green light pole near the entrance of the club. Down on his ass on the sidewalk, her attacker started his hand toward the inside of his coat, and Nikki ran.
Half a block north now, he was closing in. Heat bolted across Vanderbilt, risking exposure in the open road, so she wove and dodged to present a poor target. Her goal was to turn the corner at 45th and get inside the lobby of the Met Life, where security guards could help. Beyond that, Grand Central was replete with cops and Homeland Security.
But then, the best of all worlds-an NYPD cruiser pulled up to the stop sign at 45th. “Hey!” she called. “Ten- thirteen!” Assist police officer.
The uniform at the wheel had his window open, and when she was ten yards from the car and closing, he turned to face Nikki. “Heat, get in.” It was The Discourager. At first she wondered if Harvey still had her back- unlikely. Or if this was just luck-less likely; this wasn’t his precinct. She started putting her brakes on as she reached the car and saw the gun on his lap, pointed out the window at her. “Get in,” he said once more.
Heat was calculating the odds of outmaneuvering his aim by bolting to the rear of his blue-and-white when a gloved hand came from behind her and clamped a rag over her mouth and nose.
Nikki tasted sweetness and then blacked out.
Raley came back on the line and told Rook that he checked, and sure enough, there had already been several 911s about a female being chased by a man in a ski mask outside Grand Central Terminal. Ochoa was getting it out on the air that the female was Nikki Heat. Raley expected the surrounding streets would be swarmed by units by the time Rook got there.
Translation: There wasn’t much for Rook to accomplish there, but since it was the last place he had heard from her, he continued down Broadway. Waiting for the light at Columbus Circle, his heart raced as Rook drew the parallel to her pursuer in the ski mask and the crew that had tuned up Horst Meuller in his apartment. He relived Nikki’s interrupted phone call: her excitement at what she had discovered upstate, then the suddenness of the assault, her cell probably taken or smashed.
Rook opened the Recents screen on his phone. Out of habit or spite, Nikki had used her old phone to call him. Which meant that, possibly, she still had the spy store phone he gave her to call for help. Rook wondered if she had it and, if so, whether she had it turned on. He got out his own new phone and began to figure out how the hell to enable the GPS.
Her temples were throbbing when she came out of it. Nikki was en gulfed by a fog thick enough to make her feel underwater. Her head seemed too heavy for her neck, and she couldn’t move her arms or legs. “Coming to,” said the voice that seemed to drift in from another dimension. Heat tried to open her eyes, and the light, coming from unforgiving white-blue fluorescents in overhead tubes, pierced her so harshly that she closed them right away.
What had she seen in that little glimpse? She was somewhere industrial. A definite workshop or warehouse. Unfinished walls with exposed studs and metal storage racks full of boxes, and… tools and parts of some kind. Another look, that would tell her more, but not if she had to stare into those lamps again. She tried to turn over but couldn’t and so lolled her head and peeked once more. Harvey, still in his uniform, leaned with his arms folded against a workbench, watching her. He was wearing blue plastic gloves. That disconcerting view pumped enough adrenaline to lift some of the haze. She rested her lids, chastising herself for not seeing the possibility before that The Discourager hadn’t been tailing her for protection but to keep tabs on her. Harvey had been hiding in plain sight. Nikki remembered bringing him the pizzelles and felt an ache in her gut.
Someone else was moving around the room. With great effort, she rolled her eyes and recognized the jacket of the guy who had grabbed for her on Vanderbilt. He was wearing blue gloves, too, but not his ski mask anymore, which was even more distressing because it meant he was no longer concerned about Nikki’s ability to ID him later. The other man turned and walked up to her and leaned his face into hers. Dutch Van Meter said, “Hey, Heat. Rise and shine.”
She tried to turn away from him but couldn’t, and then realized why. It wasn’t from the chloroform hangover. She was lashed down. Both wrists and ankles were handcuffed. Heat struggled to lift her head. They had affixed her to a pair of wooden crossbeams, their own improvised St. Andrew’s Cross. Van Meter must have seen the realization dawn on her. “That’s right, cover girl. And you’re such a hotshot detective, I’ll bet you even know what comes next.”
A switch clicked and there was a low electronic hum. She spun her head toward him. Dutch was holding up a stainless steel wand the size and shape of a dildo. It had an insulated grip with two corded jacks-one black and the other red-plugged into the handle. “Want to talk irony? These things were developed as a means to relieve pain. See?”
Heat flinched and turned away, bracing for the shock as he touched the TENS to her forearm. At contact, her skin buzzed slightly and the muscle underneath contracted only mildly. “Guess I don’t need to tell you what else this can do.” He removed it and switched the unit off. “So. Which way does this go, hard or easy?” Nikki was still turned from him. “OK, let’s find out. First, easy. Where is the video?”
She swiveled her head back to face him. “That is easy. Because I don’t know.”
Van Meter nodded then turned over his shoulder to The Discourager. “They never make it easy, do they, Harv?”
Harvey said, “Detective, my advice? Just tell him, then we can make this quick.”
“He’s right. Pain or painless, you choose.”
“I told you the truth. I don’t know.”
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Dutch sat on a rolling work stool and flicked the switch. The hum, a little louder, returned. “We’ll start small and give you a chance.” He touched the same spot on her arm, only this time the vibration was greater and the muscle contracted involuntarily, forcing her elbow to bend against her will until he removed the wand. “And that was a low level,” he said. “Any new thoughts?”
“Plenty,” she said. “I’m thinking back to Central Park. When Harvey conveniently lost me. Who was driving the SUV?”
“Dave Ingram,” said The Discourager from across the room. “Guy logs fifteen years on Emergency Services. A sharpshooter, and you waste him with a lucky shot.”
Dutch swiveled his chair to Harvey. “He got sloppy.”
“He underestimated me,” said Heat. She gave Van Meter a look of defiance.
“Well, I haven’t. That’s why my little black box has so many settings.” He twisted the knob and the humming increased.
Heat tried to ignore the awful sound and riveted Dutch with her gaze. “What did Alan Barclay record? What was on his video that was worth killing everybody?”
Detective Van Meter chuckled. “We’re not talking, you are.” Her eyes darted to the wand which was now inches from her face. “Harvey, do they all talk?”
“They all talk.”
“They do,” said Dutch. “All of them. The kraut dancer? He gave up the priest. The priest, he gave up Montrose.” He paused. “Montrose, we didn’t get a chance to stimulate. He got all heroic, so I gave him some Affirmative Action. Right here.” He suddenly jabbed the tip of the wand under Nikki’s chin. The jolt caused her head to shudder uncontrollably and her jaw muscles to tense, clenching her teeth together so hard they ground against one another. Just as quickly, he pulled it away.
Heat gasped for air and fought nausea. Salt from her own sweat stung her eyes. When she had gulped enough breath, she said, “It was you guys, wasn’t it? You guys did something to the Huddleston boy. You were the ones who killed him.” Nikki pulled in a deep lungful. God, she felt like she was drowning. “That was on the video, right?”
“Nikki Heat. Always the detective. You’re handcuffed, we’re torturing you, and you’re asking the questions.” Dutch waved the wand before her eyes and said, “I only have one question. I know what was on the video. All I want to know is one thing-where is it?”
He knew it was an exercise, but Rook left her one more voice mail. As he pressed End, he figured it was probably more for him and his need for contact, even if it was one-sided. No, he told himself. If he left her voice mail, maybe she would survive to hear it.
At Twelfth Avenue and West 59th Street, he gave up using the car. He pulled the Camry over into the nearest spot he could find, and even though the posted notice warned that it was an active driveway, he had bigger
