Heat tried calling Rook when they found the body of Jeanne Capois, but his phone went straight to voice mail. Not the sort of news you leave on a message, so she let it go with, “Big development. I’ll be in the field on my cell.” She resisted saying call me. Too needy.
Detective Ochoa spotted her and strode toward her unmarked Taurus when she pulled up in front of the prep school on West End Avenue. Nikki paused for a ritual breath then met him on the sidewalk. “School custodian made the find,” he said, escorting her to the black iron gate between the granite school building and a mixed-use apartment with a dental practice on the ground floor. “Garbage pickup is today. He was rolling the trash barrels to the walk, and there she was, dumped behind them. Lauren says there’s so much blood, no doubt she was done here.”
Dr. Parry crouched over the corpse, running tests and directing the CSU tech where to take photos. “This is a bad one, Nikki.”
“Sadistic shit,” said Detective Raley. He knew Heat wasn’t big on profanity but let it out. “Sorry for that, but this is pretty fucked up.”
Nikki leaned over the ME for a peek and quickly turned away. “This goes beyond blood loss from a beating,” said Lauren. “My totally prelim cause of death is asphyxia. See the choke marks on the neck? As yet, I see no signs of sexual assault, so I can only imagine it was either deviant behavior or torture.”
Ochoa said, “Based on the ravaging of the apartment she lived in, my money’s on torture.”
“Mine, too,” said the medical examiner. “Come closer. See the fingertips? That damage was caused by pliers—see the grooves made by the grippers inside the pincers? And her eyes…It looks like some sort of toxic or corrosive liquid was poured into them. The bright stain on her blouse could be from automotive antifreeze. I’ll test it.” Heat turned away again, standing up straight to look at the bright yellow leaves waving on the fall trees while she contemplated the horror of Jeanne Capois’s last moments alive. “She also has abrasions around her mouth where they must have gagged her. There are also numerous burns about her breasts and the soles of her feet.”
“What about these here?” asked Nikki. “The marks just above her wrists.”
“These are consistent with some sort of restraint biting into her skin.”
“Like disposable cuffs?” Ochoa said it, more than asked it. All three detectives went right to the bloody zip ties recovered from the vendor outside the planetarium where Fabian Beauvais crashed.
Lauren Parry, the scientist among them, said, “It’s highly possible. To be certain, I’d want to examine more carefully back at OCME.”
“Disposable cuffs it is,” said Ochoa.
“Can you venture a time of death?” asked Detective Heat.
As the medical examiner slipped brown paper bags over the victim’s hands to preserve DNA and particle evidence, she said, “The body’s been here two nights, I’d say. As for the hour, that’s tricky. I’m going to need my lab work to give us a window. That would make it the night of the home invasion, if it tests out.”
Nikki looked down at Jeanne Capois’s soft, kind face; such a contrast to the brutal agony she endured. What was her life like? The photos found in her room portrayed a joyful, young woman with lots of friends, a smile that lit up the world, and a boyfriend. A boyfriend who had also died in a most horrific fashion. Heat thought about an immigrant woman in her twenties, coming to New York, as so many did, to gain a toehold on the American Dream. And this is where it ended. In an enclosure where they kept the trash. Destined for a stainless steel table in the basement autopsy room on East Thirtieth. How did this happen? What was she into? One thing Heat knew for sure: Given the timing and her relationship with Fabian Beauvais, there was something more to all this than a first-genner seeking a better life.
The detectives huddled on the sidewalk while the OCME van backed up to the gate of the garbage area. Even though the prep school closed for the day following the discovery, technicians tented the area for privacy while the body got loaded. “TOD before or after the apartment ransack?” Heat asked.
“I could see it either way,” said Raley. “Scenario-one, they nab her after she leaves the building at—what time did the elderly housekeeper say?”
“Ten P.M.”
“Right. And they bring her here—or catch her hiding out here—and go to work on her, trying to get her to give up whatever it is they wanted to find.”
Ochoa shook his head. “But then why go and rip the hell out of the apartment?”
“Maybe she didn’t tell them what they wanted,” said Heat. “Or she lied.”
The metal legs of the Stryker collapsed as the gurney got loaded. And they all just stopped talking and thought about the strength of will that woman must have had in the face of a professional interrogation job like that.
“Gentlemen, still your case. What next?”
Ochoa started without hesitation. “I want to get a bunch of unis to comb the four blocks between here and that apartment to see if anybody saw or heard anything that night. If she was being chased, she had to make some noise. Had to make some here, too, even if they gagged her.”
“And since I am still reigning as the King of All Surveillance Media,” said Rales, “I’m hunting me some cams.”
Heat remained at the crime scene. It had become the hot lead. Nonetheless she was careful not to bigfoot Roach, and stood aside to let them organize deployment of Detective Rhymer, the uniforms, and the plainclothes borrowed from Burglary. She did suggest putting a detail on the homeless people who routinely set up cardboard cartons for sleeping on the steps of the church at the corner. They were the owls of the night, and their misfortune did not make them any less important as eyewitnesses.
While examining a piece of torn cloth found by a CSU tech, her phone vibrated and she jumped.
“Detective Heat? Inez Aguinaldo from SVPD.” In other words, not Rook calling back. “I wanted to follow up on those checks I said I’d make for you. Is this a good time?”
“I’m at a homicide site, but I can talk.”
“Then I’ll keep it brief,” said the lead detective from Southampton. “First of all, I checked records of calls and complaints since last April near Beckett’s Neck. One of the calls, I personally responded to after we got an alarm for an intruder at Keith Gilbert’s home. When we arrived Mr. Gilbert was with a woman who was clearly spending the night.”
“Alicia Delamater?”
“Yes. Gilbert was holding a gun—which we verified as legally registered—on the intruder who turned out to be a very drunk mystery writer from up the neck who said he found the wrong house.”
“So many look alike around there,” said Heat.
“The rest are only a few routine traffic stops—all local residents. Another complaint for a dispute at the home of the same mystery writer—this time he keyed the paint on the car door of his editor—plus some loud music complaints for a sorority beach party that got out of hand.”
“The Thriller flash mob?”
“You are certainly tapped in.”
“I heard about it from Keith Gilbert.”
“So did we that night.” She laughed. “Let’s just say the Thriller was gone. And pretty quickly. I also showed the sketches and the mug photo to the local patrol officers. That’s the beauty of a small town. My patrol sergeant is away on vacation, so I’ll have to show him when he gets back, but I got no hits on the pair of bad guys. One patrolman said he may have seen the man in your photo walking to the late train to New York a while ago, but he can’t be certain. It was nighttime and he found him staggering along the road. The officer thought he was drunk, but the man said he had a bad case of the flu. He seemed lucid, although difficult to understand because he had a foreign accent, so he was a catch and release.”
“That could be Beauvais. When was that?”
“Nine days ago. Is this helpful?”
Detective Feller began without a hello. “’K, here’s the deal. The night manager of a diner that serves Island food on Church Ave. here in Flatbush got braced about six days ago by the pair of goons from our sketches. I didn’t talk to him yesterday, but I did speak to his cousin who works the day shift, and he passed my card along to this guy.”
“Did he know Beauvais?”
“Says he doesn’t. Told them that, too, and they thought he was bullshitting them, so they got a little rough with him. So when they left, he wrote down their plate. Just for safekeeping.”
Heat said, “I wonder if it’s one of the getaway cars from the SRO.”
“It’s not. I ran it.”
“Randall Feller, you rock.”
“Just wait. The plate came back belonging to a Chevy Impala. Ready? It’s registered to the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey.”
After telling Detective Feller to stay in Flatbush to continue working the Haitian community, Nikki sat on the galvanized metal steps beneath the school’s service door for a moment to take stock of this new information. She wasn’t sure where it would lead, but Heat knew something bigger than she could yet see was going on. And now this Port Authority connection made it increasingly more difficult not to leap to the conclusion that beckoned her with increasing urgency.
Nikki fogged out the work of the CSU team before her. Shut out the street noise and chatter. Quieted, undistracted, creating solitude amid the chaos, she conjured a mental picture of the Murder Board six blocks away and, in reviewing every development that surfaced in this case, she began slapping imaginary Post-its on the eight-by-ten photo of one Keith Gilbert.
Whose Hamptons’ address and phone number did they find with all that money in the Haitian’s closet? Slap. Whose dog most likely left those bite marks on Fabian Beauvais’s jeans—the jeans splattered with shellac that probably came from the renovation at Cosmo? Slap. Whose Southampton neighbor-slash-mistress far-too-coincidentally claimed to employ Beauvais? Slap. Whose organization owned the car driven by the two thugs searching for Beauvais—who also fled his SRO in Flatbush? Slap. In Heat’s imagination, enough pastel sticky notes ringed the head shot to make it look like Gilbert wore a Hawaiian lei.
But that was far from a collar.
Knowing where this all pointed wasn’t enough to act upon. These were indicators, for sure. Incriminating? Not yet. Forget the fact that she had not discovered a motive. Or even a mode of Beauvais’s death to establish means. Heat did not have one solid connection implicating Keith Gilbert in anything more sinister than hiring an illegal day laborer to reshingle a second home.
That was, until Detective Rhymer’s urgent text.
“I found it here inside this one,” said Rhymer when Heat arrived. He indicated the yellow sidewalk box dispensing freebie catalogs for the Gotham Writers’ Workshop. The plastic newsstand was wedged between a red one with free copies of the Village Voice and the blue container for handouts of Big Apple Parent. “I said, ‘OK, what if she wasn’t captured but was on the run, in a panic,’ you know? Since we didn’t find her purse at the murder scene, I thought maybe, if she didn’t drop it, or if the bad guys didn’t take it, maybe she stashed it on the fly. I walked the beeline from the home-invasion building, checking tree limbs, trash cans, even the roofs of parked trucks. Two blocks into it, dang.”
His Southern accent came out on that last word, making Heat think of little Opie Rhymer, a boy in the hills with a bloodhound. With work like this, maybe he didn’t need one.
Ochoa had pull up the Roach Coach and, with gloved hands, he carefully placed the contents of Jeanne Capois’s purse on the hood. Raley powered up the inexpensive pay-as-you-go cell phone inside it as Heat and Rhymer looked on. The purse items seemed to be standard fare, including a lipstick and compact, hair scrunchies, chewing gum, a MetroCard, ring of keys, grocery list, a few random business cards, and a stick pen. Her wallet still had cash in it: just a few dollars and some U.S. and Haitian gourde coins mixed together. In the photo windows were a picture of a middle-aged couple, most likely her parents, and a smiling shot of Fabian Beauvais standing proud over a barbecue of grilled fish.
“Uh, Detective,” said Raley, holding out the phone, “you’re going to want to look at this.” Nikki took it from him and shielded the screen from the sunlight so she could read the text he had opened. The message read: RUN. KG THING GO BAD. RUN NOW! JE T’AIME. FAB.
The other two detectives came around to flank her so they could get a peek. Opie let out a low whistle. Ochoa kept his usual cool. “Huh, he said. “I might call that a nexus.”
Heat read the text again and turned to her team. “I think it’s time to have another chat with Keith Gilbert.”
Detective Heat wanted to surprise Keith Gilbert same as he had with her. To Nikki, off guard meant guard down, and she didn’t want him to see her coming by phoning ahead. Even if the commissioner would consent to an appointment, he had shown his hand by applying pressure through his crony at the Office of Emergency Management. Not the move of a man in the full-cooperation mode he professed.
The Port Authority headquarters were on Park Avenue South, but before Heat took a ride down there she made a quick surf of Gilbert’s Web site for his exploratory campaign. Up top she found a Save the Date posting for a policy speech he was making that morning at a businesspersons’ forum sponsored by a local radio station. Leaving Detective Rhymer in charge of the ongoing search of West End Ave., Roach followed Heat’s car to the Widmark Hotel in Times Square. Another light drizzle was falling, reminiscent of the morning Fabian Beauvais smashed into the planetarium. When they parked and met on the sidewalk, Ochoa put his face to the mist and said, “Sure doesn’t feel like a big storm’s coming.”
“You sound like Noah’s neighbor when he saw him building the ark,” said Raley. On the escalator ride from the hotel lobby to the mezzanine, he was still on the topic of Sandy. “Plus this thing’s supposed to be, what, five days away? Monday or Tuesday, I hear.”
“My partner the weatherman.” But Nikki only half listened. Her attention went to the dark-suited security trio at the doors to the Fraunces Meeting Room. Mainly because their attention was on her.
“Do you have tickets?” asked the woman at the reception table. There were fewer than a dozen unclaimed name badges arrayed before her. The amplified voice of the afternoon drive-time newscaster boomed out of the room when one of the doors opened briefly and someone slipped out. Heat noted the new arrival was a fourth security person.
Heat showed her ID and said, “I’m not here for the forum. This is police business,” which caused the young woman to chew her lip and present a “now what?” face to the security detail.
The man who had joined them from behind the door stepped forward, smiling without particular joy. He brought the scent of Old Spice and Altoids to her. “Is there a threat we should know about, Detective?”
“No, not at all.” She introduced herself and Roach. The front man showed his Port Authority PD credential, but his cohorts didn’t. “We’re investigating a case in NYPD jurisdiction.”
“I respect that.” His topic sentence set a tone of obstruction. “However, PAPD is assigned to this event, and we are only to allow ticketed guests.”
“I respect that,” she replied in kind, “but we’re not here for the speeches. We just want to conduct an interview.”
“With?”
This dance had become tiresome to Heat who nonetheless kept things pleasant. “I’m sure as a cop yourself, you can understand not disclosing details of an ongoing case.”
“That is certainly your prerogative,” he said. Then he folded his arms to send the message that’s as far as it goes then.
“We’re here to see Commiss
ioner Gilbert.”
“He is not seeing anyone. The commissioner is preparing remarks to give after the breakfast.”
Behind her, Ochoa cleared his throat and said, “We can wait.”
“Sorry, right after, we’re hustling him to Port Newark to make sure the container cargo docks are ready for Sandy.” The detective reached in his side pocket and came out with a business card for Heat. “Here’s the number of his office. I’m sure his assistant will compare calendars with you.”
“That chaps my hide,” said Raley when they descended to the lobby. “Those guys have no jurisdiction here. PAPD covers Port Authority assets. Last I heard, that did not include the Widmark Hotel.”
Heat shrugged. “The Port Authority asset they’re covering is the commissioner, whatever real estate he stands on. Unless you’re prepared for a skirmish, those guys were not going to budge.”
“What?” asked Ochoa. “You’re just giving up?”
Not for the first time that morning, Nikki thought about Rook. But on this occasion it was not about his departure from the squad room and his not answering her calls. Heat flashed back a few years to when they had to get past security in a hospital outside Paris and he told her that nobody challenges you if you carry something or, even better, are eating. She grinned at Ochoa and picked up a house phone. “Catering manager, please.”
Five minutes later Nikki stood in the hotel kitchen amid the controlled frenzy of banquet service for seven hundred guests. The manager accepted the sealed envelope from NYPD Homicide detective Heat, placed it under the stainless steel dome covering Keith Gilbert’s breakfast plate, and directed the server to take it to the commissioner immediately.
Her message, in her neat printing on a Widmark note card, was succinct: UNLESS YOU WANT A VERY PUBLIC CONFRONTATION BETWEEN POLICE FORCES WHEN I ESCORT YOU OFF THE PODIUM, YOU’D BETTER SEE ME. NOW.
The Widmark Hotel had named its events facilities after American Revolutionary-era taverns and pubs. Clockwise from the Fraunces on the mezzanine came Slaters, Buckman’s, The Green Dragon, and the one banquet hall sitting vacant that morning, the Bull’s Head. That is where Heat stepped into the dimly lit, cavernous space with a dining capacity for fifteen-hundred to find Keith Gilbert standing alone in silhouette in the middle of the empty room. Her footfalls were barely audible on the carpet as she crossed to him. He spoke to her the whole way there.
Raging Heat Page 9
