Driving Heat

  “And the half billion net worth.”

  “If that’s what you’re into.” After they shared a laugh, Nikki could hear crisp strokes on a keyboard and pictured the ME perched at the office window overlooking the basement autopsy room. “Headlines first, report to follow, cool?”

  “Ready, Doctor.”

  “Not going to be a surprise here. Pending toxicology, of course, I’m finding cause of death to be traumatic brain injury due to gunshot wound.”

  Nikki flipped to a clean page and jotted “COD = GSW” in her reporter’s spiral notebook. “You retrieved the slug, I assume.”

  “Correctly. Retrieved it first thing so I could expedite it to Jamaica Avenue. Ballistics is all over it, and you should have a prelim from them soon.”

  “Give me a preview.” Heat couldn’t keep the urgency out of her voice. “Fragged or in one piece?”

  “Intact .22 caliber.”

  “Mushrooming?”

  “Negative. Either a lucky—if you’ll pardon that term in a homicide—or precise shot that met minimal bone resistance. Entry point was on the nasion, just superior to the rhinion (the bridge of the nose, to you), and inferior to the glabella, which is the lower forehead.” The macabre image of the small hole between Lon King’s placid eyes resurfaced, and Nikki drew a simplistic Charlie Brown face. When she marked it with a dot, her own brow sympathy-tingled. “We’ve both seen bullets do significant damage or sectioning of the brain due to hydrostatic shock or internal bullet deflection. Not this time. This .22 created a narrow wound channel on a trajectory to what became a direct hit, severing the brain stem. The slug came to a stop at the back of the skull.”

  In the silence that followed Nikki gathered herself and tried to remain clinical about this victim. “Would that trajectory fit a suicide?”

  “Anything’s possible, Nikki, but I’d bet no. To hold a weapon in front of you at that height, exactly on the proper angle? I can’t see it. Plus there would have been significantly more flash burn and muzzle residue at that proximity. Also, no GSR on the hands. And with a quick rate of incapacitation and mortality like this, he could never have shot himself and then taken off gloves.”

  Captain Heat’s first incoming call ever on her new department-issued BlackBerry startled her when it rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and read the caller ID. “Listen, Lauren, I’ve got a bureau chief calling.”

  “Take it.”

  “First, let me ask a quick one. Could King have been shot elsewhere and placed in the kayak, already dead?”

  “No. Livor mortis indicates that he died seated in that boat.”

  Nikki didn’t bother with a good-bye, just scrambled for the incoming before it dumped to voicemail. “Captain Heat.”

  “You didn’t waste any time catching a hot one your first day,” said the chief of detectives without a hello or introduction. Heat guessed he had figured out that she was a detective and could read a caller ID.

  “No, sir.”

  “In about ten minutes, I’m riding with the commissioner to a strategy session on these protests over this college kid from Syria. That shrink was one of our own, and the commish wants a briefing in the car. What do you have?”

  She jumped to her feet for an unobstructed view of the Murder Board and began to PowerPoint him, fighting off the squeeze of accountability tightening a corset around her rib cage. Just breathe, Nikki told herself as she spoke. Heat had been in gunfights and felt more at ease.

  In two minutes, she had summarized it all, ending with the autopsy findings. “And those just came in when you called, so you couldn’t be more current.”

  “Is that supposed to impress me?”

  “Sir?”

  “I’ll fluff it out for the boss, but sounds to me like you’re still clearing your throat. Captain, I want you to move off the prelims and generate some activity. Give me some meat to report, or—preferably—closure. And soon. Am I understood?”

  “Of course. Yes, Chief.” Heat didn’t know if he had stayed on the call long enough to hear her answer. But he was a detective. He could figure out what it was.

  Nikki found Raley and Ochoa at a table in the break room interviewing Rook, and, to judge from their expressions, getting about as far beyond his journalistic privilege as she had. “Boys, let’s convene.”

  “Sounds good,” said Rook, hopping to his feet with a grin, rubbing his hands together vigorously.

  “A meeting?” asked Ochoa from his chair. “Early on, don’t you think?”

  His partner didn’t get up either. “Kind of still tasking.”

  The air of disagreement hanging between the cops sent Rook to the door. “You guys work this out. I’ll be in the bull pen.”

  “Seriously,” said Ochoa after Rook had left. “We spend more time in meetings, we’ll never get traction.”

  So this is what it becomes, thought Nikki. A battleground of preordained roles. Detectives wanting more time. Downtown wanting more results. Precinct commander caught in the vise grip in between. One slot Heat refused to fill—especially on day one—was that of a skipper harried by her superiors into pushing the pressure down the line. She also didn’t want to be perceived as susceptible to that pressure herself. The flop sweat of Captain Irons was still stinking up the halls of the Twentieth. So she didn’t mention the hotfoot she’d just gotten from the chief of detectives. “Meeting in five minutes” was all she said, then left them to work it out.

  With no sign of dissent, her interim homicide squad leaders had gathered the crew by the time Captain Heat entered the bull pen from her office to begin the meeting. Rook, busy in the back of the room at his squatter’s desk, finished pulling a shot of espresso from his machine and joined the semicircle around the Murder Board.

  Nikki began with a recap of Dr. Parry’s autopsy results, which led to a handoff to Detective Ochoa and the report he had just received from the ballistics lab.

  “As expected, we were looking for a small-caliber GSW. The vic’s autopsy yielded a .22 slug. Rounded, non-hollow-point.”

  Feller finished a note and commented, “The .22 is an interesting choice, considering the conditions.”

  “In an alley fight, I’d want a .9mm or a .44 Mag,” said Inez Aguinaldo. “But when I was military police, there were a fair number of fatals with .25s and .22s. Your critical factors are always distance, angle, and location.”

  “Dr. Parry tells us factors two and three were spot on,” said Heat.

  “Ballistics gives us an estimate on the first, distance,” said Ochoa, going for his notes. “Assuming a long-rifle cartridge and forty grains of powder, the lab puts the muzzle at a range of two to three feet. One yard, max.”

  As Heat’s dry erase squeaked that detail onto the whiteboard, she asked, “Any conjecture about the weapon?”

  Detective Ochoa nodded. “Good odds it was a handgun. Slugs from a rifle have a nasty habit of creating more mayhem inside the skull than those from a revolver or pistol. They not only tear up the tissue but create a lead snowstorm in the brain. This bullet is misshapen, but intact. Unfortunately, no prints. And it’s a plain-wrap, over-the-counter, retail bullet. However, they said they did get good striations for a future match. Of course, they’re running it through the database to see if they get a nexus on priors.”

  “Excellent, Miguel. Glad I came.” Heat arched a teasing brow and got back a half smile from Ochoa, plus another from Raley, which she decided to add together, yielding her one more smile than she had seen going in.

  Ochoa continued. “I’ve gotten in touch with the RTCC detectives. They’re running all shooters favoring .22s, with a sub-run for headshots as MO.”

  Raley read some secret partner signal and took the handoff. “They’re also doing a search for me on a shady guy who popped up on video from King’s medical building.”

  “You mean other than the shady journalist who popped up?” asked Heat. Everyone’s laughter—including Rook’s—went a long way to diffuse tensions. Elephants can’t
take a joke. When you’ve got one in the room, sometimes an honest ribbing clears it out.

  “This dude’s even shadier. If that’s possible,” continued Detective Raley. “Male, Cauc, early thirties. Made several camera passes over several days this week without entering the office.”

  Heat asked, “You get a face?”

  The King of All Surveillance Media shook his head no. “Kept his head down and wore a brim.”

  “Question.”

  “Go, caller,” said Raley.

  “Shady Jameson from Tribeca; first time, long time. If you got no face, how are you going to run him? Tattoo? Scar? I’ll hang up and listen to your answer.”

  “The answer to your question is gait analysis.”

  “There’s an app for that?” asked Rook.

  “There’s an app for that,” answered Raley. “Real Time Crime techs are using new software, initially developed for Homeland, on the premise that gait—the way every person walks—is unique and can be broken down into algorithms. It’s not as accurate as fingerprints yet, but neither was facial recognition when it started.”

  Inez Aguinaldo had just interviewed Sampson Stallings, the romantic life partner of Lon King, who had come directly from JFK to meet with her in the station’s conference room. “The man’s in pieces. He and the victim were a couple for almost a decade and were talking about a wedding.”

  “How was the relationship?” asked Ochoa.

  “Like I said, they were talking about a wedding.”

  “All fine,” said Feller, “but look at reality. Weddings bring out the bad shit. People work in one last fling and get caught, or get cold feet and choose a deadly way out, or all the fear and tension around the big step makes one of them crack, and—pow!” He caught the stare he was getting from Nikki and added, “Clearly, your engagement is the exception.”

  “In fact, Mr. Stallings did admit they had been quarreling lately over his partner’s gambling debts,” said Detective Aguinaldo. “But he told me Dr. King had recently joined GA and was taking steps to get a handle on his habit. As for the rest of their relationship, they had no infidelities, King had no enemies or known threats against him, no changes in routine or behavior, no drugs, no drinking, nothing that would point to this.”

  Heat asked, “You check his alibi? He said he was in Vermont, but Burlington’s only a one-hour flight or a six-hour drive.”

  “Affirm. During the TOD window, Mr. Stallings was in a portrait sitting with a United States senator.”

  “I’d go for more cred,” heckled Rook.

  Detective Feller bent his report through the prism of frustration after spending the day dogging the Harbor Unit and USCG with no accounts of unusual activity concerning a lone kayaker. “I did get some tide info. Yay. Coast Guard ran a computer model factoring in ebb and flood, wind, and drag on a rudderless vessel of that size. Their best guess is that the kayak came downriver, north to south.”

  “That would fit,” said Inez. “Stallings said Dr. King stored his kayak at a boathouse up in Inwood and would have put in there.”

  “Which Detective Aguinaldo was kind enough to phone to me since the kayak was my assignment,” added Rhymer. “I got the call at the REI in Yonkers, where he bought it and took paddling classes. No regular float buddies, according to the manager. In fact, he recalled how King made a big point that he wanted to take up the sport for the solitude.”

  Nikki reflected on her sessions and his tranquil demeanor. After a day of listening to people talk, she imagined the quiet probably kept the psychologist sane.

  “I hit the Inwood Canoe Club on my way back to Manhattan,” Rhymer continued. “It’s on the Hudson between Spuyten Duyvil Creek and the GWB. The vice commodore got me in touch with a member who saw King put in late yesterday afternoon, about four-thirty.”

  As one, the entire squad noted the wall clock, no doubt hatching the same thought. About twenty-four hours before, a man had put on his life jacket, thinking he was going for a carefree paddle on an April evening.

  Detective Rhymer, who had paused in deference to the collective impulse, resumed, consulting his notes. “The member, an HR exec named Abira, said she had a friendly exchange with King, giving him shit about the hazards of floating solo. Ironically, his last words were, ‘If I die, you can have the last laugh.’ She had an appointment and left as he was paddling upriver. According to her and the vice commodore, one of his favorite courses was to make a loop: Harlem River to the University Heights Bridge, and back.

  “Detective Feller,” said Heat. “While there’s still daylight, get on your contacts at Harbor Unit for a scour of that stretch.” While he moved off to his desk, she called after him, “Fishermen, boaters, bird-watchers, pot smokers hanging at the water, ask Harbor to check them all out.” Without turning, he waved in the air to acknowledge.

  “How do we feel about Fat Tommy?” asked Ochoa. “After your meet, do you like him for this?”

  Heat recapped her meeting at Fortuna’s Wheel with Nicolosi. When she finished, Raley observed that she didn’t seem convinced that he was involved. “Sean,” Heat said, “everyone has to be on the table until we close this. But his motive isn’t strong.”

  “He said it himself,” added Rook. “Bad business to kill people who owe you.”

  Detective Rhymer flipped his notebook closed. “Makes us mighty lean on suspects.”

  Ochoa crossed to the Murder Board and tapped the break-in at Lon King’s office. “This is our hottest lead right now. And those A-through-M patient files that got ripped off? Our killer could be one of them. Maybe there was a patient with something in his file he didn’t want known. Something he admitted to the shrink and regretted later.”

  Raley joined his partner’s speculation. “Or, maybe something the shrink blackmailed him with to get money to settle his debt.”

  “Viable,” said Feller, returning from his call.

  Nikki shook her head. “I know I said everything has to be on the table, but that doesn’t seem in character to me.”

  Feller scoffed. “People surprise you.” Rook and Heat traded some drive-by eye contact and looked away. “So can we get a list of the A-through-Ms? Start getting warrants so we can do some interviews?”

  “There is no list,” said Ochoa. “The files were stolen and so was all the documentation from the office. Hard drives, date books, everything. It’s a dead end.”

  “Did Lon King keep a patient list at his home?” asked Miguel. “We should find that out.”

  “I already asked.” Detective Aguinaldo riffled through pages of her notes. “According to his partner, they shared an office-slash-studio in their second bedroom. King mainly used it as a retreat, where he read psychology journals and worked on a nature book he was writing. The only way Stallings saw him consult his case notes was with the paper files he brought home.”

  “His receptionist mentioned thumb drives,” Heat said to her.

  “I’ll follow up.”

  Rhymer raised a polite hand and waited for Nikki’s chin to tilt his way. “Here’s one solution. Make our own list. Have Personnel generate a roster of all the department referrals that have been made to Lon King by NYPD.”

  “That’s a great idea,” said Roach in a near-chorus.

  “It’s a fucking needle in a haystack,” said Feller. “Come on, man, how many referrals have there been? How long do you go back? It’s a nonstarter, if you ask me.”

  Rhymer, self-advocating for a change, said, “You got something better?”

  “Wheel spinning, Rhymes.”

  Detective Rhymer flared. “Hey, dickhead, just because you didn’t think of it doesn’t make it a bad idea.” Feller was too shocked to fire back. The rest were too shocked to do anything but stare in disbelief at the soft-spoken, sweet-natured, almost courtly Virginian. Squad politics had just gotten ugly—Opie had called Randy a dickhead.

  Heat wondered if she had brought this on by not making that clean squad leader appointment and stifling the flames
of rivalry right away. Or had this been boiling underneath the whole time and the change simply made it blow up? She studied Rook. While everyone was beating the bushes for a clue, what the heck was he sitting on?

  Then she banished that thought—for now. It wasn’t going to lead her anywhere good.

  Lon King, PhD

  Counseling Transcript

  Session of Feb. 22/13 with Heat, N., Det. Grade-1, NYPD

  LK: It’s been a while, Nikki. Let’s see, last time we talked, you had gotten pissed off and baptized Jameson Rook with your cocktail.

  NH: A tequila shot, yeah.

  LK: How is it going for you two?

  NH: We’re engaged. LK: Congratulations.

  NH: Thank you.

  LK: How is it going for you two?

  NH: You just asked me that.

  LK: You answered with a fact. How about a feeling?

  NH: Isn’t that in the fact?

  LK: I’d like to know.

  [No reply]

  LK: Nikki, when you made this appointment, you said it was just—What did you call it?

  NH: A tune-up.

  LK: Very nuts and bolts. Which is fine. It’s your style. Or your comfort zone. Is there more? You like things concrete, tell me if there’s a specific issue that you’re confronting.

  NH: Well…Yeah, I guess. [Long pause]…Living together.

  LK: You mean before the wedding? I thought you said you and Rook had been sharing space for a few years.

  NH: I mean after the wedding. And the issue isn’t living together, of course we’ll live together…It’s a question of where. [Long pause] You’re going to make me say this, aren’t you.

  LK: I’m listening.

  NH: OK. OK…It’s just, the whole idea has me all stressed. We can’t be the first couple to choose whose apartment we live in and whose we…give up.

  LK: You’re correct, it’s not uncommon. Although I see it more frequently with couples coming into a committed relationship from divorce, where one partner feels like a guest in the other’s home. One remedy is to get rid of both places and—

  NH: That makes no sense. Rook has this ginormous loft in Tribeca. Lots of space, plenty of room for both of our stuff…[Silence]