security vestibule. As she passed the pair, Nikki could see their suits were tailored to accommodate shoulder holsters, which made her wonder if the custom shirtmaker twenty-six floors below was the beneficiary of his co- tenants’ outfitting requirements. Before they could proceed, the lobby door needed to close behind them and lock. When the bolt shot, one of the minders pressed his thumbprint to a scanner and the door ahead of them slid open.
At the top of a carpeted spiral staircase they arrived at the penthouse floor and the anteroom of Lawrence Hays’s executive suite. In a very matter-of-fact way, one of the escorts said, “I’d like to take your firearms.”
“I’d like to see you try,” said Ochoa, equally as matter-of-factly. There was no way Heat was going to give up her weapon, either, and she wondered how this would play out-three New York cops facing two running backs in a stare-down.
The door opened and Hays said, “Stand down, they can come in as is.”
Heat recognized him from the Internet search she had done as well as from a 20/20 profile she had seen on Hays the year before, after he personally led a daring helicopter mission to rescue one of his contractors who had been kidnapped by the Taliban. He was Top Gun handsome but shorter than she’d expected. In the video profile he had laughed and described himself as “five-foot-eight of pissed off cobra,” and he was all that, particularly with his alert eyes and that lean muscle flexing under his black polo shirt and tight Gap jeans.
Hays picked his travel duffel off the couch, tossed it beside his desk, and gestured for them to sit. He took the tan leather easy chair facing them, which complemented his sandy Steve McQueen hair and desert suntan. The relaxed throw of one leg over the other, the casual dangling of his aviators from the V of his shirt, and the heartland smile were winning enough to Nikki, but as she settled down between Raley and Ochoa, she reminded herself this was the man who might have killed-or arranged to have killed-Father Graf and sent a platoon of operatives to Central Park to cancel her day. Those were two items Nikki wanted to find out about. Or at least hear his answers and put them to the smell test.
“What can I do for you, Detectives?”
Heat decided to pull the rug on the laid back pose. “For starters, you can tell me how it felt to kill Father Graf.”
The response from Hays was curious. No, bizarre. Rather than getting rattled, he lounged his head back onto the chair and smiled. As if narrating a nature video, he spoke to the ceiling. “And so the gal detective begins with a weak attempt to throw the interview subject off balance. Classic opening gambit, which is to say…,” he brought his head forward to look into her eyes and said, “… cliched.”
“You haven’t answered my question, Mr. Hays.”
“You’ve got to earn my answers, miss.” And then, narrating again, he said, “Ouch. In the hole on the first Q! Frustrated by the response; distracted by the chaff of implied sexism. What will she do?”
Heat knew exactly what he was up to. Hays was employing some sort of mind game to fend her off and hijack the interview. Probably some counter-interrogation technique he taught in Ely, Nevada. She told herself to shut out his psychological noise and stick to her agenda.
“Where were you the night your pastor was killed?”
“Why?”
“Because I suspect you may have killed him and I want to confirm your whereabouts.”
“Strategy Two employed,” he announced. “Stepping it down from the absolute ‘how did it feel’ to the wimpy ‘you may have.’ Why, oh, why do they send me amateurs?”
“Your whereabouts, Mr. Hays.”
“Where? Oh… about.” He laughed. “About could be so many places. She will be a long time checking that.”
Nikki decided to shift gears on him. She took out the picture of Sergio Torres and handed it over. “Do you know this man?”
“This is no man. This is a photograph.” He cocked an eye at her. “Oh, tell me the glorified meter maid doesn’t have a sense of humor.”
“His name is Sergio Torres,” continued Heat, “and I want to know if you have ever employed him as one of your contractors.”
He nodded. “That I will answer.” Hays waited until he had milked the moment. “… By saying that I do not confirm or deny personnel in my employ for reasons of their own safety. And national security.” He laughed again and said to Raley, “You could ask Julian Assange.”
Heat persisted. “So you have never seen him?”
“Mm, they all look about the same to me.”
Ochoa tensed beside her. She pressed a gentle elbow against him and he settled.
Hays lifted his arm like a pupil. “May I ask one now?” She waited and he said, “Why are you asking me about this… hombre?”
“Because the same day he tried to kill me, one of your operatives was seen doing surveillance on my apartment.” It was the first time she had seen him thrown. Not much, but the cobra eyes took a hit.
“Let me tell you something, Officer. If I was going to conduct surveillance on you, you’d never know it.”
This time Heat provided the narration. She looked up at the ceiling and said, “Invulnerable mercenary general covers ass for sloppy work with bravado, even as he makes mental note to seek and terminate the stakeout driver.” She lowered her gaze to him and said, “Rookie.” While he was digesting that she took out the e-mail from the archdiocese and recited, “ ‘You ever hear of a Tikrit Tune-up? I have, padre. You suffer until you pray to die and then you suffer some more. Lots more. The best part is when you call out to God for mercy and He looks down and spits upon your withered douche bag of a soul.’ ”
“He covered for that freak who touched my kid.” The CEO swagger was crumbling. The lid was sliding off the parent’s rage.
“You don’t deny writing this?” she said.
“You’re not listening! These guys spoil innocence and hide behind their cassocks and cover for each other.”
Nikki held up the page. “Because this description is very much like how he died.”
“Good. One less sanctimonious bastard protecting the child molesters of the world.” He sat panting, leaning forward on his thighs.
Nikki stood. “Mr. Hays, I’d give you my card, but I am sure you have fully researched all the ways to find me. When you have an alibi for that night, you’d better give it to me. Or I’ll be back and arrest you. At your… whereabouts.”
They waited until they got out onto the sidewalk on Vanderbilt, all three detectives assuming the place would likely be wired for sound, maybe even picture.
“What was that guy on?” said Raley.
“All calculated, Rales. Psy-Ops smoke screen.” Then Heat said, “I want you guys to dig away on Sergio Torres. Go back to his kindergarten if you have to. Girlfriends, gang members, cell mates, everyone. Find out who he’s connected to and we’ve got our killer.”
Ochoa looked up to the top of the black high-rise. “We were so close.”
Heat said, “Not enough. Hays gave us nothing solid. He only said he was glad it happened-not that he did it.”
“What about the e-mail, though?” asked Raley.
Nikki shook her head. “Any lawyer would punch holes through it because he never says technically he’s going to carry it out. His verbiage is rhetorical. The threat’s implied.”
Ochoa said, “Tell that to Father Graf.”
“We seem to be in the minority, but we all know this is a hell of a lot bigger than Father Graf, guys,” said Heat. “There was the attack on me, plus whatever Captain Montrose was into.”
“You don’t think he was part of the killing, do you?” said Raley.
“In my heart, of course not. But we need to keep on this without letting up so we can see where it goes.”
Ochoa said, “Too bad our new commander doesn’t see it the same way.”
Heat’s phone buzzed. She checked the screen and it was a text from Zach Hamner. “Pls come to 1PP conf. rm on 10 in 30 mins.” A rush of elation swept in Nikki’s chest. She replied with a yes and said to Roach, “Keep the
