Frozen Heat (2012) (39 page)

“What about Irons? Won’t that piss him off?”

“Doctor, as long as he’s out of my way, I truly don’t care.”

The atmosphere in the bull pen was crackling when Heat walked in, and she called a squad meeting to kick up the momentum. But first, she had to clear a few gnats out of the way. Lon King had left Nikki a message reminding her to make a shrink appointment. She balled up the note and trashed it. Dealing with the Iron Man wasn’t quite as easy.

The captain found her in the kitchen while she was getting coffee. “Detective Heat, I assume, since Carter Damon is off the boards, we can now close this case out and release our overtime personnel?”

“How is it over? He was one player, the way I see it.”

“He killed your Navy SEAL friend, right? He probably did the lady in the suitcase, too.”

“Probably isn’t the same as proving. And there’s still my mother.”

“So you don’t think it’s convenient he was lead on that case?”

“Good question,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain, I’m going to do my job and investigate it.” She left him standing in the kitchen without a glance back.

Detective Heat still had plenty of questions troubling her. With Sharon Hinesburg off God knew where, and Irons in the kitchen making toaster waffles, she was able to share them with her brain trust gathered at the Murder Boards. In the green square she had created for Don’s case, Nikki printed “Carter Damon” in block letters and said, “OK, we solved Don’s killing.”

“We? More like you and Mr. Sauer,” said Detective Malcolm, kicking off a small round of applause that she quelled with one glance.

“But,” she continued, “one solve opens a slew of other questions.”

Raley said, “Sure, because Don wasn’t the target, you were.”

“Correct. So we’re right back to, why come after me?”

“Simple,” said Reynolds. “You were digging into your mother’s case.”

“But I was always digging into that case. Does anyone here doubt a week went by that I didn’t check into it?” Nobody challenged that. “And why would he be the one to come after me?” She turned and wrote under Carter Damon’s name: “What stake in murders?”

“I know why he came after you,” said Rook. “You lit up the radar. Not just by digging into your mother’s case—you were digging way back in her case. That upset somebody. If not Carter Damon, somebody he worked with.”

“Or for,” said Feller, finding himself in rare agreement with the writer. “I mean, Damon was a blunt instrument. Guys like that follow instructions, take their pay, and spend Saturdays waxing the car.”

Ochoa said, “I agree. It can’t be just one dude. And Carter Damon sure didn’t take those shots at you up on the High Line.”

Detective Rhymer came in from interviewing the eyewitness from the Brooklyn Bridge. “What did you get?” Heat asked before he even sat.

“Mixed. Dr. Arar was driving in from Park Slope this morning at four-thirty. He was mid-span when he thought he saw someone ahead tossing a garbage bag over the side. Then he got closer and saw the garbage bag had arms and legs. So he hit the brakes just as the guy went over. He says he stopped and honked his horn at the person tossing him over, and when he did, she started running the opposite way.”

“Hold on,” said Heat. “She? Your eyewit says the other person was a woman?”

“He has no doubt.”

“What’s the description?”

“Five-nine or -ten, athletic build, dark clothing, hat.”

“Did he see her face? Can we work up a sketch?”

“That’s the mixed part. He says it was too dark, and she didn’t turn to look at him. Just put her head down and booked.”

Malcolm asked, “How does he know for sure it was a woman?”

“I asked him the same thing. He said he’s a doctor, and he knows a woman when he sees one.”

“I always check for Adam’s apples,” said Feller. “Avoids a lot of awkward surprises when you get them home.”

When their ribbing died down, Raley asked Heat, “What about your sniper last night? Is it possible you were chasing a female instead of a male?”

Nikki said, “I don’t know. I never saw the Adam’s apple,” and started her next round of assignments. She sent Malcolm and Reynolds out to Staten Island to assist the 122nd Precinct in its search of Carter Damon’s house. Among the rest of the unit, she divvied up checks of his phone records and financials. To be thorough, she had Feller check the four people on Joe Flynn’s piano tutoring list for alibis during her High Line attack. Rhymer got the task of re-canvassing ERs and pharmacies now that they knew Damon had received some sort of medical aid.

“Happy to,” said Opie, “but didn’t we cover that base last week?”

“We did, and now we can do it again—but with a photo of Carter Damon to e-mail them.” She capped her marker and said to the group, “This is a good time to remind all of you: Do not get complacent. I know it feels like we’re starting to get traction with some hot leads, but this can just as easily go the wrong way if we don’t stay sharp and do the donkey work. That’s the way we’ll bring these cases home.”

When the squad had deployed, Heat dispatched a uniform to First Avenue to pick up the OCME security cam data Lauren Parry had secured. Nikki would hold it for Raley to scrub after he’d run Damon’s financial checks. Or she might even drop it in Sharon Hinesburg’s lap, if the diva detective ever made an appearance.

Nikki phoned Lauren to let her know to expect the video pickup. “Oh, this isn’t a call to say, ‘Come on, girl, hurry up, what’s taking so long with my autopsy?’”

“No way.” Heat paused then said, “Well, since you brought up the autopsy …”

Her friend chuckled and told Nikki this was good timing, she had just completed it. “First off, yes to water in the lungs. Carter Damon was breathing when he went in. Also, around the torn sutures, I did find mast cells, white blood cells, and lymphocytes. That’s what I look for under the scope when I want to know if a live body was trying to heal itself.” Nikki heard a page of notes turn on Lauren’s end and the medical examiner continued, “Here’s an interesting wrinkle. Not only had that chest wound been sutured, whoever did it removed the bullet. Not the most elegant job, but good enough. So we’re dealing with a reasonable degree of competence.”

“What about the neck?”

“Minor graze of the jugular. Toldja! Who’s better than me?”

Nikki said, “You need to spend more time with people. Preferably living.”

“Too much work. Anyway, that slug was still lodged there. Of course, I saved it for ballistics, but I’m sure it’ll match the nine-millimeter from your gun.”

Rook came back to loiter on her desktop when she’d hung up. “Know what I can’t shake out of my brain since the pier this morning? Small thing, but, ask yourself—What was the odd sock about Carter Damon’s body?”

“I regret the day I ever taught you about odd socks.”

He ignored her and said, “Give up? I’ll tell you: No old scar from getting shot when he was a rookie. Remember he told us about that at lunch?”

“Maybe you just didn’t see it.”

“I didn’t see it because there wasn’t one.”

“Well, I happen to know he’s still on a mat down at the ME’s. Want me to call Lauren back to check?”

“You don’t have to. I had one of the administrative aides call down to Personnel.”

“Rook. You used one of our aides to make a call for you?”

“I had to, since Personnel has this ‘thing’ about civilians accessing confidential police records. Anyway, Carter Damon never got shot. Why would the guy lie about that?”

Rook was right, it was a small thing. But Heat knew small things often made critical jigsaw fits, and noted it on the Murder Board, although Rook complained she had written it in tiny letters.

That afternoon, through the buzz of phone conversations from detectives making rounds and lunch orders getting delivered because nobody wanted to take a break, came a holler from Rhymer at his desk. “Got one!” Opie sounded like he’d hooked a big fish. In a sense, he had.

Heat drove Rook and Detective Raley up to the Bronx as fast as she could get there. Having rolled through every yellow light and punching the accelerator when they were about to turn red, she double-parked in front of Price It Drugs and hustled inside.

The pharmacy sat three blocks from where Carter Damon had abandoned his jacked taxi the night Nikki shot him. In addition to blast e-mailing Damon’s photo to ERs and drugstores in all the boroughs, Detective Rhymer had gotten a map and worked the phones in concentric circles radiating out from the dumped cab. The first walk-in clinic he’d called came up zip. His next try was a small drugstore on Southern Boulevard near Prospect. The owner, who was elderly and not so big on e-mail, had missed the earlier alerts but pegged Damon by the detective’s description. He confirmed it when Rhymer faxed him his photo.

Diligent as she was eager, Detective Heat showed her copy of Carter Damon’s photo to the owner to double-check in person. “Yes, that is him,” said Hugo Plana, also reaffirming that the wounded Damon had staggered in just before closing at midnight, the night of the shooting. “He came in on his own, but I don’t know how,” said the old man. He took off his bifocals and handed the photo back to her. “He was a mess. Blood here and here.” Hugo pointed to the two bullet wounds Heat had given the ex-cop. “I asked him if he wanted me to call an ambulance and he shouted at me, ‘No!’, like that. Then he told me he wanted some gauze and some scissors and antiseptic to dress the wounds. He started to pass out, so I helped him to one of the chairs over there in the prescription waiting area.”

“How come you didn’t call the police?” asked Rook. “Guy came into my place like that, I’d sneak a call, no matter what he said.”

The old man smiled and nodded. “Yes, I understand. But, you see, we are a small, independent pharmacy. A family business. In this neighborhood, I see a lot of folks in bad shape. My goodness, it’s unbelievable. Sometimes a fight, sometimes a turf war—sometimes, I don’t want to know. When they come for help, I help. I’m not here to ask too many questions or to bust them. They trust me. They’re my neighbors.”

Heat asked, “So did you get the supplies he wanted?”

“I did. I put a bag together, and when I finished, he was out of it. His head kept dropping down and up. I offered to call an ambulance again but he refused. Then his cell phone rang and he asked me if there was a hotel nearby. I told him the Key Largo is on the corner, and he told me to help him to his feet. Then he gave me a bunch of cash, took the shopping bag, and left.”

“Do you know who called him?” asked Rhymer.

Hugo shook his head. “It just sounded like someone was coming to meet him and needed to know a place.”

The lobby of the Key Largo was dark and carried the stink of every scuzzy hotel Nikki had ever investigated—a mix of stale mustiness, harsh cleansers, and dead smoke. The floorboards creaked under the soiled carpet leading to the front desk. Nobody was there, and a plastic sign with missing moveable clock hands said, “Back in …”

Nikki called a hello and got no answer. Rook said, “Wow, they’ve re-created the elegance and charm of Key Largo right here in the Bronx. Makes me feel like I’m Bogey and you’re Bacall.” He tapped the service bell with his palm. It did not ding. Then, to Rhymer’s amusement, he examined his hand with a frown and wiped it on the thigh of his pants. Heat was about to call out again when her phone vibrated. It was Malcolm checking in from Staten Island.

“Have something juicy for you, Detective Heat.” Nikki turned away from the desk and started to pace. “The squad from SI is still going over Damon’s house, but Reynolds and I discovered he rented a public storage unit one town over in Castleton Corners. Guess what’s inside.”

“Just fucking tell her, man,” said Reynolds in the background. Heat agreed.

“A van,” he said, making her heart quicken.

“Maroon?” she asked.

“Affirm. And the lettering on the side? ‘Righty-O Carpet Cleaners.’”

“You guys did great.” But Heat held the brake on her excitement and went practical. “Now, please tell me you’re both gloved up.”

“Yes, ma’am, we are the Blue Hands Group.”

“Excellent. Have you touched anything?”

“No, just shined a light in the rear window to make sure there was nobody in there, alive or dead. It’s clear.”

“Now here’s what I want you to do. Step out of there and stay out. Leave the door up where it is, don’t touch the handle again. Just stand guard and get the Evidence Collection Unit on this with a fine-toothed comb. And when I say ECU, I want Benigno DeJesus and only Benigno DeJesus. No screwups.”

“Got it.”

“And Mal? You and Reynolds rock.”

Heat had just finished filling in Rook and Rhymer when the front desk clerk, a large middle-aged white woman with bleached cornrows, emerged from the back, followed by a trail of cigarette smoke. “Booking a three? That’s a fifty-dollar damage deposit.” She plucked the be-back sign off the counter and pulled some keys from a cubby behind her. When she turned back, she was looking at Nikki’s shield.

The clerk’s name was DD, and they followed her down the second-floor hallway, stepping over numerous duct tape repairs to the carpet. “Think again, DD,” said Nikki. “Are you sure you didn’t see anyone else come up here to visit him?”