Nikki Heat: Deadly Heat Part 9

"For somebody who wanted to be an actress once upon a time, I'd think you'd be enjoying this," he said. "People rus.h.i.+ng in saying, 'Two minutes, Detective,' 'Bottle of water, Detective?' "

"Touch up your makeup, Detective?" asked the woman who appeared at the door.

"See?" said Rook. "Magical."

"Thanks, I'm still good."

The makeup artist left. Rook asked, "You sure? Almost a million people watch this newscast."

Nikki said, "I just want to get this over with. I don't care how I look."

"Mm, OK..."

"What?"

"Forget it," he said. "Well. You've got a little... Never mind." Heat sprung out of the chair and moved close to the mirror. She saw nothing of concern except the reflection of him behind her, laughing. When she sat back in the chair, Rook composed himself and said, "Have you decided what you're going to say?"

"Don't you see, that's the whole problem with this. I'm being forced to go on live TV when I can't release anything they don't already have without s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g our case."

The stage manager came back. "We're ready, if you are."

During an arthritis pain commercial, someone clipped a wireless microphone on Nikki's collar and the stage manager showed her to a leather chair that would have been right at home in an airport first cla.s.s lounge. It angled toward an identical seat in the tiny interview area off to the side of the stage, away from the anchor desk. Three video cameras glided in to block Heat's view of the rest of the studio, which she couldn't see anyway because of the brightness of the lights. "Thank you for coming," came a familiar voice. Then Greer Baxter materialized from inside the glare with an extended hand. Nikki shook it and was about to lie about how it was her pleasure when the anchorwoman sat and said, "Pretend the cameras aren't there; focus on me," and then looked into one of the lenses herself.

"Tonight I go straight to the source about a serial killer. We are live. We are 'Greer and Now.' " A short theme played under animated graphics and a montage of Greer Baxter interviewing Al Sharpton, Daniel Moynihan, Whoopi Goldberg, Sully Sullenberger, Donald Trump, and Alec Baldwin. When the intro finished, the stage manager used his rolled script to point to the middle camera, which Baxter addressed. "She may be New York's most famous cop. Homicide Detective Nikki Heat has been written about in national magazines, received decorations for valor, and has the highest rate of case clearance of any investigator in the NYPD. Welcome, Detective."

"h.e.l.lo."

"There's a serial killer out there. He's claimed three victims so far. An employee of the Health Department, an insect exterminator, and, tragically, News Channel 3's own Maxine Berkowitz." On the monitor, Nikki saw photos of the victims superimposed behind her and Baxter. "What can you tell us about the case?"

"First of all, I want to express my sorrow to you and your colleagues for your loss, as well as to the families of all the victims. As for the status of the case, there's very little I can contribute beyond what is already known in the media."

"Is that because you haven't made enough progress?"

"To me, there's no such thing as enough progress until a killer is captured and taken off the streets. Obviously we aren't there yet."

"What about some of the things that haven't been reported in the press yet? Is there anything you can share that will make us feel better?"

"Greer, if sharing inside information would help capture this individual, I'd be the first to do it. The fact is that there are some details that only we can know because we don't wish to harm the progress of the case, either by tipping off the suspect or helping create copycat scenarios."

"So that's all you're giving up." Greer leaned forward slightly, a pose of cross-examination. "Not to be rude, but why did you come on if you weren't willing to share more?"

"I think I made it clear in advance I couldn't go beyond what's been released. But if you have any questions, I'll certainly-"

"OK, here's one. We know the killer leaves colored string behind." She held up the cover of the Ledger. "According to this, the first two strings were red and yellow. My source tells me that there are additional colors now. Like purple? And green?"

Her source? Nikki wished she had worn more makeup to hide the blush that began filling her cheeks. "Again, I can't comment on that."

"Red, yellow, purple, and green. Sounds like the colors of a rainbow. Let me ask. Have you given this killer a nickname?" Before Heat could respond, she rolled over her. "Know what I would call this killer? The Rainbow Killer." She turned to the camera and repeated for effect, "The Rainbow Killer." Satisfied she may have coined a nickname, Baxter said, "Detective Heat, you're a woman of few words. If you can actually share something with our viewers, I hope you'll come back."

"Most definitely," said Nikki, but thinking, Only in a straitjacket and wheeled in on a dolly.

"This is a first. We have thirty seconds left. Seen any good movies, or can't you talk about that, either?"

"Actually, I haven't," said Nikki. And then she decided to take a leap. "I could talk about another case we are working. We apprehended the killer but are still looking for his accomplices." The stage manager began a ten-second countdown. Heat reached in her blazer pocket and took out a page with double head shots of Tyler Wynn and Salena Kaye and held it to the camera with the red light. "I'd like to invite the public's help, asking if they have seen either of these two. The female was last observed around Coney Island."

"And we're out of time, Detective," said Greer Baxter. "Good luck with that, and good luck apprehending... the Rainbow Killer."

In the taxi downtown, Rook said, "Pretty lucky you just happened to have those head shots in your pocket like that."

"Yeah, said Nikki. "Imagine having them ready to show the very night I was on live television. Couldn't have planned it any better."

He gave her hand a squeeze. "Didn't have to."

The next morning at the Twentieth, Wally Irons came to Heat's desk before he even unlocked his office. His doughy complexion was mottled with salmon blotches of agitation. "Happened to catch you with Greer Baxter last night on the ten o'clock news. As your precinct commander, isn't it proper you clear all media contact through me?"

Heat wanted to laugh in his face. She wanted so badly to be insubordinate and say, You mean, clear it with you, or clear a path to the camera? Or, You mean, clear it with you like Sharon Hinesburg does-on her knees? Instead, Detective Heat maintained her professionalism and told him the truth. "I didn't want to do the interview. I was directed to by the office of a commissioner at One PP. Would you like to speak to him?"

Irons stood there, vapor-locked, gloriously impotent, and said, "Next time tell me." And he was gone.

Like clockwork, Detective Hinesburg sauntered in five minutes behind Irons, the interval designed to maintain the fiction that she wasn't sleeping with the boss. She grumbled about the a.s.signment Heat had given her to canva.s.s Coney Island for Salena Kaye sightings. Nikki named some of the hotels and extended stays she knew of, and Hinesburg reported that she'd come up empty at every one of them. All but certain Sharon was deep-throating insider tips about the serial killer to Greer Baxter, the Ledger, and others, Heat isolated her with the task of following up on the calls that were coming in about Tyler Wynn and Salena Kaye after their pictures had been shown on TV. "Fine. Long as I don't have to drive back out to Coney," she said.

A uniform held up a cautionary hand to Nikki on her way back from the precinct kitchen. "Might want to keep some distance. Got a bada.s.s here." She relaxed against the wall and turned a spoonful of yogurt upside down on her tongue while a pair of officers wrestled a shackled biker into Interrogation One. Following close behind strode the biker's attorney, Helen Miksit. The sight of the lawyer made Heat wonder which bada.s.s the uni had warned her about.

"Counselor, what a pleasant surprise. Business so tough you're defending Sons of Anarchy now?"

Helen Miksit, nicknamed the Bulldog for both her physical appearance and interpersonal skills, reacted sourly to seeing Heat. "More like son of Manhattan's top cosmetic dentist, not that I owe you that explanation. In fact, thought I'd get in and out of here without having to deal with you."

"Do you ever return phone calls, Helen?"

The lawyer paused, annoyed, then shouted through the open door to her client, "I'll be right in. Howard, say nothing. You hear me? Say nothing." Miksit pulled the door closed and turned to the uniform who had warned Nikki. "He have to stand here?" Heat gave the officer a smile and he moved on. "Detective, you're a f.u.c.king pest. Two calls a day, sometimes more."

"All I want to do is have a short interview with Mr. Barrett." Algernon Barrett, the self-made millionaire who'd emigrated from Jamaica and made his fortune as the chef-founder of Do the Jerk chicken rubs and spices, had also been one of Nikki's mom's piano clients. "Barrett may be able to help me locate two dangerous suspects I'm tracking down."

"Don't bulls.h.i.+t me, Heat. You remember when I was a DA and we worked together? I kicked cops with weak links like that out of my office on a daily basis so we wouldn't have the judge kick me out of court."

"I'm not any cop, Helen, and I know you remember that." Nikki saw that register with the lawyer and pressed her case. "I want two minutes to show some pictures. Look at the upside. I'll stop calling you."

Helen Miksit pressed her lips together, as close as she ever came to a smile. "Tomorrow." She stepped into Interrogation One. As the door closed, she said from inside, "Call first."

Heat found Rook and Detective Rhymer in the temporary command center they had set up for themselves in the booth Raley used for video screening. The two of them worked phones, calling retailers of the signature goods favored by Tyler Wynn. When Nikki asked how it was going, they looked up at her with the vacant stares of galley oarsmen.

Rook said, "You know, it's funny. A good idea seems so d.a.m.ned invigorating-until you actually have to do the work."

"It's tedious, but we'll get there," said Rhymer, ever Opie in his optimism.

"Let me catch you up," said Rook. He moved to the giant presentation pad he had set up on an aluminum easel-complete with a status grid for each item. "So far, his bespoke shoemaker in Paris says Monsieur Wynn is not due for a new pair for about a year, according to his buying cycle. C'est dommage. The Barbour coat department at Harrods is checking with management before they will share customer information."

"I'll call New Scotland Yard, if we need help," said Heat.

Rook's eyes lit up. "Scotland Yard? G.o.d, I love this work." As he continued with his list, he explained they were starting with calls to Europe and the US East Coast. They planned to work their way west along with the time zones. California, he observed, was still in bed.

"I should point out one thing before you get in too deep," she said.

"Am I going to hate this?" asked Rook.

"He may be ordering under an alias."

"I do. I do hate that." He turned to Rhymer. "And I was so happy up till Scotland Yard."

On her way out, Heat said, "We've got a couple of Wynn's AKAs in his jacket, but I'd also call your best friend the butler. Find out what other names he might have used." She opened the door and pulled in Raley, whose hand gripped the k.n.o.b from the hall.

"It's him," he said, nearly breathless. "Your serial killer's on line two."

She raced for her desk and grabbed the line lit by the blinking red dot. "Heat."

"Slow it down, Detective," said the chillingly altered voice. "I called you, remember?" And then he laughed a joyless laugh. "Rainbow Killer, huh? Kinda like that. Red, yellow, purple, green. Green... Wonder who's green. Do you wonder who's green?"

"Let's talk about what's going on here, OK?" She sat down and picked up a pen, just in case. "Who am I talking to?"

"Are you s.h.i.+tting me?"

"I've got to call you something. You know my name. What about you?"

"Sure, OK, how about you call me f.u.c.k You? Because if you think you can work the psych bulls.h.i.+t on me by trying to personalize, that's what I am. I am f.u.c.k You."

"Come on, I was only-"

"Rainbow, then," he said, suddenly pleasant. "Yeah. Call me Rainbow. f.u.c.k You Rainbow." He laughed again and then cut himself off, turning ice-cold. "Think you almost got me yesterday at that f.u.c.king locksmith's, huh? Think you're smart?"

"Smart enough," she said, testing him with a bit of defiance.

"Oo, the b.i.t.c.h pushes back." He paused, and she could hear his electronically altered breathing. It sounded like Brillo. "Well, I'll give you that one. Never had a cop this smart." And then he added, "We'll see pretty soon how smart. Think green."

Click. The line went dead.

EIGHT.

Of course there was not one detective in that precinct who had not been thinking in colors. Wondering every moment who the other end of that green string connected to-bent on beating the killer there again like they had with the locksmith. The difference this time was that they not only wanted to spare a life, they really wanted this b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

"f.u.c.k you, Rainbow," said Randall Feller when the detectives listened back to the recording.

During the playback, Heat circled the only note she had made during the brief conversation: "Nvr hd cp ths smrt." She weighed those words and put in a call to the FBI's National Center for the a.n.a.lysis of Violent Crime at Quantico, Virginia. Nikki had worked several cases recently where she reached out for a Center a.s.sist. Dealing directly with the a.n.a.lyst she had befriended there felt different than the muck and mire she tried to avoid in dealing with the feds. This felt more personal. Her own Bureau boutique, FBI-Lite, she thought, and smiled.

The NCAVC a.n.a.lyst told Heat she had already been briefed on the case, and indeed she knew just about everything, including the colored strings. Heat said, "We've run this string MO through our RTCC data banks, of course, but I want to see if you get any hits on something kind of new." She recapped the call she'd just gotten and could hear a keyboard clacking on the a.n.a.lyst's end of the line as she spoke.

"Detective, can you send me WAV files of both those calls for me to scrub here?"

Nikki told her she'd attach them to an e-mail right after they hung up. "Meantime, there's a marker we haven't run for cross-check yet. You'll hear it yourself at the end of today's recording. He said he'd never had a cop this smart."

"Oh..." The a.n.a.lyst felt the gravity of that, same as Heat. "I'll bet you want me to look for intersections of serial homicides involving direct voice contact with law enforcement and get back to you with any hits."

"This is why you do what you do," said Nikki.

"Just helping the good guys, Detective Heat."

At first, Nikki thought it was a hallucination. The stress she'd been under, the crazy hours she'd been keeping, things like that could bring on an episode. She rolled her chair to peek around her computer screen. Across the bull pen, inside Captain Irons's gla.s.s fishbowl, it looked from the back like... Yes, it really was... DHS Special Agent Callan shaking hands with Wally. Wally, rising wide-eyed from his desk. Wally, whose jaw had gone slack and whose mouth gaped like an oxygen-starved goldfish, to complete the full aquarium effect of his office. Then both men turned, and the captain's face shaded crimson, as he extended a hand to greet the lovely female guest, Agent Yardley Bell.

Frozen, Heat could only stare back when Irons gestured through the gla.s.s wall to the bull pen and the two federal agents turned her way. Nikki watched both of them smile at her. At least Bart Callan's seemed genuine.

A minute later Nikki sat in a guest chair in the fishbowl with Irons standing beside her looking superfluous. "If you need me for anything," said the captain.

"No, just your office will do it." Callan looked around. "Unless you've got some other place we can meet privately."

Wally added, "There's Interrogation, you could use that."

"We're good here," said Yardley Bell. They waited for Irons to read their silence. He gave a two-finger salute and left. Bell closed the door and leaned on it. Callan dragged a guest chair closer to Nikki's and sat.

"Am I becoming old hat?" asked Heat. "Because carjacking me to your warehouse in Queens felt a little more special."

Bell said, "Don't feel ambushed. Agent Callan and I were in the area and thought we'd just drop in."

"Golly." Nikki borrowed her credulous grin from Joey on Friends.

"Wanted to ask you about Eugene Summers," said Callan. "You and Jameson Rook spent some time at his apartment in Chelsea, and we were wondering why."

"Are you interrogating me? Seriously?"

"Not at all. This is purely informational. We just like to close all the loops in our investigation." He grinned. "Belt and suspenders." He sounded about as credible as Bell's claim about being in the neighborhood. Clearly, with this effort, they wanted something, and Heat told herself she'd better focus. As a skilled interrogator, she knew she needed to put her head in theirs and be them. What would she be after?

The code.

Could it be they were looking for the code? Or evidence one existed?

"We obviously know Summers was once run by Tyler Wynn," continued Callan.

"So what did you talk about?" asked Bell.

"Did you ask him?" Heat asked.

"Kind of asking you," she replied. Yardley gave Heat a soft stare, but the moment crackled with meaning. About dominance in the interview. And maybe about something else, too.