Heat Wave

by Richard Castle

  No indulgence for her. She showered instead of bathing.

  Nikki got into her bed and smelled Rook on the pillow beside her. She pulled it to her and breathed deeply, wondering if she should have called him to come over. Before she could answer, she was asleep.

  It was still dark when her phone rang. The sound reached her through a depth of slumber she had to claw her way up from. She reached for her cell phone on the nightstand with sleep-dead hands and it fell to the floor. By the time she got to it, the ringing had stopped.

  She recognized the number and did a voice-mail fetch. “Hey, it’s Ochoa. Call me right away, all right? Soon as you get this.” He vibed a breathless urgency not like him. The sweat on Nikki’s naked skin chilled when his message continued, “We found Pochenko.”

  SIXTEEN

  Nikki was tucking in her blouse as she sailed down her front steps, raced to the cruiser, and asked the cops for a lift. They were glad to have their monotony broken and roared off with her in back.

  At 5 A.M. the northbound traffic was light on the West Side Highway and they hauled ass. “I know the area, there’s no vehicle access from this direction,” Nikki told the driver. “Instead of killing time looping back from 96th, hop off at the next exit. When you get to the bottom of the ramp, I’ll get out and hoof it the rest of the way.”

  The officer was still braking at the bottom of the 79th Street off-ramp when Heat told him she was good to go. She called over her shoulder to say thanks for the ride. Soon Nikki was running under the highway, scuffing over dried pigeon droppings on her way to the river and the police lights in the distance.

  Lauren Parry was working Pochenko’s body when Nikki jogged up, panting and sweaty from her sprint. “Catch your breath, Nik, he’s not going anywhere,” said the M.E. “I was ready to call about our man here, but Ochoa beat me to it.”

  Detective Ochoa joined them. “Looks like this guy won’t be bothering you anymore.”

  Heat circled around to look at the corpse. The big Russian was slumped to one side on a park bench facing the Hudson. It was one of those picturesque rest stops on the slope of grass between the bike path and the bank of the river. Now it was Pochenko’s final rest stop.

  He had changed clothes since the night he tried to kill her. His cargo shorts and white T-shirt looked brand-new, which was how criminals on the run dressed, using stores as their closets. Pochenko’s outfit was right off the shelf, except it was covered in blood.

  “The homeless outreach patrol found him,” said Ochoa. “They’ve been making rounds trying to get guys into the cooling shelters.” He couldn’t resist adding, “Looks like he’s gonna stay nice and cool.”

  Nikki understood Ochoa’s dark humor, but seeing the body didn’t put her in a sporting mood. Whatever he had been, Vitya Pochenko was a dead human now. Any personal relief she felt about the end of his threat was just that, personal. He was now in the category of crime victim and was owed justice like anyone else. One of Nikki Heat’s talents for The Job was her ability to put her own feelings in a box and be a professional. She looked at Pochenko again and realized she was going to need a bigger box.

  “What do we have?” she asked Lauren Parry.

  The M.E. beckoned Nikki around behind the bench. “Single gunshot to the back of the head.”

  The sky was starting to brighten, and the buttermilk light gave Nikki a clearer view of the bullet hole in Pochenko’s brush cut. “There’s muzzle burn,” she said.

  “Right. So it was extremely close range. And look at his body position. Big bench, he had the whole damn thing to himself, but he’s all the way on one end.”

  Heat nodded. “Someone was sitting with him. No sign of struggle?”

  “None,” said the M.E.

  “So it’s most likely a friend or associate to get that close.”

  “Close enough for a sneak attack,” said Ochoa. “Bring it up behind, and pop.” He gestured behind them at the West Side Highway, which was already filling with morning commuters. “No witnesses, traffic noise covered the shot. Don’t see a D.O.T. cam aimed this way, either.”

  “What about the gun?” Nikki asked the M.E.

  “Small-caliber. I’d call it a twenty-five if you put a gun to my head.”

  “Lauren, honey, you need to get out more.”

  “I would, but business is too good.” Then she pointed at the dead Russian. “This facial burn and the broken finger. Your work?” Heat nodded. “Anything else I should know about?”

  “Yeah,” said Ochoa. “Don’t mess with Nikki Heat.”

  Rook was waiting back at the precinct when she and Ochoa came in. “I heard about Pochenko.” He bowed his head grandly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Ochoa laughed. “Hey, writer monkey’s catching on.”

  Again, Nikki ignored the gallows humor. “Ochoa, double-check the tail we have on Miric. He’s Pochenko’s known associate. I want to know where his bookie pal was when he was shot.”

  Detective Ochoa hit the phones. Rook brought a Dean & DeLuca cup to Heat’s desk. “Here, I got you your usual. A nonfat, no-foam, double-pump vanilla latte.”

  “You know how I feel about frou-frou coffees.”

  “And yet you have one every morning. Such a complex woman.”

  She took it from him and sipped. “Thanks. Very thoughtful.” Her phone rang. “And next time remember the chocolate shavings.”

  “So complex,” he said.

  Nikki picked up. It was Raley. “Two things,” he said. “I’ve got Agda waiting in the outer.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be right there. And the other?”

  “Before I went home last night, I hocked one in that Chinese.”

  Agda Larsson had dressed up for her interview. She wore vintage wear from the East Village accessorized with a pink and white Swatch Beach Volleyball watch on one wrist and a knotted twine bracelet on the other. She pinch-rolled one of the knots between her thumb and finger and said, “Am I in some sort of trouble?”

  “No, this is just a formality.” That was only partially true. Nikki was basically crossing Ts with this interview; however, she did want to satisfy one question, the nagging one. She would work it in at the right time. “How are you coping with all this? Between the murder and the burglary, you must be ready to go right back to Sweden.”

  Agda wagged her head in disbelief at it all. “Oh, it is quite upsetting, yes? But we have murder in my country, too. Almost two hundred last year, they say.”

  “In the entire country?”

  “Yes, isn’t that terrible? It is everywhere.”

  “Agda, I want to ask you some questions about life inside the Starr family.”

  She nodded slowly. “Mrs. Kimberly said you would want to do that when I told her I was coming here.”

  Nikki’s antenna went up. “Did she caution you against talking about those things?”

  “No, she said to say what I wanted.”

  “She said that?”

  The nanny chuckled and shook her blond hair so it fell straight. “Actually, she said it did not matter because the police are incompetent and they could eat it.” Agda read Nikki’s lack of amusement and frowned, a futile attempt to look serious. “She says what she likes, Mrs. Starr.”

  And gets what she wants, thought Heat. “How long have you worked for her?”

  “Two years.”

  “How is your relationship with her?”

  “Oh, she can be tough. Out of nowhere, she’ll snap at me, ‘Agda get Matthew out of here to the park,” or she knocks on my bedroom door in middle of the night, ‘Agda, Matthew got sick and threw up, come clean it.’”

  “Day before yesterday Mrs. Starr and her son went out of town.”

  “That’s right, they went to Dr. Van Peldt’s beach cottage in Westport. In Connecticut.”

  “You didn’t leave with them. Did you meet them up there, or possibly at Grand Central?”

  Agda shook no. “I did not go with them.”

  “What di
d you do?”

  “I stayed the night with a friend at NYU.”

  Heat jotted “NYU” in her notebook. “Is that unusual? I mean, if Mrs. Starr is knocking on your door at night with child care issues, I’m betting she takes you along on her out-of-town trips.”

  “This is true. Usually, I go on vacations and trips so she can enjoy herself and not be bothered with her son.”

  “But not that day.” Nikki got to what was nagging her. “Was there a reason she didn’t want you to be with her?” The detective eyed her keenly and continued, “Like some reason Mrs. Starr didn’t want you around?”

  “No, I only stayed behind so I could handle the piano delivery. She wanted Matty to get off the computer and get some culture, so she bought him a grand piano. It is gorgeous. When they took it out of the crate I almost fainted. Must have cost a fortune.”

  Grief takes many forms, thought Nikki. “Tell me about your relationship with Matthew Starr.”

  “Oh, much what you would expect. He likes me but calls me names when I tell him to go to bed or to turn off The Suite Life of Zack and Cody for dinner.” She raised questioning eyebrows to Nikki. “You mean like that?”

  Detective Heat made a mental note that she was not sitting across the table from the poet laureate of Sweden. “Thank you, now let me ask you about Matthew Starr, Sr. What kind of relationship did you have with him?”

  “Oh, that was a very good one.”

  “In what way?”

  “Well, he was very kind to me. Mrs. Starr, she snaps her fingers and she’s all like, ‘Agda do this,’ or ‘Agda keep him quiet, I am having my yoga time.’”

  “Agda? About Mr. Starr?”

  “Mister was always sweet. He would comfort me after she yelled at me. Mr. Starr would give me some extra money and treat me to a dinner out on my night off. Or take me shopping for clothes or…See, he gave me this Swatch.”

  “Was Mrs. Starr aware of this?”

  “Oh, tvärtom, no. Matthew said to keep it only to us.”

  Nikki was amazed by her guileless sharing, and decided to keep that ball rolling. “Was your relationship with Mr. Starr ever physical?”

  “Of course.”

  “To what extent?”

  “He would rub my shoulders to comfort me after I got yelled at. Sometimes he would hug me or stroke my hair. It was very soothing. He was so gentle.”

  “How old are you, Agda?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Did you and Matthew Starr ever sleep together?”

  “You mean have sex? Skit nej! That would not be appropriate.”

  There had obviously been some raucous laughter and jock snapping going on in the Observation Room during her interview with the nanny to the Starrs. It carried back to the bull pen when Roach and Rook followed her there.

  “What’s your take on Agda?” asked Raley.

  Rook considered and said, “She’s like Swedish furniture. Beautiful to look at but pieces missing.”

  “My favorite part,” added Ochoa, “was hearing how this guy was basically horndogging her under his wife’s nose and she says she didn’t have sex with him because it would be inappropriate.”

  “That’s called horndogus interruptus,” said Raley from over at the coffeepot. “I think Agda’s just one of the deals Matthew Starr never got a chance to close before he was killed.”

  Rook turned to Nikki. “Hard to believe she’s from the same land that brought us the Nobel Prize. Did she tell you anything useful?”

  “You never know until you know,” said Heat.

  The theme from Ghostbusters by Ray Parker, Jr., started to play. “Rook, please tell me that’s not coming from your pants,” she said.

  “Custom ringtone. Like it?” He held up his cell phone. The caller ID read “Casper.” “Ghostbusters, get it? Excuse me, Detective Heat, my source may have information related to this case.” Rook strode off to take his call with an air of smugness.

  In less than a minute, he returned, still on the phone but stripped of arrogance. “But I was the one who introduced you to her…. Can’t you just tell me?” He closed his eyes and sighed. “Fine.” Rook extended his phone to Nikki. “He says he’ll only share this with you.”

  “This is Nikki Heat.”

  “A pleasure, Detective. First, assure me that Jameson Rook is in anguish.”

  She looked at Rook, chewing his lower lip, straining to eavesdrop. “Quite.”

  “Good. If ever anyone needed a swift dismount from a high horse, it is he.” The old man’s soft, smoky tone warmed her ear. Hearing Casper without seeing him isolated his voice and she heard David Bowie with notes of Michael Caine’s mellowness.

  “To business,” he said. “After your visit, I burnt some midnight oil because I could tell time was pressing on you.”

  “Never had a case where it wasn’t,” said the detective.

  “And although you downplayed it, you do believe there is a murder connected to this art theft.”

  “Yes, I downplayed it, and yes I believe it. Perhaps two murders.”

  “A wonderful art appraiser, a fine woman who knew her business, was killed this week.”

  Nikki jumped to her feet. “Do you know anything about that?”

  “No, I only knew Barbara from occasional meetings years ago. But she was among the best. Let’s say knowing her death might be part of this only engages me more in your investigation.”

  “Thanks for that. Please call me with anything you find out.”

  “Detective, I have information right now. Trust me, I wouldn’t have wasted either of our time unless I could provide substance.”

  Nikki flipped open her pad. “Has someone already tried to fence the paintings?”

  “Yes and no,” answered Casper. “Someone did sell just one of the paintings, the Jacques-Louis David. But that sale took place two years ago.”

  Nikki began to pace. “What? And you’re absolutely sure of this?”

  There was a pause and a half before the dapper art thief replied. “My dear, think of what you know about me and consider if you truly require an answer to that question.”

  “Point made,” said Nikki. “I’m not doubting you, I’m just confused. How can a painting be in Matthew Starr’s collection if it was sold two years ago?”

  “Detective, you’re smart. How good are you at math?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Then your answer is to do some.”

  And then Casper hung up.

  SEVENTEEN

  The receptionist at Starr Real Estate Development popped back on and told Detective Heat that Paxton would be right with her. Nikki felt like she was straining at a leash. Even hearing Anita Baker on the hold music didn’t soothe her. It wasn’t the first time in her life she seemed to be moving at a different pace than the rest of the world. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time that day.

  At last, a ring-through. “Hi, sorry about the wait. I’m buttoning up a lot of Matthew’s affairs.”

  That could have so many meanings, she thought. “Last call, I promise.”

  “It’s no bother, honest.” Then he laughed and said, “Although…”

  “Although what?”

  “I wonder if it would be easier if I just set up my office over there at your precinct.”

  Nikki laughed, too. “You could. You have the better view, but we have nicer furniture. How sad is that?”

  “I’ll stick with the view. So tell me how I can help you, Detective.”

  “I was hoping you could look up the name of the company that insured Matthew’s art collection.”

  “Sure thing.” He paused. “But you recall I told you he had me cancel that policy.”

  “Yes, I know. I just want to ask them if they kept documentary photos of the collection I can use to hunt it down.”

  “Oh, oh, pictures, right. Never thought of that. Good idea. Got a pen?”

  “Ready.”

  “It’s GothAmerican Insurance here in Manhattan.” She h
eard sharp keystrokes and he continued, “Ready for the phone number?”

  After she took it down, Nikki said, “May I ask you one more question? It will save me a call later.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice when Noah answered, “I doubt that, but go ahead.”

  “Did you cut a check for Kimberly Starr to buy a piano recently?”

  “A piano?” And then he repeated, “A piano? No.”

  “Well she bought one.” Heat looked at the CSI photo in her hand of the Starr living room. “It’s a beaut. A Steinway Karl Lagerfeld edition.”

  “Kimberly, Kimberly, Kimberly.”

  “These list for eighty thousand. How could she afford that?”

  “Welcome to my world, Detective. Not the craziest thing she’s done. Want to hear about the speedboat she bought last fall in the Hamptons?”

  “But where did she get the money?”

  “Not from me.”

  Nikki checked her watch. She might be able to get to the insurance folks before lunch. “Thanks, Noah, that’s all I need.”

  “Until next time, you mean.”

  “Sure you don’t want to set up a desk over here?” she said. They were both laughing when they hung up.

  Heat punctuated her “Yesss!” with a fist-pump when Raley finished his call to the archives manager at GothAmerican. They not only routinely maintained photographic documentation of insured art collections, they held them for seven years following the cancellation of a policy. “How soon can we get them?”

  “Faster than you can microwave my leftovers,” said Raley.

  She pressed her detective. “Exactly how soon?”

  “The archive manager is e-mailing them to me as an attachment now.”

  “Forward it to Forensics as soon as it comes.”

  “Already had GothAmerican do a cc to them,” he said.

  “Raley, you are the czar of all media.” Heat clapped him on the shoulder. She grabbed her bag and hurried out to Forensics, brushing past Rook on his way in without seeming to notice him.