Raging Heat

TEN

The old salts working the Atlantic off Long Island didn’t have Doppler radar, computer models, or satellite imagery to predict a brewing storm. They smelled the air, watched the birds, or consulted the Farmers’ Almanac, if the pages hadn’t been torn out in the privy. Of course, they also got surprised a lot. In 1938 the Long Island Express slammed into the Northeast killing about eight hundred people who got little advance notice. So much for red skies in the morning.

Detective Heat only had sunshine and sixty-two degrees to ponder as she drove past the exit for the Fire Island National Seashore. Instead of scoping out weather telltales, her attention went to patrolling side and rearview mirrors in case a certain Impala or vehicle yet-to-be-detected seemed to be following. After the attack in Chelsea she knew Captain Irons would insist on a uni driver or even try to make her take a blue-and-white to Southampton, so Nikki ducked out to her plain wrap Taurus right after the busted interview with Ivan Gogol to ensure some needed solitude for the trip.

Could it really have been only two days before that she covered this same road with Rook? So much had changed in that span, and little of it for the better. Notably Rook, not riding along. Whatever he was doing at that moment, she only hoped it would not result in further disruption. Nikki pushed to stay positive. Sure, the Russian doctor had crapped out, yet she had her warrant. But the situation felt much too fluid to let her relax.

Heat had begun by seeing Beauvais’s planetarium crash and the home invasion on West End Avenue as two different cases. But then came the connection between the Haitian couple as lovers. And now — thanks to Lauren Parry — the forensic nexus between the SRO goons and Jeanne Capois tied them together, as well. However, the rise of Earl Sliney as the possible shooter jumbled things. Nikki wondered, was she really working one case, or could she possibly be back to two?

Along the drive she’d spot-checked the AM radio for updates on the hurricane. The latest report said Sandy had crossed Cuba as a Category Two with wind speeds of 114 miles per hour, causing the unconfirmed deaths of eleven people. The eye didn’t make landfall on Hispaniola, but, as it churned north, Sandy’s powerful swirl dumped twenty inches of rain and killed about fifty souls in Haiti. As of eight that morning, NOAA had tropical storm warnings out for southeast Florida, and the entire Eastern seaboard of the U.S. had started getting serious about disaster readiness.

When the newscaster said, “We go now, live, to a joint news conference with the mayor, the governor, and a commissioner of the Port Authority,” Nikki cranked up the volume. Hizzoner sounded like his usual easygoing self as he announced he had already opened his Office of Emergency Management Situation Room and that all city agencies were synergizing in response to the coming weather event. The governor cited regular discussions with FEMA and the president, who was monitoring the situation closely. The MTA was preparing to move buses and trains to higher ground in the next twenty-four hours. The mayor chimed in that citizens could also expect to see workers sand bagging subway entrances and fastening plywood over sidewalk ventilation grates to prevent flooding. That image gave Nikki her first visceral feeling about a storm that had seemed so abstract until then. And the feeling she got was not just of impact but something more portentous: inevitability.

A reporter asked the governor if the charges against Commissioner Gilbert would adversely impact readiness. The question was followed by a pressroom full of murmurs.

“I’ll answer that,” said Keith Gilbert. Heat pictured him stepping to the microphone, sparing the governor from a perilous moment. “Shortly after I was sworn in last July, well before anybody even knew about this storm, I led the Port Authority in a readiness drill, rehearsing for an emergency such as this. We did it in full-scale, war games style using JFK, Newark Liberty, and the Bayonne Bridge as venues. Three months ago. This is how we roll. We plan. We prepare. Now we execute.

“I am about to activate the PA’s Emergency Management Office,” Gilbert continued. “Our highly trained personnel continue to inspect all assets for readiness and function. Maritime and air terminals are stepping up precautions. Construction at the new World Trade Center is battening down. Also, with an anticipated landfall early next week, I am ordering that, this weekend, critical staff — and that includes Operations and PAPD — will all be working.” The room started yelling out questions all at once. He didn’t call on anyone. Instead, he delivered his sound bite.

“One more comment to more directly address the reporter’s question. Twenty-one years ago, an event called The Perfect Storm lashed the north Atlantic. Now, we see that disparate components could similarly be gathering, poised to fall into place and create a perfectly larger catastrophe. You know I’m a sailor. I am. A sailor who’s weathered all kinds of seas. Anyone who’s sailed with me knows one thing. I know how to keep my eye on what’s important. And to know a real storm from a passing squall.”

During his dramatic pause, Nikki shook her head and muttered, “Politicians.”

Just as she had two days before, Heat pushed the call buzzer outside the security gate at Cosmo, Keith Gilbert’s mansion on Beckett’s Neck in Southampton. Moments after, a voice she recognized asked, “Help you?”

“Danny, hi, this is Detective Heat from the NYPD. We met on Tuesday?”

“…Yeah?” he replied through the tinny speaker. From his detached tone she couldn’t tell if that meant “So what?” or “Yes, I recall.”

“Would you open, please? I have a search warrant.”

When he came out, Danny ogled the document like it was radioactive. His gaze lifted from it to Nikki and then over to Detective Sergeant Aguinaldo whose unmarked SUV was parked parallel to Heat’s Taurus. “This is kind of above my pay grade. Mind if I call Mr. G?”

Nikki thought about it. “Sure, OK. But do it here, though.” She didn’t want Danny out of her sight behind a heavy gate so he could potentially interfere with the search. He nodded blandly and flipped open his cell, walking a few yards to the side for privacy.

“I don’t think there’s going to be a problem with this guy,” said Aguinaldo in a low voice. “I mean that paper’s all you need to go in. If there’s an issue, I’ll just call for someone to watch him out here while we execute your warrant.” Heat appreciated the other detective’s calm take. Instead of exerting small-town bullying — of which Heat had seen her share over the years — Inez Aguinaldo had a cool, professional air. That sort of thing was beyond training. It was how she came wired from the factory.

“There’s a dog, too.”

“We do dogs,” Aguinaldo said with a smile. “Listen, early for lunch, but I brought two panini from Sean’s Place on Hampton Road.”

“Thank you, very thoughtful.”

“I’ve got your choice. Grilled ham and Havarti or grilled ham and Havarti.”

“What do you recommend?”

“I’d go with the first one.”

Just then Heat’s cell phone buzzed. She flashed Aguinaldo the caller ID. “Gilbert’s lawyer. This should be interesting.”

“I hear you have a warrant,” breathed the voice on her phone. Frederic Lohman always sounded like he should be wearing a nasal cannula for supplemental oxygen.

“I do, Mr. Lohman. Your client has a Ruger .38 Special registered as premises-only to his Southampton address through the Suffolk County sheriff. He volunteered the information that he had the weapon on his self-initiated visit to my precinct. I have the paper. I’m getting the gun.”

“That’s a mighty big piece of property there, isn’t it?” Just when Nikki was about to jam him for hindering, he surprised her. “Which is why we are going to tell you exactly where to find it. Notice I said ‘we’?” He coughed without bothering to cover his mouthpiece and said, “I have conferred with Commissioner Gilbert, and my client has directed his caretaker to escort you directly to the weapon in the interest of full cooperation.”

Slightly aback, Heat didn’t want to say thank you, but she did. “You’re welcome. Wipe your feet first.” He chuckled, then added, “Remember this gesture, Detective.” And then he hung up.

The detectives did wipe their feet. It just seemed the thing to do when entering a twenty-million-dollar home. What struck Nikki first was the silence. In the high-ceilinged broadness of the entry and main living room, there was no echo. The absolute cushion of the rugs absorbed all sound inside, and the double-insulated glass kept the outside out. Even the soft rolling of the Atlantic waves foaming on the adjacent beach were dampened — unless, of course the motorized patio windows fanned open. In season, of course.

Heat had no issue with wealth. She just never felt impressed with someone just because he or she had it. Nikki’s mother, who spent her postcollege years tutoring piano in some of the wealthiest homes in Europe used to tell her, “Money magnifies,” which was to say it only enlarges your nature. Give a million to a meth addict, in a year you’re not going to see anything but a lawn full of weeds and a mouth with fewer teeth.

Danny led them past the winding staircase through a showplace kitchen that included an actual curved-glass, refrigerated deli counter full of sausages and cheese, shelves lined with canisters of color-coordinated pastas, and a collection of pepper mills through the years. That led to a den, which was recessed a step down and done in darker, more clubby colors than the airy off-whites and ecrus of the rooms they’d passed through. Without being overly precious, this shipping magnate’s home office was designed and decorated to appear exactly like the fantasy image of a captain’s quarters on an early twentieth-century luxury liner. Portholes with brass framing gave onto the infinity pool, and beyond it, the sea. The beadboard ceiling felt low and enveloping. A stand-up desk, angled for a view of the room dominated one corner. A heavy wooden executive desk overlooked the hearth and was flanked by wing chairs of bottle green leather and finished with hammered brass nails.

They watched the caretaker go to a built-in cabinet of the wet bar. He opened one glass door and felt around the inside frame on one side, and, not finding what he was looking for, did the same on the other. “Huh. He said the key was in here.”

“You’ve never gotten it before?”

He looked at her like she was nuts. “Nobody comes in this room but Mr. G.” He closed that cabinet and opened the door next to it. He reached in and Heat heard a small metallic tink against a coupe glass. “Gotcha.” Danny came out with a small key looped on a circular leather thong. As he went to the big desk and knelt beside one of the large file drawers, Nikki thought about the choice of weapon on Gilbert’s registration. If you were going to get a handgun for home protection, the revolver was a good option for the amateur owner. The mechanics were uncomplicated — pistols jammed — and the Sturm Ruger .38 Spl +P had a concealed hammer, which made the weapon easier to draw and clear without snagging.

The small latch clicked and Heat came around the desk beside Danny. “I’ll take it from here, thank you.” He did his habitual shrug-nod and stood away, giving her access. Nikki drew the brass handle back and looked inside. She turned to the caretaker and said, “We’re good from here. I’ll give you the key on our way out.”

It took Danny a few seconds to comprehend he was being dismissed, but then he left the room. Aguinaldo studied Heat, and when Nikki tilted her glance downward, the other detective came around the desk to look inside the drawer.

There was nothing in it but an empty holster.

Back outside on the driveway, Inez Aguinaldo returned a casual wave to the officer in a black and silver Southampton Town police cruiser that was U-turning on the shoulder to park behind them. She said to Nikki, “I have to say you were pretty chill in there.”

Although she may have seemed unfazed, the instant Heat saw the empty holster it had felt like a pinball was suddenly released in her brain and that the shiny marble was bouncing around up there, tripping lights and dinging bells in a quick succession of questions: Where was the gun? Ding. Why did Gilbert cooperate with the warrant if he knew it was gone? Ding. Did he have any idea it was gone? Ding. Did he know, and merely act cooperative as a pose of innocence? Ding? Was it somewhere in the house, or somewhere in the surf? Ding-ding. “Chill is all relative, Detective Aguinaldo.”

“I don’t believe for a second that Gilbert forgot where his gun was,” said the local. “I mean, you saw that office. It’s as orderly as the Smithsonian in there. Everything in its perfect place.”

Perfect. There was that word again. Kind of like the elements of a storm.

The mansion was too large for Heat to search by herself, and her call to Captain Irons was met with a belly laugh. “You want me to commit resources out of town during the ramp-up to a hurricane?” he said. “Maybe next week, Detective. After the big blow.” Nikki hung up wondering if his big blow referred to the storm or what he was doing to her case.

She turned and took in Cosmo, not just the sprawling house but also its vast acreage and numerous outbuildings full of potential hiding places. Heat didn’t know where that missing gun was. But one thing she did know: The why was just as important as the where.

There are two different police departments in Southampton. A confusing bit of municipal legality that separates jurisdictions of the Town of Southampton from the Village of Southampton. Officer Matthews of the Southampton Town — not Village — Police Department shook Heat’s hand and met her gaze with the innate cheerfulness she had seen in more firefighters than cops. One of those aged-to-perfection veterans, Woody Matthews gave off the vibe of the guy who would fix your flat in the Kmart lot on his day off, or be found in a tent flipping pancakes at the town fair. He looked at the mug shot he had already been shown by Detective Aguinaldo, but it was the additional picture Nikki showed him that Roach had found on the floor in Jeanne Capois’s room that got him nodding. “Yes, I can now say that’s definitely the man I saw.”

The patrolman also confirmed the date he encountered him. It had been earlier the same night Beauvais asked Ivan Gogol to stitch him up — if the Russian doctor’s original story held true, which Heat believed it did. “Detective Aguinaldo said that he might have been shot?”

“That’s possible. Did you see any evidence of blood on him?”

“Negative. I can say for sure, I would have responded to that. Now he was sort of hunched-up, though, with his arms crossed like yay.” The officer bent to demonstrate, his leather belt creaking like a saddle. “The guy said he was sick, and I’m not out to bust chops, you know? I just wanted to make sure he was all right. I even offered him a ride to the train, but he declined. I got a drunk and disorderly call at one of the taverns on the highway, so I let it go and rolled to the D&D.” Catch and release, thought Nikki.

“Did he seem scared, like he was being followed?”

Officer Matthews brushed his fingers through his short-cropped, salt and pepper hair. “Again, that is definitely something I would have keyed into.” Heat believed him. He was one of those local types who put on the uniform every day to help, not hassle.

Heat asked to show where he found Beauvais. He spread a map on the hood of his car and tapped North Sea Road near the cemetery. “That’s literally on the other side of the tracks from here,” she observed.

“Correct. His direction of travel to the train station was coming from the north.”

Which was odd. Odd enough, thought Heat, to qualify as an odd sock. If Fabian Beauvais had been coming from either Keith Gilbert’s or Alicia Delamater’s, he would have been walking from south to north, not the other way around. “What’s up North Sea Road?”

“It’s a lot of residential,” said Detective Aguinaldo.

“Right,” continued the officer. “Some nice homes up that way. Not like all this, but middle to upper-middle class. Wooded lots and two-car garages. Let’s see, a liquor store, which is where I first thought he might have been coming from. But he could also have been a kitchen worker from the seafood place. Everything else up there would have been closed that time of night. The tree service, Conscience Point, the general store.…”

“Hang on,” said Heat. For a second, the word almost slipped by Nikki. But as it started to float away, it suddenly turned like an arcing boomerang and returned to her full force, slamming into her mind. “What is Conscience Point?”

Nikki pulled into the parking lot of Southampton’s municipal marina at Conscience Point fifteen minutes later and parked beside a public works truck that was unloading sand bags to brace for the storm. Inez Aguinaldo got out of her unmarked SUV and led her counterpart on a brief walking tour of the Parks & Rec moorage, which amounted to a humble, yet tidily kept green between the road and North Sea Harbor. Three T-shaped docks jutted out from the seawall and a row of slips ran at a right angle down the shore’s walking path.

Two months after Labor Day, most sat empty. The few remaining sloops and cabin cruisers belonging to diehards trying to extend the season were in the process of getting hoisted out now. A crew operating a diesel crane with a sling lift worked at a feverish pace to get the boats dry before Sandy came knocking. Heat kept to herself, watching the cascade of water sluice off a winched-up Ensign 22, observing the layout of the grounds, contemplating the pair of Parks & Rec buildings situated just off the blacktop, noting the trash bins and the white six-hundred-gallon fuel storage tanks across the lot. Listening and seeing, the detective tried to be open; to let this place speak something to her.

The two detectives sat on top of a picnic table, eating their panini, watching the three-thousand-pound Ensign swing on a crane toward a carrier on a flatbed. Finally, Aguinaldo asked, “Can I be of help? Is there something specific you’re looking for?”

“It’s like playing Jeopardy,” said Heat. “I’ve got the answer, I just need to guess the right question.” The answer, Nikki explained was: Conscience.

“That word has had me scratching my head ever since we found it. ‘Conscience’ was written on a scrap of paper stuffed in a fat envelope of cash hidden in Fabian Beauvais’s closet. Not insignificantly, Keith Gilbert’s address and phone number were on the same piece of paper. But ‘conscience’ was in pencil, like it was added later.”

“You’re holding back on me, Detective Heat. I think you already know your question. It’s ‘What is a meeting place for a payoff?’”

Nikki watched the boat hull settle gently against the padded supports of the carrier and said, “It had occurred to me.”

More than that, Heat had spent the last few silent minutes playing out its viability in her mind. “Here’s a what-if: What if Fabian Beauvais had some personal leverage, some reason to extort or blackmail Keith Gilbert? I don’t know…Maybe, working for Alicia Delamater, he learned about their affair and threatened to expose that.” As she spoke, Nikki realized she was building her scenario on one of Rook’s theories and that there would, no doubt, be some crow eating and a sexual favor trade-off as a result. That would have to wait for tonight, she thought, with some relish. “That accounts for the phone calls between Beauvais and the commish. And the ten thousand in cash.”

“Calls to negotiate the payoff and the place to make it. Here.”

“Conscience,” said Heat.

Detective Aguinaldo picked up the what-if, in complete sync with Heat’s thoughts. “So they meet here that night. The money gets paid. But something goes wrong.”

Heat took the handoff. “It’s not the agreed amount, or Beauvais says something to piss off Gilbert, or vice versa, or Gilbert never intended to pay — or to let him live. Think of all the things that can go south fast in a deal gone bad. Either way, Gilbert brought his gun, and whatever happened, didn’t finish the job. Beauvais runs, wounded. Gilbert gets the hell out of here.”

“But if the ten grand was some kind of blackmail,” asked Aguinaldo, “why didn’t Beauvais expose Gilbert after he shot him?”

“Not sure.” Nikki felt comfortable enough with the other detective to speculate aloud. “What about this? He’s an immigrant, right? No standing in the community. He got his money — through an illegal blackmail. Figures he’ll survive the wound. Why put himself out there by getting into the justice system against a power broker?”

“…Who already tried to kill him.”

“And may be highly incentivized to finish the job,” said Heat. “Sure would explain how a shooting in the Hamptons leads to smashing into the planetarium in New York City.”

“If we know for sure there was a shooting here.”

A breeze stirred and Nikki turned to look at it ripple the surface of the harbor. And wondered if the Ruger was buried in the silt out there somewhere.

“That’s a lot of water,” said Aguinaldo.

“Did Gilbert keep a boat here?” asked Heat as they walked back to their cars.

“Doubtful, but I can check.”

“I’ve asked you to do a lot. I have to get back to the city. Mind another favor?” Heat gestured to the scattering of homes nestled behind evergreens and rail fences off the rural road surrounding the marina. “If you can free up the personnel, could you have somebody knock on a few doors around here, Detective Aguinaldo?”

“It’s Inez,” she said, opening her notebook.

Rook texted Heat while she was buying a cup for the road at Hampton Coffee Company. Her first reaction was a twinge of melancholy that they had devolved from personal contact to voice mail to IMs. He might as well be in Switzerland. But she cheered up when she read his invitation. STILL IN THE MOOD TO BE IN THE MOOD FOR THAT ROMANTIC ROOFTOP DINNER? Making sure to be immediate, she replied yes. He pinged her back, asking if they could do it at her place. He had his reasons, and she had a roof, too.

Nikki hit the highway with a smile. She wanted to see his face by candlelight when she told him she’d poached one of his wacko theories. She suppressed the tingle she felt about what else the night would bring. For now, she was happy things might be settling back to normal between them.

On the way out of the Hamptons she started counting the round blue metal signs posted a half-mile apart that read: COASTAL EVACUATION ROUTE. Those warnings had been there for years, but she never really noticed them. Like so many things.

What had she missed in this case? Asking herself that, as she did at some point during every investigation, Heat succumbed to the detective’s disease. To always feel something got overlooked or was lost in all the complexity and lies. But what experience had taught her was to just push forward. That there’s always more going on than you think, but the answer is usually simpler than it appears.

Nikki passed another sign indicating she was still on the evacuation route and wondered if she was leaving a hazard zone or heading toward one.

The answer to that came during her debrief of Detective Rhymer shortly after she returned to the precinct late that afternoon. Opie had spent the day with CSU combing the apartments of the known members of the hit squad that had attacked Heat. So far, they had found nothing to connect Bjorklund, Victor, or Floyd to the Port Authority commissioner. As they talked, Heat’s cell phone started to come alive with texts and e-mails from friends and colleagues. Their content only gave hints. Brief messages said things like, LOW BLOW! or DIRTY POOL! And from Lauren Parry at the ME’s office, WTF?! Lauren’s contained a hyperlink to one of the scummier Webloids, city’s-edge.com, a step down from the Ledger, if that was possible. Nikki clicked on it and it opened to the blog’s front page. WTF was right.

The headline, big and bold, screamed:

HEAT SNAP?

Underneath was a half-screen picture of Nikki confronting Keith Gilbert outside the Widmark Hotel prior to his arrest. The caption read, CELEBRITY COVER-COP NIKKI HEAT SNARLS AT A COOPERATIVE AND CONFUSED COMMISSIONER KEITH GILBERT JUST BEFORE SHAMING HIM WITH AN AWKWARDLY PUBLIC MIDTOWN ARREST. IS THERE FIRE, OR DID SMOKIN’ HEAT SNAP? It got worse.

The article, quoting only unnamed insiders and sources preferring to remain anonymous, painted a picture of a formerly stellar NYPD homicide detective with a penchant for obsession.

People in the know have come out about Neurotic Nikki’s single-mindedness. Like flogging her murdered Mom’s case over ten years, always at the expense of other investigations. “Don’t get in her way when she’s on a tear,” said one ex-cop. It seems Heat has no problem multitasking when it comes to the bedroom, though. Although romantically linked to über-journalist Jameson Rook, a buff gym buddy was shot dead in her tony Gramercy apartment not long ago. When responders arrived, the hunky stiff was naked in her foyer. “I think she kinda cracked,” spoke another on background only, fearing retribution from the swingin’ dick. “But cut her some slack. Her mom got knifed and her dad’s turned into a lush.”

Is this what Keith Gilbert meant when he invoked Steinbrenner to mask his threat to throw her over a wall? Maligning her family? She stopped reading and immediately picked up the phone to call her father. The sad reality was, Nikki had to look at the clock to see if it was early enough in the day to reach him while he was still sober.

“Hi, Dad, it’s me, Nikki. Listen, just thinking about you. Hoping you’re all right.” She paused. What do you do in these situations: leave a message telling him not to read a paper or answer any e-mails or calls? “Give me a ring right away when you get this, OK? Love you.”

As Heat ended her voice mail, a sharp rap on the captain’s office window startled her. She turned to see Wally Irons standing inside his fishbowl, with one hand holding the ballpoint he’d used to tap the glass, and the other holding the phone to his ear. He used the pen to point at Nikki and then jerked it back to beckon her in. He wore the expression of a man whose sloppy joe had started coming back up on him.

“She just came in the office, I’m going to put you on speaker,” said Irons who then cradled his handset, accidentally disconnecting his caller. “Fu-uck.” Then he turned to Nikki. “It’s Zach Hamner from One PP; park yourself.” The line purred again in a redial instant and he stubbed a finger down on the speaker button to answer.

“Heat?” asked the voice of The Hammer.

“Right here.” Nikki tried to sound nonchalant, but all her defenses were on high alert. Irons and Hamner despised each other, so having them together on a call, combined with Wally’s dyspeptic look, signaled a DEFCON-3 event. Her first thought was that this would be about the sleazy article. She wasn’t that lucky.

“I hear there was no gun,” said Zach, getting right to it, actually, helping Heat relax a little because she was prepared to address that.

“A bit of a surprise after his lawyer called to help us locate it in the house. But it happens.” Captain Irons emitted an audible sigh and grimaced some more. She ignored him and continued, “I’m not sweating that.”

“How can you not? It’s physical evidence in your case.”

Nodding at the speaker grid on the gray phone, she said, “Which has disappeared. Or been hidden. Or lost. I’m not happy about it, but it just means we have to recover it. Or chalk it up. In any event, I see this all in keeping with Gilbert’s duplicity. Embracing the search to appear innocent and cooperative, knowing the whole time that I’d spend half a day chasing my tail to find an empty holster.”

“Must be nice to be so blasé.”

“Uh, anything but, Zachary. Listen, this is the pick-and-shovel work we do out here in the field. It’s a setback, but that’s all. I continue to get new and promising leads on this guy.” She almost told him about Conscience Point, but that was still so theoretical it would only feel more speculative, rather than less. Nikki tried to remember when she ever had to work so hard to sell a case, but sell she did. “The missing gun is one detail we’ll work around.” She didn’t like the sucking pause from the downtown end of the phone line. She disliked it even more when he filled it.

“To this office that gun is more than a detail. As is your Russian doctor who’s not even a doctor. What happened to him naming Gilbert?”

“He spooked. Somebody got to him.”

“There’s a pattern. No gun, your witness recants…You still don’t have a link to Beauvais and Gilbert and an airplane.”

“He owns a helicopter.”

“Which he couldn’t have been in because he was giving a speech when your Haitian took his skydive.”

“So one of the goons he sent to attack me did it.”

“Oh, you didn’t tell me you had proof they were working for him.” The weasel’s sarcasm made her wish he was there. If Zach had balls, she would kick them.

“Gilbert is solid for this.”

“Heat, I know this is a passion for you,” said The Hammer, “but my passion is keeping this department from embarrassing and costly lawsuits.”

“Yeah, well, mine is putting away killers.” Something slipped its chain inside her and she leaned over the phone to add, “Even if they play golf with your bosses.”

Irons lurched forward in his chair. “Detective, that is out of line.”

“If you’re rich and connected, you get a free pass?”

“And insubordinate.” Wally checked the light on the telephone to make sure his objections were on the record and added, “Careful now, somebody’s living up to her tabloid rep.” Heat cut him a sharp look, but decided she’d done enough damage with her outburst.

If the senior administrative aide to the NYPD’s deputy commissioner for legal matters took offense though, he didn’t sound it. In fact, when he finally spoke again, he came across as downright laid-back. “I think we’ll all do ourselves a favor to take a breath here.” Nikki, who had bolted to her feet in the exchange, sat back down.

Zach’s calm tone gave her a sense that since his second official caution of the day had been voiced, the worst was over. At least until he said, “So I’m taking the pressure off this right now. I got the consent of the brass here, and I’ve conferred with the DA. We are withdrawing all charges against Keith Gilbert.”