"Maybe she emptied it," said Ochoa.
"Maybe she did. But look over there." She side-nodded to the armoire that the columnist had used as a supply closet. It had been rifled, too. And among the contents scattered on the floor was, "A box of waste-can liners. Simplehuman, sized for this can."
"No liner in this can," said Raley. "And no liner on the floor. An odd sock."
"An odd sock, indeed," said Heat. "On the way in, I saw a wooden bin for trash cans in the little patio."
"On it," said Raley. He and Ochoa headed toward the front hall. Lauren Parry from the medical examiner's was making her way in the door as they went out. In the tight space between the tipped furniture, she and Ochoa ended up doing an impromptu dance step getting around each other. In her quick glance over, Nikki caught Ochoa lingering to check Lauren out as he left. She made a mental note to warn her girlfriend later about rebounding men.
Detective Ochoa was still fresh from a marital separation. He had hidden the breakup from the squad for about a month, but those kinds of secrets don't keep in such a tight working family. The laundry sitch alone gave him away when he started showing up in dress shirts with telltale "Boxed for Your Convenience" creases on their torsos. Over an after-work beer the week before, Nikki and Ochoa were the stragglers at the table, so she took the opportunity to ask him how it was going. A gloom settled over him and he said, "You know. It's a process." She was happy to leave it at that, but he finished his Dos Equis and half smiled. "You know, it's kind of like those car ads. What happened to the relationship, I mean. I saw one on TV in my new apartment the other night and it said, 'Zero interest for two years.' And I went, yep, that was us, all right." Then a sheepishness came over him about opening up like that. He left some money under his empty glass and called it a night. He didn't bring it up again, and neither did she.
"Sorry not to be here sooner, Nikki," Lauren Parry said as she set her plastic examination cases on the floor. "I've been working a double fatal on the FDR since four a . . ." The ME's voice trailed off when she spotted Rook leaning a shoulder against the connecting door leading to the kitchen. He pulled one of his hands out of his pocket and gave her a wave. She nodded and smiled at him, then turned to Heat and finished her sentence. ". . . four A.M." With her back to Rook, she was able to sneak a what-the-hell? face to Nikki.
Nikki lowered her voice and muttered to her friend, "Tell you later." Then, at full volume, she moved on. "Rook found the victim."
"I see . . ."
While her BFF from the ME's office set up to perform her exam, Heat filled her in on the discovery details the writer had provided in their kitchen interview. "Also, when you get a moment, I noticed a blood smear over there." ME Parry followed Heat's gesture to the same doorway she had just entered. Beside the jamb, the floral Victorian wallpaper showed a dark discoloration. "Looks like she might have tried to get out before she collapsed in the chair."
"Could be. I'll swab it. Maybe Forensics can cut a patch so we can lab it; that would be better."
Ochoa returned to report that both trash barrels in the patio hutch were empty. "During a garbage strike?" said Nikki. "Find the super. See if he disposed of it. Or if she had private pickup, which I doubt. But check anyway, and if she had it, find the truck before they barge it to Rhode Island or wherever it goes these days."
"Oh, and get ready for your close-up," said Ochoa at the door. "The news vans and shooters are lining up in front. Raley's working with the uniforms to move them back. Word is out on the scanners. Ding-dong the witch is dead."
Lauren Parry rose up from Cassidy Towne's body and made a note on her chart. "Body temp indicates a prelim TOD window of midnight to 3 A.M. I can do better after I run the lividity and the rest of the course."
"Thanks," said Nikki. "And cause?"
"Well, as always, it's preliminary, but, I think, obvious." She gently moved the office chair so that the body leaned forward, revealing the wound. "Your gossip columnist was stabbed in the back."
"No symbolism there," said Rook.
When Cassidy Towne's assistant, Cecily, reported for work at eight she broke down in sobs. Forensics gave Nikki Heat the OK, and she righted two of the chairs in the living room and sat with her, resting a palm on the young woman's back as Cecily leaned forward with her face in her hands. CSU had closed off the kitchen, so Rook gave her the bottle of water he had in his messenger bag.
"Hope you don't mind room temperature," he said, and then shot an oops look at Heat. But if Cecily made the connection to her boss's state in the next room, she didn't let on.
"Cecily," Nikki said, when she finished a sip of water, "I know this must be very traumatic for you."
"You have no idea." The assistant's lips began to tremble, but she kept it together. "Do you realize this means I have to find a new job?"
Nikki's gaze slowly rose to Rook, who stood facing her. She knew him well enough to know he wanted his water back. "How long had you been with Ms. Towne?"
"Four years. Since I graduated Mizzou."
"University of Missouri has an intern program with the Ledger," Rook injected. "Cecily transitioned from it to Cassidy's column."
"That must have been quite an opportunity," said Nikki.
"I guess. Am I going to have to, like, clean all this up?"
"I think our crime scene unit is going to be busy here for most of the day. My guess is the paper will probably let you take some time off while we do our thing." That seemed to mollify her for the moment, so Nikki pressed on. "I need to ask you to think about something, Cecily. It may be difficult at this moment, but it's important."
" 'K . . ."
"Can you think of anyone who wanted to kill Cassidy Towne?"
"You're kidding, right?" Cecily looked up at Rook. "She's kidding, right?"
"No, Detective Heat doesn't kid. Trust me."
Nikki leaned closer in her chair to draw Cecily's attention back. "Look, I know she was a lightning rod and all that. But over the past days or few weeks, were there any unusual incidents or threats she got?"
"Oh, every day, like literally. She didn't even see them. When I sort her mail at the Ledger, I just leave them there in a big sack. Some of them are pretty random."
"If we gave you a ride there, could we see them?"
"Uh, sure. You'd probably have to get the managing editor to sign off, but fine with me."
"Thanks, I'll do that."
"She got calls," said Rook, "her Ledger extension forwarded to here."
"Oh, right, right." Cecily looked around at the mess. "If you can find it, her answering machine has some nasty shit on it. She screened." Nikki made a note to locate it and have the messages gone through for leads.
"I know something else that's missing," said Rook. "No filing cabinets. She had big filing cabinets in the corner near the door."
The idea of a filing cabinet hadn't occurred to Nikki. Not yet, anyway. Score one for Rook.
"There should be two in there," affirmed the assistant. She leaned forward in her chair to venture a look into the study but decided against it.
Heat made a note about the AWOL filing cabinets. "Other things that might be helpful would be her appointments. I assume you have access to her Outlook calendar." Cecily and Rook shared a look of amusement. "Am I missing something?"
Rook said, "Cassidy Towne was a Luddite. Everything was on paper. Didn't use a computer. Didn't trust them. She said she liked their convenience, but it was too easy for someone to steal your material. E-mail forwards, hackers, what not."
"But I do have her planner." The assistant opened her backpack and handed Nikki the spiral-bound datebook. "I have old ones, too. Cassidy had me hang on to them for documenting business meals and for tax prep."
Nikki looked up from a recent page. "There are two sets of handwriting in here."
"Right," said the assistant. "Mine's the one you can read."
"No kidding," said Nikki as she turned pages. "I can't make out her handwriting at all."
"She was tough?"
"She was impossible. Four years of J-school to be the next Ann Curry, and where do I end up? Nanny to that thankless bitch."
Nikki was going to ask later, but with that opening, it seemed the perfect time. "Cecily, this is a routine question I ask everyone. Can you tell me where you were overnight, say between eleven P.M. and three A.M.?"
"In my apartment with my BlackBerry turned off so my boyfriend and I could get some sleep and without getting called by Her Highness."
On the short drive back to the precinct Nikki left voice mail for Don, her combat trainer, to rain check her busted morning jujitsu workout with him. The ex-Navy SEAL was probably in the showers by that time, no doubt having found another sparring partner. Don was a no strings, no worries guy. Same for their sex, when they had it. They both had no trouble finding other sparring partners there, either, and the no-strings relationship made for a mutually workable life design. If workable was your deal.
She had taken a hiatus from sleeping with Don during the time she was with Rook. Not a decision she made, it just worked out that way. Don never seemed bothered, nor did he ask about it when they resumed their occasional night sessions when summer ended and Jameson Rook was out of her life.
Now there he was again, Jameson Rook in her rearview mirror. Her ex-lover, riding shotgun with Raley, the two of them sitting wordlessly at the stoplight in the car behind her, looking out opposite windows of the unmarked like an old married couple with nothing more to say. Rook had asked to pool with Nikki back to the Twentieth, but when Ochoa said he wanted to accompany Cassidy Towne's body down to the OCME, Heat told Raley to play chauffeur for the writer. Nobody seemed thrilled with the arrangements but Nikki.
Her thoughts drifted to Ochoa. And Lauren. He fooled no one with his duty sense to stay close to the high-profile victim, calling it due diligence to see the delivery through from crime scene to morgue. Maybe she should butt out and leave Lauren to find her own way. When Ochoa had approached to suggest his plan, Nikki saw the masked smile on her friend's face as Lauren eavesdropped. As Nikki turned onto 82nd and double-parked in front of the precinct, she thought, hey, they were adults and she wasn't the den mother. Let them have whatever happiness there was to be found in this work. If a man is willing to ride with a corpse just to be with you, that's more effort than you get from most.
The coroner's van took a nasty pothole on Second Avenue, and in the back, ME Parry and Detective Ochoa took some air and came down hard on the seats flanking Cassidy Towne's body bag. "Sorry," came the driver's voice from up front. "Blame last winter's blizzards. And the deficit."
"You OK?" Ochoa asked the ME.
"Fine, I'm used to it, believe me," she said. "Are you sure this doesn't weird you out?"
"This? Nah, fine. No sweat."
"You were telling me about your soccer league."
"I'm not boring you?"
"Please," Lauren said. And after the slightest hitch, she continued, "I'd like to come see you play sometime."
Ochoa beamed. "For real? Nah, you're just being polite to me because I'm a live person in your day."
"True . . ." And they both laughed. His eyes fell away from hers for a second or two, and when he looked up she was smiling at him.
He gathered his courage and said, "Listen, Lauren, I'm playing goalie this Saturday, and if you're--"
The tires squealed, glass shattered, and metal crunched. The van crashed so hard to a sudden stop that its rear tires lifted and slammed down, tossing Ochoa and Lauren. The back of her head smacked the side wall of the cargo bay as the van came to rest.
"What the hell . . . ?" she said.
"You all right?" Ochoa unbuckled his belt to cross to her, but before he could get out of it, the rear doors flew open and three men in ski masks and gloves were filling it, holding guns on them. Two were Glocks, the third guy had a nasty-looking assault rifle.
"Hands!" shouted the one with the AR-15. Ochoa hesitated, and the shooter put a round in the rear tire underneath him. Lauren screamed, and even with all his range experience, the muzzle blast made Ochoa jump. "Hands, now!" Ochoa raised his high. Lauren's were already up. The other two masks belted their Glocks and went to work unlatching the hardware securing the gurney holding Cassidy Towne's body to the floor of the van. They made quick work of it, and as the rifleman adjusted his position to keep his aim on Ochoa, his crew rolled the gurney out of the cargo bay and wheeled it somewhere to the side of the vehicle where Ochoa had no view.
Behind them southbound traffic on Second was bunching up. The lane immediately behind the shooter was at a stop; the other lanes were crawling around the blockage. Ochoa tried to memorize all the details for later, if there was going to be a later. Not much to go on. He saw one passing driver on his cell phone and was hoping it was a call to Emergency when the crew returned to slam the cargo doors.
"Come out, and you're dead," called the AR-15 through the metal.
"Stay in here," said Lauren, but the detective had his weapon in his hand.
"Don't move," he told her and kicked the door open. He jumped out on the opposite side of where they had taken the gurney and did a cover roll behind the rear wheel. Underneath the van he could see broken glass, fluid streaming from the engine, and the wheels of the dump truck they had T-boned.
Tires burned rubber, and Ochoa booked it around the van in shooting position, but the big SUV--black, no plates--sped off. Its driver cut a sharp, evasive turn to put the dump truck between himself and Ochoa. In the seconds it took the detective to run up to the truck and brace, the SUV had turned off onto 38th Street for the FDR, the East River, or who knew where?
Behind Ochoa a driver called out, "Hey, buddy, can you move this?"
The detective turned. Sitting out there in the traffic lane was Cassidy Towne's gurney. It was empty.
Detective Heat returned to the bull pen from dropping off Cassidy Towne's phone message cassettes and datebook for analysis by Forensics. Raley strode to her as soon as she walked in. "Got an update on Coyote Man."
"Do you have to do that?" Heat objected to giving victims nicknames. She understood the economy of it, the shorthand it created for a busy squad to quickly communicate, sort of like naming a Word file something that everyone could easily reference. But there was also a dark humor component to it she didn't like. Heat also understood that--the coping mechanism on a grim job was to depersonalize it by making light of the dark. But Nikki was a product of her own experience. Recalling her mother's murder, she didn't want to think the homicide crew on that case had had slang for her mom, and the best way to respect that was not to do it herself. . . . And to discourage it in her squad, which she had always done, albeit with spotty success.
"Sorry, sorry," said Raley. "Re-set. I have some information on our deceased male Hispanic from this morning. The gentleman who you speculated may have been attacked by the coyote?"
"Better."
"Thank you. Traffic found an illegally parked produce truck a block from the body. Registered to . . ." Raley consulted his notes, "Esteban Padilla of East One Hundred and Fifteenth."
"Spanish Harlem. You sure it's his truck?"
Raley nodded. "Positive match to the vic in a family photo taped to his dashboard." Just the sort of detail that always made Nikki's stomach take an elevator plunge. "I'll do a follow-up."
"Good, keep me up on it." She gave him a nod and started to her desk.
"So you really think that was a coyote, huh?"
"Looked it to me," she said. "They do get into the city every now and again. But I have to go with the ME on this one. If it was a coyote, it came after the fact. I can't think of any coyote that would steal a man's wallet."
"Wile E. Coyote would have." Rook. Smart-assing from the old desk he used to sit at. "Of course, he would have gotten some ACME dynamite first and blown his nose and hair off. And then stood there blinking." He de
monstrated. "I watched a lot of cartoons as a youngster. Part of my unsupervised upbringing."
Raley looped back to his desk and Heat stepped over to Rook. "I thought you were going to write a statement and go."
"I wrote it," he said. "Then I tried to make an espresso out of this machine I gave you guys and it's NG."
"We, um, haven't made a lot of espresso drinks since you left."
"Clearly." Rook stood and dragged the machine from the back of the desk toward him. "God, these things are always heavier than they look. See? It's not plugged in, the water reservoir is down . . . Let me set it up for you."
"We're good."
"OK, fine, but if you decide to use it, don't just put water in. It's a pump, Nikki. And like any pump it has to be primed."
"Fine."
"Do you want some help with that? There's a right way and a wrong way."
"I know how to--" She ended that thread of conversation right there. "Listen, let's forget all about . . ."
"Steamy deliciousness?"
". . . coffee, and look at your statement. Deal?"
"Done." He handed her a single sheet of paper and sat on the edge of the desk, waiting.
She looked up from the page. "This is it?"
"I tried to be concise."
"This is one paragraph."
"You're a busy woman, Nikki Heat."
"All right, look." She paused to collect her thoughts before she continued. "I was left with the distinct impression that your weeks--weeks--in the company of our murdered gossip columnist would mean you had more knowledge than this." She dangled the page at its corner between her thumb and forefinger so that it sold flimsy. The air-conditioning kicked on and it even waved in the breeze, a nice touch.
"I do have more knowledge."
"But?"
"I'm bound by my journalistic ethics not to compromise my sources."
"Rook, your source is dead."
"And that would release me," he said.
"Then pony up."
Naked Heat Page 3
