.” Heat reached down and picked up a plain brown paper NYPD Forensics bag from the floor and set it on the table. “Want to know what’s inside? I bet you do. First let’s talk about some recent history. Around here we call that the Timeline.

  “You’ve been working over the past year with your Forenetics consulting team to investigate the cause of an unaccountable spike in one specific type of traffic fatalities. You and your experts concluded that the cause of these deaths was a flaw in the SwiftRageous software for the stability-control system. Yet you ran into a stone wall when Tangier Swift and his battalion of lawyers shut you down. But your Splinter Group was so outraged and passionate that you met at a cabin in Rhinebeck one weekend, where you all committed to blow the whistle about the auto safety defect. Right so far?”

  Backhouse just kept his eyes on the brown bag and said nothing.

  “Continuing,” she said, “you told me the meeting ended with a lot of alcohol. Well, late the same night your summit ended, there was a fatal crash on a country road between Rhinebeck and New York City. We’ve since learned that the car involved belonged to a member of your Splinter Group, Nathan Levy. And that there was a bribery cover-up by another Forenetics associate, Fred Lobbrecht, who was then a state trooper. Levy left the accident scene to visit an ER in Cortlandt for a leg injury. We have his X-rays.” Wilton Backhouse remained passive, but the narrative was animating his attorney, who had started jotting notes. “So much for hurting it in that fistfight you tried to sell me.”

  Nikki moved the brown bag an inch just to tease them. Then she said, “Let me bring this home. The why—the elusive why all the murders?—is right in here.” Heat stood and reached inside the bag. She withdrew a black rectangle, about the size of a small computer keyboard, sealed in a clear plastic envelope. She set it on the table and watched Backhouse try to hide his discomfort. “As a forensics expert yourself, Wilton, you should really appreciate this.” The lawyer cast a wary glance at his client, then both stared at the plastic Ziploc. “And I see you already do.”

  Heat slid the evidence bag closer to Backhouse. He averted his gaze like a dog confronted by the turd it has just left on the rug.

  “We know Nathan Levy had bodywork done on his BMW. We know his tires popped and his rims got bent that night. We also know he damaged the door to his glove compartment.” Nikki picked up the plastic bag. “This is that glove compartment door. It bothered us when we couldn’t find it at first. The body shop didn’t have it. Our crime scene professionals couldn’t locate it at his home. It wasn’t at his Forenetics office, either. Know where it finally turned up?” Heat set it back down, closer to Backhouse. “Of course you know. Because our detectives found it last night when they searched your apartment.”

  The sound of chains raking across plastic punctuated the silence as Backhouse stirred in his chair. His attorney’s voice cracked as he said, “This is circumstantial.”

  “Yes,” agreed Heat. “And the circumstances are that your client, after he induced Levy to flee his house, probably scaring him with news about Abigail Plunkitt’s death, went there and stole this glove box cover. And why?” Nikki turned to Backhouse. “You want to say it, or shall I?…All right, I will.” She pointed to the black cover inside the plastic. “The damage you see here is an exact match for Nathan Levy’s leg injury.” She took a printout of the X-rays out of her file and shoved them across the table. “Proving,” she said, “that Nathan Levy was a passenger in that car that night. I know you lied. There was never any fistfight with Fred Lobbrecht. During the crash, Nathan’s leg slammed into the glove box. Abigail Plunkitt was in the backseat. How do I know? Because she had to die, too. Because these people knew your dirty little secret, Wilton. That you were driving drunk. That you were at the wheel. That you killed that woman in the middle of the night on Cold Spring Turnpike.”

  Nikki let him marinate in that, then continued. “The question is, why kill them? When we get our court order this morning to pull your bank records, we’re going to see that you already bought their silence, aren’t we?” His lawyer rested a hand on Backhouse’s arm as a signal not to answer that. “I am betting your first payoff was to Fred Lobbrecht. You knew him from CRU and your prior work with Forenetics, so New York state trooper Lobbrecht was the one you called that night to come to Cold Spring Turnpike and clean up your mess. And for that, you paid off his mortgage and got him a big, fat job. Abigail Plunkitt quit working to save manatees. Thanks to your checkbook, no doubt. Same for Nathan Levy, who suddenly went from test driver to blues sax man.

  “It was all going to be just fine, except for one thing.” She gestured to the chair beside her. “Once this jackass, Jameson Rook, got an assignment to do a story on your auto safety whistle-blowing, everything changed. Because Jameson Rook doesn’t fluff out press releases. Jameson Rook is your worst nightmare: a true investigative reporter. He started nosing around outside the tidy pages of your safety study, and you panicked. Especially when Fred Lobbrecht got pangs of conscience and engaged Lon King to broker his confession to Rook. And Lobbrecht almost talked. But you killed him first. Oh, but what about Lon King? Fred probably told his shrink, so King had to die, too. That left Plunkitt and Levy. In for a penny, in for a pound, right? But you had to divert suspicion. And how does a smart guy like you turn this into a win-win? You set up Tangier Swift to look like the man with the motive to eliminate all the whistle-blowers. What a great idea, too. Because ultimately, if all this had come out—your DWI and the woman you killed—not only would that have indicted you, it would also have undermined all your results. You were willing to sacrifice your entire team for the massive ego stroke of being able to take Tangier Swift down. Which is what you consider your life’s work. Am I right, Wilton?”

  Backhouse’s chin dropped to his chest. Then he raised it so he could stare at her.

  Heat pointed to the bandage on her forehead. “Bet you wish you hadn’t missed me, huh?” Watts put a hand on his client. “Do not answer that. Do not say anything.”

  “Really? Because I’d like a statement.” Nikki took the yellow lined pad she had brought in and slid it in front of Backhouse with a ballpoint. “If you cooperate, it’s all going to go a lot easier for you.”

  The lawyer wagged his head no.

  Heat tilted her head toward Rook. “Tell you what. Your version in your own words would make for a hell of an article.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Rook sitting up straight. “I’ll still do the piece on the safety defect. You care about that, I know. But imagine how many more people it would reach, I’m talking worldwide, if your story—this story—were part of it?”

  Backhouse was teetering. His lawyer said, “Wilton—”

  “Ethan, shut up, I’m trying to think. This is why Uncle Ray says you’re an asshole.” When the attorney
slumped back with his arms crossed, Backhouse looked from the evidence bag to Nikki, then to Rook, clearly at the tipping point.

  Rook, who had also seen the Assange poster in his office, said, “I think there’s only one question to ask here, Wilton. WWJD?” As they all looked to him with puzzled faces, he finished with, “What Would Julian Do?”

  Backhouse shoved the pad away. But then, just when it seemed he was finished, he said, “I’d rather just tell it. Do you still have your recorder?”

  “Unless I dropped it in the car last night—just kidding.” Rook took his Sony digital out and turned it on so Wilton Backhouse could tell his whole story for the record.

  Cop humor. There is nothing like it.

  After Heat and Rook had wrapped the interrogation and entered the homicide bull pen for the first time that morning, every detective there was wearing a teeny Band-Aid on his or her forehead. Such is the wry coping mechanism of your police professional. Even after a beloved comrade’s life-or-death ordeal—or, maybe, especially after one—sarcasm trumps sentimentality.

  Heat played the game, showing her love by ignoring the display until they all just broke into laughter. So much better than people with guns, hugging.

  A full recap wasn’t necessary, since the squad had already witnessed the lengthy debriefing of Wilton Backhouse from Observation. In a rare display that could only be considered a mercy kiss for going the extra distance after his ordeal, the detectives gave props to Rook for his interview.

  Holding up his end in the sardonic spirit of the day, Rook thanked them by saying, “You know, I’d like to think there’s more at stake here than achieving justice. It’s really about getting me that next Pulitzer.”

  “That would be a lot funnier if it weren’t true,” said Feller.

  Raley asked, “Does this mean we owe Tangier Swift an apology?”

  “Yeah, but instead of flowers, I’d like to send Mr. Swift a dozen of these.” Rook flashed the finger with the arm that wasn’t in a sling. “And don’t tell me this is my Area Fifty-one wacko speculation. Wilton Backhouse denied kidnapping me, and I believe him.”

  “Well, he sure doesn’t have the infrastructure,” said Ochoa. “Look who he settled for: Maloney.”

  Rook nodded. “But who does have it? Exactly. I don’t have proof yet. Meanwhile, I’ll just bide my time and enjoy my legally prescribed painkillers.”

  They took a short break. Those without wounds removed their bandages, coffeed up, and gathered around the Murder Board for that delicious moment when the scribbles up there started to make sense. Rhymer said, “Sorry, but I was driving back from Forensics and missed the first part of the confession. Did Backhouse say why the two different MOs? You know, the car crash for one and the drone for all the others?”

  Heat nodded. “Actually, Opie, there were three MOs. They killed Lobbrecht first at the hangar on Staten Island because they knew he’d be there. Lon King was a different story. Remember Maloney had been stalking him and knew about his kayaking. They came up with the drone idea to get him, and that worked so well, they used it for Abigail Plunkitt, too. Then they experimented with a higher caliber on Nathan Levy and missed. So Backhouse did him face-to-face, knowing he’d duck away from a drone, but not from his friend. That’s why Levy’s window was rolled down and there was no lubricant on his pickup’s door. Backhouse met him for a chat, and popped him close range, small caliber, just no quadcopter.”

  “Makes sense,” said Detective Rhymer, “because Forensics just found GSR on a shirt in Backhouse’s laundry hamper.”

  Ochoa added that to the Murder Board. “One more nail.”

  “Which leads me to an imaginary fist bump to you and Detective Aguinaldo for working that apartment,” continued Nikki. “Finding that piece of the glove compartment tipped the scale.”

  “Any sign of Lon King’s missing patient files?” asked Rook.

  “So far, MIA,” said Feller. “Not at his apartment. Not at his office. Not at that Craigslist special in Astoria he rented under a fake name.”

  A familiar thorny knot tightened in Nikki’s gut. It surfaced every time she thought about her intimate counseling sessions floating out there somewhere.

  “Hey, I know where they are,” said Detective Ochoa, trying to keep from grinning. “In the trunk of Captain Heat’s car with that prisoner, what’s his name, George Gallatin.”

  As the meeting broke up, she heard Feller say, “Poor dude’s probably in New Mexico by now, looking out that back window, praying for a rest stop.” Their laughter made Heat recall the old saying, “In all humor there is a grain of truth.” Heat knew one thing for sure: Until she uncovered it, this case was far from closed.

  After getting an update from Detective Raley on his special assignment, Nikki released her King of All Surveillance Media to continue his mission. Sean headed downtown to One Police Plaza; she went to the ladies’ room to change her dressing.

  Afterward, she went to Rook’s desk in the bull pen to offer to change his gauze and found him pounding keys on his laptop. “Surfing for alternate honeymoon locales? Pyongyang? Chernobyl? Perhaps a Barney the Dinosaur cruise?”

  “No cruises, remember? I’m typing up my notes for Confessions of a Blown Whistle.” He paused and flicked a glance to read her reaction. “Or whatever I call it. Eventually.”

  He resumed typing. At the next desk, Opie made a call and, while he waited, took out a cloth to clean his iPhone.

  Nikki said, “I wanted to check your dressing.”

  “Already done.”

  “You should go home.”

  “You first.” His attention then became riveted on Rhymer’s ritual of spraying the microfiber cloth and buffing the glass.

  Her gaze followed his to the detective’s polishing, then back to Rook. “What?”

  “What if I told you I might be able to figure out the number of the Black Knight so we can trace it and get a line on whoever it was who kidnapped me? That’s what.”

  Within the hour a service aide from Forensics had delivered George Gallatin’s cell phone, sealed in a plastic bag. Heat signed the chain of evidence voucher, pulled on a pair of crime scene gloves, and set the handheld on her desk in front of Rook. “CSU double confirmed when I asked for this that the SIM card history is wiped.”

  “Indulge me,” he said. With his one gloved hand, he spread out the papers he had been doodling on the past few days in his effort to remember the phone number he had seen Gallatin tap to call Black Knight. “As you can see, I’ve got most of the digits of the phone number filled in on this page.”

  She pointed to several of his scratched-out attempts. “Except for these two blank spaces.”

  “Yes. But here’s the thing. I don’t remember those two missing numbers, but I do know he only touched the glass one time for each of those numbers when he dialed. The others were repeated. So,” he said as he picked up the cell phone, “if I am right, and if Forensics didn’t clean or smudge this screen, I should be able to see which numbers were single-tapped and fill in my blanks. It’s like Wheel, only instead of buying vowels, I’m going for digits.”

  “Question. What if Gallatin called Black Knight more than once?”

  “You know, Smarty gave a party and nobody came.”

  “But what if he did?”

  “Then it would still work.” He paused and added, “In theory, because the two digits I need would still have fewer fingerprints on the glass.”

  “What if George Gallatin also used it to call someone else, like his bookie or a sex hotline? Wouldn’t that mess up the screen?”

  Rook stopped but didn’t look at her. “Would you let me have my moment?”

  “Sorry.”

  He resumed, carefully tilting the glass to find the sweet spot of the reflection. Looked over his shoulder, Nikki could see that the dusting powder left by Forensics had actually made the fingerprints easier to pick out on the surface. “Humph,” Rook said and set it back down. He closed his eyes, doing some inner-vis
ion reenactment thing that involved humming. Then he broke into a grin. “Got it!” She regarded him skeptically. “No, really, I do.”

  The cyber attack was still impeding the department’s databases, so Heat called Special Agent Jordan Delaney to run Rook’s phone number for her. The FBI man was barely cordial but ultimately professional. In spite of his annoyance that she had poached his federal prisoner, who had then escaped, Delaney called Nikki back to report that the number she had given him did not exist.

  “I highly doubt that,” said Rook. “I’ve heard of numbers that are out of service. Or unlisted. But nonexistent? No way.”

  “Then why don’t you call it and see who answers?” she said.

  “Thank you, I will.” He got out his cell phone but then changed his mind. “If my caller ID shows up, it’ll be a tip-off. And suppose I use Gallatin’s phone. If they pick up and hear me, then what?”

  “Rook, you’re talking yourself out of your own fix. What am I supposed to do here?”

  He thought a short moment and said, “Indulge me?”

  Heat listened to the groaning steel of the decrepit barge as it rocked at its mooring and smelled the musty decay wafting from somewhere in the dark recesses where she and Rook waited belowdecks. “We’re going to get our wounds infected down here.”

  “We’ve only been here an hour, Nik. I spent two nights down here.”

  She corrected him. “Ninety-three minutes. We’ll give this twenty-seven more, that’s plenty indulgent.”

  “Deal,” he said. “But I have faith.”

  “In a number the FBI says doesn’t exist?”

  “Then why does it say ‘Delivered’ under our balloon?”

  Sending a text message from Gallatin’s phone to the mystery number was the compromise she had reached with Rook. Although she wouldn’t admit it out loud, Nikki did feel a bit of a thrill from his sense of adventure and out-of-the-box thinking. To tell him would only encourage more. Not so thrilling, in her view.