Heat had just finished pressing the intercom at the top of the stone steps of the town house near 78th when the voice behind them said, “Help you?” It was Lawrence Hays. He wasn’t wearing a coat, so she figured he must have seen them approach on his security cams and come out a side door to surprise them. “I have an office, you know, you don’t need to harass me at my home.”
“Good evening to you, too, Mr. Hays. This is Jameson Rook.”
“Yeah, I know, the writer. Doctor says I have an allergy to the press, so you’ll pardon me if I don’t shake hands.”
“And I have one to blood, so it all works out,” said Rook.
Before the macho sideshow escalated, Nikki thrust out the surveillance still she had of the cable guy from Pleasure Bound. “Have you ever seen this man?”
“This again?” said Hays. He angled the photo to the light, gave it a quick eyeball, and handed it back. “Nope. What’s he? Some Craigslist stud who stuck you with the motel bill, Miss Heat?”
She ignored the distraction. “He tried to blow up my apartment.”
“And a new HD flat screen,” added Rook. “Using military grade C4. Mean anything to you?”
Hays smiled mirthlessly at Nikki. “Tell you something you don’t seem to get. If I wanted to blow you up, you wouldn’t be standing here. Right now there’d be pieces of you coming back down on Gramercy Park like confetti.”
Heat said, “So you’re saying you do know where I live, that’s interesting.”
“Tell you what I don’t know. Is why you’re on a holy crusade for some priest who not only protected that scumbag who messed with my kid-my kid!-but who was also aiding and abetting homegrown terrorists.”
“Why,” said Rook, “just because he was a social activist?”
“Wake up. Graf was neck-deep with those Colombian revolutionarios .”
Nikki kept him going so he wouldn’t lose his steam. “ Justicia a Garda? Gimme a break, they’re no terrorists.”
“No? Have you seen them in action? How many of your men have these cowards killed and blown up? Use your head. If they’ll attack their own government prisons just to break out their brainwashing socialist writers, how long do you think it is before that gig gets imported here?”
“Mr. Hays,” said Heat, “are you saying some of your contractors were killed in Colombia by members of the organization Father Graf supported?”
“I’m not saying anything.” Too late. He realized he had slipped and voiced an additional motive for Graf’s murder and started walking it back. “For reasons of national security, I cannot confirm or deny the actions of my government consulting firm.”
“I think you just did,” said Nikki.
“Know what I think? I think you’d better get lost. Because something else I know about you, Nikki Heat, besides your address. You’re not even a cop anymore. That’s right.” He started to chuckle, and said, “So get off my property. Before I call the police-the real police!”
They could still hear him laughing when he turned and slipped off into the night.
Heat woke up the next morning with Rook’s face in hers. Kneeling be side the bed in his T-shirt and boxer briefs, all he needed was a leash in his teeth to look like a retriever waiting for his trip to the park. “What time is it?”
“Almost seven.”
She sat up. “I slept that late?”
“I’ve been up for two hours,” he said. “Phoning some of the noble characters I consorted with on my journey through the shadowy world of arms trafficking.”
“Why?”
“It struck me in our afterglow last night. Oh, yes, it was an afterglow… I got thinking about military grade C4. And then I started thinking, I bet I already know people-outside the military, I mean-who might supply it.”
The sleep was slowly lifting from her. “You mean to Lancer Standard?”
“No, Hays would have his own source and wouldn’t need to go black market. I inquired about another organization we posted on Murder Board South.”
“ Justicia a Garda. ”
“Correct. And what I just learned from a guy we shall call only T-Rex-hailing from the smuggler’s port of choice, Buenaventura-is that a shipment of an unspecified nature left Colombia and was delivered three weeks ago, off the books, in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, to one Pascual Guzman.” He held up his hand. “Come on, up top for the Rookster.”
Instead of fiving him, Nikki sat cross-legged and frisked the fingers of both hands through her hair to wake up. “Did this T-Rex say it was C4?”
“Mm, no. T’s exact words were, some kind of shipment, he didn’t know what.”
“Then we don’t know squat. Unless we confirm it was C4.”
“Shouldn’t we at least talk to Guzman?”
Heat shook no. “First rule I learned from Captain Montrose about interrogations was, don’t initiate a meeting blindly. Know what you want or are likely to get. What I know about Pascual Guzman is that he’s a circumspect stone wall who will answer nothing at best, and at worst, light me up on the radar to Zach Hamner when he files another harassment complaint. We’ll have to go at him another way.”
Rook was unfazed. “I think this guy hacked my computer. Plus he admitted he had a smack-down with Graf the day he died. I think we should shake down Pascual Guzman and ask him about the secret shipment. He’s smelling to me like our killer.”
“Last night you were sure it was Lawrence Hays.”
“I know. I get excited. Hays was the bright, shiny object of the moment.”
Nikki said, “And what is Guzman?”
He hung his head. “Again, you chasten me with your need for reason.”
Two hours later, Nikki had a cab drop them between Tenth Avenue and 41st, just blocks off Times Square. The forecast promised it would be slightly warmer that day, but at 9 A. M. it was still under five degrees and the shadows of the low sun ran long and chilly on the West Side of Manhattan. While Roach worked the photo of the cable guy, Heat’s plan was to try to find him by locating the woman who appeared in the Pleasure Bound surveillance photo with him. According to the missing woman’s landlord, Shayne Watson worked as a prostitute in Hell’s Kitchen. The former roommate of the dominatrix was still off the radar, and Heat’s agenda for the day was to hit the streets and show her photo to other prostitutes, hoping to get a line on her.
“I’ve got this one,” said Rook. He took a photocopy of the surveillance shot and stepped up to a woman leaning against the wall and smoking outside a diner. “Morning, miss.” She looked him up and down and began to step away. “Please, this will just take a second. I’m trying to find one of your colleagues, a fellow prostitute and-”
The woman flicked her cigarette at him and it bounced off his forehead. “Asshole. Calling me a hooker…” She hurried away, shouting something about calling the cops mixed in with more curses until she rounded the corner.
As amused as Heat was by Rook’s gaffe, she didn’t have much better luck. Sure, Nikki was better at spotting the working girls, having worked vice herself, but they smelled cop on her and either closed up or just ran as soon as she approached. “This could take forever,” said Rook.
“It’s too early in the day for most of them to be out; we’ll do better as we get more to talk to.” That was fine to say, but Nikki was still striking out at noon when the sidewalks started filling in front of the hot sheet motels.
They ducked into a coffee shop to warm up and Rook continued his skepticism about the plan. “All they do is run. And you don’t have any authority to stop them.”
“Thank you for defining my newly impotent status,” she said.
“I’ve got the solution,” said Rook. “It’s ingenious.”
“This worries me.”
“One word: Fishnets.” As she began to wag no, he lowered his voice and pressed on. “You always talk about how you worked undercover in vice, right? Walk the walk. Put your stuff on the street… Unless you have a better plan.”
