Raging Heat

THREE

Keith Gilbert made full eye contact when he shook her hand — something Heat always paid attention to. In her line of work, the eyes were not only the windows to the soul, they also afforded a panoramic view of its darker regions. But she registered none of the shifty tells like floor staring, sideways averting, or the dead-fixed glare. Framed by deep creases in his lean, sun-weathered face, Gilbert smiled openly and took her measure, too, making Nikki wonder if the guileless reading she got from him was as carefully masked as the one she was returning.

“This is Jameson Rook,” Nikki released his hand and the two men gripped.

“Commissioner,” Rook said as they sawed air. “It was a few years back, but we met briefly at—”

“—The Robin Hood Foundation gala, right?”

While Rook beamed at Heat, Gilbert stroked the short bristles of his goatee. “Trying to remember which year, but I do recall you were in a very serious huddle with Tom Brokaw and Brian Williams when I busted things up.”

“’Oh-nine. And you tried to strong-arm us to pony up twenty grand apiece to race Sir Richard Branson to Halifax on your sailboat.”

“It’s a ninety-foot Trimaran, and the privilege of crewing was all for charity.” Then he winked an aside to Nikki. “Never ask a journalist to pay for anything.”

While Rook and Gilbert enthused about Aretha Franklin filling the Javitz Convention Center with “Bridge Over Troubled Water,” it bought Heat time to gather herself from the Port Authority commissioner’s unexpected drop-in. She had not yet organized her questions but had no desire to postpone and risk losing him to his busy schedule or wall of handlers. Then, behind his back, she spotted the Murder Board in plain view with the ink still drying on his name in big fat letters. “You know what?” she said, already steering him to the door. “We should go someplace we can speak more privately.”

She ushered him into the conference room, much less onerous than one of the mirrored interrogation boxes. Rook followed them. To further keep things respectful, Nikki ignored the long table and indicated the trio of cloth chairs in the corner as an informal seating area. As he took one of them and set his slim briefcase on the floor, Heat said, “I’d offer you coffee, Commissioner Gilbert, but it’s kind of stale, and you caught me by surprise.”

“My chief of staff said you’d left three calls. I wanted to find out why all the urgency.”

“Not that I mind the personal visit, but it’s kind of heroic.”

“I was on the Henry Hudson anyway. Quite literally in the neighborhood, coming back from a disaster survey of the George Washington Bridge.”

Rook leaned forward. “Problem with the GWB?”

“I should have said ‘readiness survey.’ Reporters…Look, I know you work with Detective Heat from those First Press articles you wrote about her. Impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“I meant Heat,” he said as another playful aside to Nikki before he turned back to Rook. “But since you asked, as chair of Security and Operations, I am charged to make sure all bridges, tunnels, airports, seaports, rails, and other Port Authority assets are ready in the event we get hit by this Sandy.”

Nikki flashed on the GMA update she’d seen that morning. “That thing all the way down around Nicaragua?”

“The computer tracking for ‘that thing’ has put us on alert for a potential Category One or Two hurricane to make landfall somewhere in the Northeast within a week. It could strike the tri-state, if you follow the European models.”

Rook wagged a Groucho air cigar. “I followed a European model once. Until she tazed me.” He felt Commissioner Gilbert’s cool stare and let the mimed stogie fall from his fingers.

“Detective, I have a teleconference with FEMA, the Office of Emergency Management, and two nervous governors this afternoon, so perhaps you could simply tell me what you need to talk to me about.”

“Absolutely. Let’s get right to it.” She gave Rook a cautionary glance to lay back, and he acknowledged it. “You own a mansion out in the Hamptons, is that right?”

“Yes…well, I have a second home there. I’m not sure I’d call it a mansion.” His eyes narrowed in bemusement. “Did something happen to it?”

“No, not that we are aware.”

“Then, if you’ll pardon me, this doesn’t seem like getting right to it.” His demeanor remained pleasant, but he was unsubtle enough to check his wristwatch, an expensive, chunky outdoorsman’s piece with more dials than the Mercury space capsule. Respect notwithstanding, Heat was determined not to let him run her meeting. She wanted to know how the address and private phone number of a man of his stature ended up bookmarking a wad of cash hidden in the floor of a poor immigrant’s flophouse.

But she also knew she couldn’t come at it straight on. Taking as much time and cooperation as he’d give, Nikki set out to start with a wide circle, then angle her way to the central question, learning perhaps more that way than serving his impatience. Or stature.

“Do you go there often?”

Resigned that she would follow her own tack, he answered, “As often as I can. Why are you so interested in Cosmo?”

Succumbing to the urge, she reached for her pen and notepad. “Who is Cosmo, please?”

He laughed. “Cosmo is the name of the property.”

Rook was unable to restrain himself. “It’s not a mansion, but it has a name?”

“Every place out there has a name.”

“Cosmo…is unique,” she said.

“The name of the first ship I bought when I took over my father’s cargo business and expanded Gilbert Maritime into cruise liners. Unfortunately, like the old ship it’s named for, Cosmo is a money pit. I spent more on renovation and upkeep this year alone than I did to buy it. I lost a roof to Hanna in 2008 and a second one last year to Hurricane Irene. I’ve decided next time it would be cheaper just to reshingle with thousand-dollar bills.”

“I assume you’re able to afford it,” she said and watched him grow colder.

“My assets are public record, or will be, now that I’m filing for candidacy. Moving on?”

“Is the house occupied while you’re away?”

“No, unless it’s my wife, who never goes there. Otherwise, I have some maids who come once a week, a gardening staff, and a caretaker.”

“Are they all local?” she asked.

“No, I chauffeur them out from Park Avenue.” His face pinked, probably realizing how One Percenter that came off. Dropping his flash of sarcasm, he replied, “Yes, all locals who’ve been with me for years.”

If true, that eliminated the potential domestic-worker connection she was wondering about between him and Fabian Beauvais. But the mention of his shipping line triggered something new to explore. “Where do your cruise lines go, may I ask?”

“Sure. Caribbean, mostly. We experimented in some high-end, smaller vessels to do some of the European rivers and exclusive Mediterranean ports, but the real business is the Gulf and the Caribbean.”

“Jamaica?”

“Absolutely.”

“Puerto Rico? Aruba? Turks and Caicos?”

“Yes, yes, and yes. Nevis and St. Kitts, also.”

“Haiti?”

He scoffed. “Not a lot of vacationers eager to put in there. Why?”

Nikki pursued another line. “Have you had any burglaries, trespassers, or anything like that at Cosmo?”

“Nope. College kids had a zombie party on the beach. Some sort of Thriller flash mob, it’s called. They knocked down some of my dune fencing and chewed some lawn with their dance, but that’s about it.”

“Any problem with stalkers?”

He shook no.

“Getting any strange phone calls?” Same no. “Take your time, Commissioner. Any hang ups with nobody there, weird voice mails? Think about it.”

He gave it a ponder and wagged his head.

“No unknown cars hanging around? Loiterers?”

“I have protection for that sort of thing.”

“You mean a gun?”

“Oh, sure I have a gun — registered, of course. But that’s not what I mean. My protection is Topper. My German shepherd.”

Heat decided it was time to try out the name. “Are you acquainted with a Fabian Beauvais?”

“I assume that’s a person and not a wine or perfume,” he said with a chuckle and a nod to Rook.

“Fabian Beauvais,” she repeated, not joking.

He blew out some air and closed his eyes. “Nope,” he said when he opened them. “Detective, I came here to help you, and now I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to ask you tell me why. Please.” He didn’t make it sound anything like a question. She would have preferred to hold off until she made some more blind inquiries, but rather than lose him, she doled out the headline version, parsed for holdbacks, which was standard.

“We are looking into the death of a Haitian illegal named Fabian Beauvais, which we deem suspicious.” Nikki studied him for reaction and got that same unselfconscious eye contact from when he’d first walked in. “In his personal effects we found the address and phone number of your home in the Hamptons.”

“That’s just weird. I never heard of this guy.” Heat mentally noted the repetition. Could be a tell. Maybe not.

“How’d he die?”

“The medical examiner hasn’t given a final ruling yet.” In her periphery, Rook’s head turned to her, reacting to the holdback. “In the meantime, we’re just doing our job, covering bases. Last thing.” She unfolded hard copy sketches of the two goons from the SRO stairwell. “Do you recognize these men?” As he held them for examination, she added, “And it could be from anywhere. New York City, the Hamptons, around your cruise line, maybe passengers, maybe workers.”

When he said no, she handed him a mug photo. “That is Fabian Beauvais.”

He laid it on top of the sketches and gave a shrug. “I’m not being much help, am I?” he said as he handed the pictures back.

“You did just fine,” she said, rising. “Would it be all right if we contacted Human Resources for your shipping line to see if they know any of these three?” He eyed the printouts and said that would be fine.

“One more question before you go. Do you own an airplane or a helicopter?”

“That’s an odd thing to ask.”

“In the job description, I’m afraid,” she said, sloughing it off. “Well, do you?”

“I have a seaplane at my place in Vancouver.”

“And a helicopter?”

“A Bell JetRanger. Sounds elitist, I know, but I couldn’t perform my Port Authority responsibilities without it — which, if you don’t know, are pro bono.”

“But you do have income from your shipping business.”

“I am drawing from other resources at the moment. I had to place Gilbert Maritime into a blind trust this summer when I received my appointment to Port Authority. It’s all about avoiding conflict of interest. The Authority receives decades of my expertise; I receive, well, nothing.”

“Still, a JetRanger makes that commute from the Hamptons a snap,” said Rook, reloading Heat’s topic.

“Did you use your copter yesterday morning?” she asked.

“Yes, I did. I was flown from Southampton to a speaking engagement in Fort Lee for a Port Authority readiness seminar concerning the George Washington Bridge. Same drill I just mentioned. Why?”

“What time was that?”

“Let’s see…early. The pilot got me there at seven-thirty for the seven forty-five meeting.”

“And how long were you there?”

“Until four in the afternoon.” A time span that would have alibied Gilbert from being anywhere near the Upper West Side when Beauvais fell. “Why so interested in my comings and goings to Fort Lee?”

“Like I said, just in the job description. Thank you for your cooperation, Commissioner Gilbert. Most appreciated.”

“Happy to make the acquaintance of the famous Nikki Heat.” He gave her a double handshake and enveloped her hand warmly. She escorted Gilbert as far as the lobby then doubled back to him before he got outside to his waiting black Suburban. “Oh, one more question: Does the word ‘conscience’ mean anything to you?”

He laughed heartily. “Lady, I’m a politician. Are you serious?”

On her way back to the bull pen, Rook met her with a briefcase. “The commish left this in the conference room.”

Heat hustled through the lobby and saw he was still out there, engaged in a sidewalk phone call. When she came through the door, he had his back to her and was speaking sharply, nothing like the affable charmer she’d just interviewed. “I don’t care if he’s in a goddamned meeting. You get me Fred Lohman — now.” Then he spotted Nikki in his periphery, flashed a winning grin, rolled his eyes, and said of himself, “What an idiot.” He took the briefcase mumbling something about getting distracted.

On her way back inside, Heat wondered why Keith Gilbert so urgently needed to speak with one of Manhattan’s top criminal attorneys. As he slid into the rear passenger seat of his gleaming SUV, the Port Authority commissioner caught her eye and held it briefly. In that unguarded moment she saw something foreign on him.

Strain.

Then he pulled the door closed and left.

“Roach on your desk,” said Rook as Heat returned to the bull pen. She pushed aside her mail and picked up the landline.

“You two better not be messing this up.”

Her detectives chuckled on the other end. “Oh, did we have an assignment or something?” said Ochoa.

“Here’s the thirty-second drill,” added his partner. “Doorman got overpowered from behind by multiple assailants in the middle of the night and locked up in the mail room.”

“He’s OK; he’s the one who called it in,” added Ochoa from their speakerphone.

“They forced the tenth-floor apartment door with a crowbar. Which was also used on the victim, Shelton David, eighty-six-year-old male, Dead On Scene, blunt force bleed-out is the ME’s prelim. He was in his pajamas and had a Louisville Slugger beside him on the floor. Probably heard the noise and grabbed it to defend himself.”

Heat nudged aside the burnished mental image of her mother’s pool of blood on her kitchen floor and asked, “Any eyewits?”

“None yet. We’ve got some unis canvassing the building and, of course, we’re already scoping for cams that might have picked up something.” Ochoa’s sure-footed rundown made her feel proud of these guys for seizing the moment. “CSU is here now, dusting and tweezing.”

“This old guy was a prime target. A retired broker from the Gordon Gekko days who had plenty to show for it.” Detective Ochoa drifted off mic. Heat could picture him surveying the apartment as he spoke. “The place has been tossed pretty good, but we contacted his insurer so we can get an inventory, in case somebody tries to fence anything.”

“Good move,” she said. “He was a stockbroker, so you might also check past clients or business partners. Gekko’s gone. We’re in the Madoff era now, so maybe somebody was getting revenge.”

Raley said, “Ahead of you,” and she could hear his smile at being able to say it. “Opie’s got a buddy at the First Precinct who’s the Wall Street go-to. His pal’s already doing some legwork for us.”

“Well, you guys are making me feel sort of unnecessary.”

“Just doin’ our jobs, ma’am,” said Ochoa before they hung up. “Just doin’ our jobs.”

The second she cradled her phone Rook took a seat on her pile of mail. “What’s your take on Commissioner Gilbert?”

“You really want to know?” she asked. Heat mulled the numerous possibilities she had been weighing and said, “Too soon to tell.”

He grinned and stood. Then he made a show of extracting a five-dollar bill from one pants pocket and putting it in his other. “I bet myself that’s what you’d say.”

“You’re a wiseass, know that?”

“Wise, smart, irresistible, whatever. This ass is all yours, Nikki Heat.”

Even clowning like he was, that declaration sparked another chest flutter, an echo of the one she’d felt that morning when she found the receipt. Nikki diverted by clearing her e-mail. “Check this out from Forensics.” He leaned in, his shoulder gently brushing against hers as they shared the screen. She didn’t move away. “The lab found residue of chicken blood and chicken feathers on that New Balance trainer from the planetarium.”

“You know what this means, don’t you?”

“Rook, I swear if you say he was a trying to be a birdman…”

He pulled a face. “Birdman? Where the hell did you come up with something as whack as that? I was going to say voodoo sacrifice.”

She hung her head and shook it. “All right,” he said, “you doubt me? Fire up your search engine and type in “Haiti” and “chicken blood” and see if Mr. Google doesn’t slap you with a page of voodoo links.”

“I don’t need to, Rook, I’m sure that’s so. But I had a more practical thought. An illegal immigrant needs a job, right?” She entered a search for chicken slaughterhouses in the area and came up with three. “I remember passing one of these places once in Queens and a lot of alien day laborers were hanging around outside hoping for work. Now, I won’t rule out some voodoo connection, but with two of these places so near to Flatbush, don’t you think we’d be smarter to put our limited manpower there first?”

“Well,” he said. “I suppose I can humor you.”

“You from the Health Department?” hollered the woman. The screen door of the run-down corner market slammed behind her and she rushed across the road toward the undercover car, nearly getting clipped by a lumber-supply truck. “The fuck took you so long? I been calling.”

Their second slaughterhouse that afternoon, and this marked the second complainer to accost them on arrival. An amused Rook came around to join Nikki on the sidewalk, which was wet in a radius around a coiled hose and tinged pink from rinsed blood. “No ma’am, I’m with the police.”

“Even better. Bust these fucking assholes.” She gestured with her cigarette to the slaughterhouse behind them, an orange, one-story, boxy industrial that was probably an auto body shop at one time. It had no windows, and its rolling metal garage door, prolifically tagged, was closed. “I put together three-fifty for a nice condo, and I gotta listen to the fucking squawking all day and night. And the fucking stink. I want them out of here.”

Nikki assessed the moment and said, “I’ll see what I can do,” sympathetic to the woman’s gripe but not disposed to deal with it, either.

They were let in an aluminum door cut into the metal roller, and when Heat showed her badge, about a half dozen of the workers, observing warily through the hazy glass partition, shrunk back in the warehouse and, most likely, exited out the rear. While they waited for the general manager, she gave Rook the same advice Lauren Parry had shared on her first visit to the basement autopsy room. “Breathe through your mouth, it’ll trick your brain.” It worked, sort of.

Standing at the glass, Rook surveyed a line of chickens hung on hooks by their feet, headless and bleeding out, waiting to be plucked. “So much for Emily Dickinson. She called hope…”

“…the thing with feathers,” said Heat. “Yes, I know.”

“I can’t let you go out onto the floor,” said the GM, a doughy guy in whites with JERRY stitched on the left breast above a pocketful of pens and a quick-read thermometer. “I’ve got sani-caps for you both, but he’d need a beard net.” Which got Nikki to tilt her head and regard Rook with a pleased grin.

“Fetching,” she said.

“We’re good out here,” said the Jameson Rook action figure.

Heat showed the Beauvais mug shot. “We won’t take much of your time. I was wondering if you could tell us if you recognize this man.”

“Sure, that’s Fabian.” He pronounced it like the fifties rock-and-roll star instead of the Island French, but the ID hit was all Nikki cared about. In her excitement, she drew a nasal inhale and tasted death.

According to Jerry the GM, Fabian Beauvais was a dayworker like most of his crew. The immigrant community liked the job because he paid fair and didn’t ask a lot of questions. Beauvais had come there nine months ago, referred by some of his Haitian buddies, and was one of his best workers. “He pulled a no-show, Jesus, must have been end of August. Then came back, I dunno, about five days ago, all nervous and stooping like he was really hurt.”

“Did he say what happened?”

“Like I said, you don’t ask a lot of questions here. But he was hurting, for sure. And jumpy. Fabian was always kind a cool and easy-peasy, but this guy came back totally paranoid. Is he in some kind of trouble? Is that why he disappeared on me again?”

“When did he disappear?”

“Yesterday he pulled another no-show.”

Rook asked, “Did he ever say where he was or what he was doing during those two months he was gone?”

“That much I know. Said he scored a steady job doing manual labor. Construction helper, I’m thinking. I just figured he fell off a ladder, or something.”

Nikki poised her ballpoint over her notebook. “Where was that job?”

“Not sure where exactly. All he said was the Hamptons.”