“Cop cars?” Heat asked. There was any number of divisions of the NYPD that might have black SUVs in its fleet. For that matter, the vehicles could have been state. Or federal. No branch of government had a monopoly on the ubiquitous black SUV.
“Did you manage to catch the make or model? Were they Fords? Chevys?”
El-Bashir was shaking his head. “They had white pinstriping on the side. That’s…that’s really the only other thing I saw.”
“Okay, so then what?”
“Well, these guys got out. There were four of them. Two from each SUV. And they were huge. Like, I was looking down on them from the second floor and they were still taller than me, you feel me? They were dressed in all black. And they had muscles on their muscles, you know? They looked like they were mob guys or something.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I don’t know. I mean, for one, they were white.”
“White? As in Caucasian? Are you sure?”
“Yeah, no doubt.”
El-Bashir read the incredulity on Heat’s face. “I ain’t clowning you, Captain Heat. I know the Arab with the towel on his head is supposed to be your bad guy here. But I’m telling you, these dudes were white as you. And, I don’t know, they just looked like bad news, you know? Who else has dudes like that but the mob?”
Heat could think of a lot of possibilities, but she didn’t want to interrupt El-Bashir’s flow. “Okay, what next?”
“I don’t know. I mean, we weren’t going to stick around to find out. Tariq was shutting down the computer and I was like, ‘Yo, ’Riq, we gotta go, man.’ I told him what I was seeing and he was like, ‘Yeah. Let’s get the hell out of here.’ So we did.”
“And what time did this all take place?”
“A little after one in the morning. Couldn’t tell you the exact time. I wasn’t exactly worried about looking at the clock. We just took off.”
“Do you think you could describe any of the mob guys to a sketch artist?”
El-Bashir’s face contorted. “Not really. I mean…I wasn’t really looking at any of them real close. They were just big white guys. Sorry. It all happened so fast.”
Big white guys. Black SUVs with white pinstripes and big antennas.
It signified a higher level of organization, of planning, of money. Of threat. Heat didn’t know what was going on, but she’d actually liked it a lot better when she’d thought it was just two overzealous former juvenile delinquents.
“That’s okay, Hassan,” Heat said. She reached across to her desk, plucked a business card off it, and handed it to Hassan. “If you think of anything else, just give me a call, okay?”
“A’ight,” he said. “And thanks again, Captain Heat.”
“My pleasure,” she said.
And she meant it.
Having escorted El-Bashir out, Heat had settled back at her desk and was beginning to power through the mound of paperwork that had a way of breeding while her back was turned. And it seemed to get especially fecund when she was in the middle of a critical case.
She had lowered the mound by perhaps half an inch when she heard the welcome sound of Jameson Rook, entering the bull pen with his usual flourish.
“Luuuu-cy! I’m hoooo-oooome,” he sang out.
Heat came out in time to see Rook toss his garment bag onto the wonky chair, then exchange fist bumps with the detectives.
“I came straight here,” he announced. “Didn’t even stop at home.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s great,” Ochoa said, barely able to contain himself. “You were on the plane, right?”
“What plane?” Rook asked, doing a poor job of looking innocent.
“Don’t you play hard to get with me, Rook. I’ll tase your ass. Come on. Give it up. You saw the bed, didn’t you?”
“Bed? Was there a bed on that plane?”
“That’s it. I’m charging the Taser.”
“Okay, okay,” Rook said. “Yes, there is a bed. Yes, it is king-sized. And, yes, I did sleep on it. Lana insisted.”
Ochoa let out a little-girl-style shriek and brought his hands to his mouth in excitement.
Rook glanced quickly at Heat and added, “Alone, I assure you.”
“What’s it like?” Ochoa cooed. “Sprawling out all over the place at thirty-eight-thousand feet?”
“On thousand thread-count sheets? Atop the plushest, softest pillow-top mattress you’ve ever experienced? Pretty much the coolest thing since the air-conditioning of the American South.”
Ochoa put his hand across his heart. “Dios mío,” he said reverently. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m still voting for Lindsy Gardner, because of her—”
Heat cleared her throat.
“—domestic policies,” Ochoa said. “And she doesn’t want to build a castle with a moat along our southern border. But it’s still hard to beat Legs Kline for the overall cool factor.”
“I don’t know. The bed was pretty awesome, don’t get me wrong. But if I was pimping out a flying vessel, I think I’d rather have smuggling compartments, like the Millennium Falcon. You just never know when you’re going to be on the run from Jabba the Hutt.”
“Nah,” Ochoa said. “I think I’m going with the bed.”
“Suit yourself. But I actually haven’t even told you the coolest part,” Rook said giddily. “So we were doing shots last night—”
“Wait, who’s we?”
“Legs and me and some of his team.”
“Including Lana?”
“Well, yes, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”
Ochoa placed his hand back on his heart.
“Anyway,” Rook continued, “we were doing shots, and one thing led to another, and we were, admittedly, getting a little sloppy. But we were having such a good time and getting along so well, he said that he was going to create a new cabinet position for me.”
“What, Secretary of Stupid?” Feller asked.
“Is that a real thing?” Rhymer asked.
Rook ignored them both. “Legs promised that if he’s elected, he’s going to appoint me as the United States’s first-ever”—he paused to give the moment its due gravitas—“minister of magic.”
Heat couldn’t stop her eyes from rolling.
“We hashed out my budget and everything. Admittedly, this was after about the sixth shot. Then we toasted Dumbledore with the seventh. So I’m a little fuzzy on some of the details this morning. But there’s no question he’s giving me broad latitude to run the ministry as I see fit.”
Rook went over and clapped Rhymer on the shoulder. “You know, I’m going to need someone to head my Muggle Relations Office. I could use a good man for the job.”
“Just as long as you don’t want me to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Rhymer said.
“Oh, God, Opie,” Heat muttered. “Not you, too.”
“What?” Rhymer said. “That job is like a death sentence.”
“So what’s been going on here?” Rook asked. “You get those two ISIS wannabes to spill their guts? You know, once I’m appointed minister of magic, I could just send them to Azkaban.”
Heat told him about how Raley’s work with the video had exonerated the men, and that they were essentially back at square one. Rook’s face changed as she was talking. She could tell he was doing what he did best: thinking through the investigation in his own peculiar way, trying to fit everything together, seeing what was left loose when he was done.
“What about the scarf?” Rook asked when Heat was through with her briefing. “Anything ever come of that?”
Aguinaldo volunteered, “Believe me, you don’t want the long version of that story. The short version is that it’s a Laura Hopper scarf.”
“A Laura Hopper, really?” Rook said, excited.
“Why am I not surprised that would mean something to him,” Ochoa said to Feller.
“I believe the word is ‘metrosexual,’” Feller said.
Rook didn’t let their attem
pt at ball-busting slow him down. “No, seriously, that’s a great break. Every Laura Hopper is unique. That’s part of what makes them so sought after. That, and Laura Hopper is just generally kick-ass awesome. Point is, all we have to do is figure out who owns this particular Laura Hopper and we’ll have a major, major lead.”
“Well, that’s the problem,” Aguinaldo said. “No one in the New York fashion world seems to know. Everyone recognizes it as an original Laura Hopper, but no one seems to be able to tell me a thing about this particular piece. And Laura herself is totally unreachable for the next three weeks.”
Rook actually laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Heat asked.
“What did her assistant tell you? Bora Bora or Seychelles?”
“Tahiti, actually,” Aguinaldo said. “How did you—”
“And let me guess: the only people who have access to her are doting manservants who have signed nondisclosure agreements?”
“Actually, strapping cabana boys who have been sworn to secrecy on pain of death.”
“Ah! That’s even better! I love it when overprotective assistants up their game like that. Hang on,” Rook said, whipping out his phone.
He jabbed at the screen perhaps four times then brought it up to his ear. “Don’t feel bad she got you. She uses that story on all the undesirables. There was this one time she even had me going with it…Hold up.”
Rook re-gripped the phone then boomed out: “Laura Hopper, you crazy redheaded bitch, it’s Jameson Rook, how are you?”
He cupped the phone for a moment—“Don’t worry. Private joke,” he explained—then returned it to his ear.
“Oh, I’m just up to my usual, comforting the afflicted and afflicting the comfortable, like any good journalist should.”
He listened for a moment then said, “Has it been that long? No, no, we saw each other at Bono’s thing. Remember? The beach barbecue? We had that cute twenty-three-year-old English duke absolutely convinced you were an assassin who seduced men and then slit their throats, remember?”
Rook listened, then laughed. “You didn’t,” he said. “Oh, you are so bad.”
He cupped the phone again. “She actually ended up taking the duke home. Which is pretty typical, actually. Men turn into Silly Putty around Laura Hopper.”
Rook brought the phone back to his ear. “Well, of course he thought he was falling in love with you. I keep telling you, these guys aren’t just toys for your amusement.”
There was more talking on the other end. “I don’t know,” Rook said. “I think Dutchess Laura Hopper has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”
After another moment or two, Rook was nodding. “Yes, yes. I guess I get that. Can’t tie yourself down, even to royalty.”
He listened, then laughed again. “Too much, too much. Anyhow, listen, what are you doing for lunch today?”
There was a response, to which Rook replied, “Don’t you play that game with me. I’ll tell Brad about your duke.”
Rook quickly put his hand over the mouthpiece and explained, “She’s been seeing Bradley Cooper on the side…Shhh! The gossip rags have no idea.”
He brought the phone back up, continuing the rapid-fire conversation, only one side of which Heat and the rest of them could hear.
“Great, that’s more like it. How about twelve-thirty at Harlow…Are you kidding? I practically trained the chef there. Where do you think he learned how to do the world’s greatest truffled egg sandwich? No, they took the mussels off the menu three weeks ago, but they now have Rappahannock River oysters from Virginia that are just to die for. But make sure you save room for the banana zapin. Best dessert ever…Okay if I bring a friend? She’s a big fan and wants to ask a few questions about one of your scarves…Come on, you know me better than that. Okay, okay, you got a deal. Great. We’ll see you in a bit, then…You too. Buh-bye.”
He ended the call then looked around to see everyone staring at him.
“What?” Rook said.
“You know how weird it is that you can do that with, like, anyone on the planet?” Heat said.
“No. I’m sure there’s someone living in a thatched hut in Micronesia who I could not get on the phone,” Rook assured her. “Although, actually, now that I think about it, I do know this guy Tosiwo, who lives on Pohnpei, and he might—”
“Enough!” Heat said. “All right, people. Back to work. The Jameson Rook Show is over for the time being.”
“Next performance in twenty minutes!” Rook said, but Heat shut him down with a glare.
“Never mind, it’s just been cancelled,” he said.
As the detectives went back to their respective desks, Heat tugged on Rook’s sleeve. “Can I talk to you for a second?” she asked, jerking her head toward her office.
“Of course,” Rook said. Then he turned to Aguinaldo. “You got the picture of that scarf?” he asked.
She patted the breast pocket of her suit jacket.
“Great,” he said. “We’ll probably want to take off in about ten minutes. Subway would be best if it’s okay with you. The B will take us within a few blocks.”
“Yeah, sure,” Aguinaldo said.
“Great. Trust me, we do not want to be late. No one keeps Laura Hopper waiting.”
Rook grabbed his garment bag off the wonky chair. Heat was holding the door to her office open for him. As she closed the door, he strolled to the other side of the room, then tossed his bag in the corner.
When he turned, Heat was there. She grabbed him by the back of his neck and used it as a lever to draw him toward her. As she locked her lips on his, she simultaneously brought their lower halves together for a full-body experience that instantly rated as the highlight of her day.
If her yearning for him in that moment could have been put on a scale, it would have outweighed Saturn. It was because she missed him. And because she had been through such haring turns of emotions that morning. But it was also because, at her very core, Nikki Heat found nearly everything about Jameson Rook arousing.
And the feeling was clearly quite mutual.
“Wow,” he said, panting heavily as she broke away.
“This is just a little preview for later,” she said, also a bit out of breath. “I figured it couldn’t hurt.”
“Let’s see,” Rook said, taking the opportunity to initiate another kiss. This one was deeper, slower, more soulful. And, if it was possible, even more electrifying.
“No,” he said when they were done. “That didn’t hurt a bit. As a matter of fact—”
“Sorry,” Heat said, backing away. “If we do that one more time, I might make you late for Laura Hopper.”
“Oh, to hell with Laura Hopper,” he said, and tried to reengage. But she straight-armed him, Heisman Trophy–style. “Don’t worry. We’ll go to Reykjavík later, and it will be a better trip when I’m not having to worry about lunatics trying to kidnap you. Imagine how much more uninhibited I’ll be.”
“More uninhibited?” he asked, biting his knuckle.
Her only response was to mischievously plant a light kiss on the other side of his hand.
“Is that a promise?” he asked.
“Yes. But later.”
“Fair enough,” Rook said. “So how did things go with Maggs and Callan? Were you able to get anything out of them?”
Heat recounted her morning for him: the trip to Pennsylvania, the phone calls to various prisons. When she was through, he sat heavily in one of the chairs by her desk.
“So. Maggs dead, Callan escaped,” he said, like he was still trying to absorb it. “Someone was very busy on Tuesday.”
“Yes, but whom?”
“That’s the mystery, isn’t it?” Rook said. “Stating the obvious, Maggs was clearly the loser in everything that went down. He was a loose end that someone finally felt the need to cut off.”
“Yes, but why now?” Heat asked, wanting to know if Rook was thinking along the same lines she was. “Maggs had been in that prison for four ye
ars. It looks like whoever got to him could have gotten to him any time. There was obviously some kind of inciting event.”
“Your mother’s sudden reemergence,” Rook said.
“It sure seems that way.”
“Well, yes. Unless your mother resurfaced in response to something else. In which case that was the inciting event.”
“I thought about that, too.”
“Well, that’s really a chicken-or-egg question,” Rook said. “But just to talk it out, your mother’s reemergence captured more than just your attention. While she was still ‘dead,’ Maggs’s being alive wasn’t particularly bothering anyone. The moment someone figured out she was back, Maggs became a threat again and had to be eliminated. And don’t ask me why. Because I don’t know.”
Rook’s left leg started bouncing up and down, his sudden surfeit of energy needing an outlet.
“I don’t want to say Maggs doesn’t matter,” Rook said. “Because he does. But our chances of figuring out why he had to be silenced seem…remote.”
“Dead men tell no tales,” Heat said.
“Aye-aye, matey. That reminds me, do you want to be a pirate king and a pirate wench for Halloween? I made my publisher let me keep the corset from the cover shoot for my latest Victoria St. Clair novel. It would look so hot on you, especially if you—”
“Rook. Focus.”
“Right. Sorry. By the way, is there a cold shower somewhere around here?” Rook said, taking a moment to physically shake himself.
“Okay, I think I’m good,” he said. “Anyhow, as I was saying, I think Callan is the hot lead here. One, because he’s still alive. Two, because someone clearly wanted him out of prison—and not dead—for some reason. That transfer to medium security six months ago was not some kind of random paperwork mix-up. He clearly had someone pulling strings for him.”
“It had to be someone at the Bureau of Prisons, right?” Heat asked.
“Well, in the end, yes. But even if you find out who signed off on the transfer at the B.O.P., you haven’t necessarily cracked anything. Our theoretical B.O.P. bureaucrat could have just been following orders from someone else, either in the B.O.P. or higher up in the Department of Justice.”
High Heat Page 23
