Naked heat nh-2

by Richard Castle

  "No matter what it takes," Nikki said. Heat immediately made copies of the dispatch and fast-tracked their circulation both in the squad and in the usual places out in the field, including ERs and other medical facilities, like the ones Roach had canvassed the morning after the Texan's escape. She also assigned detectives to recontact previously interviewed witnesses to see if they recognized him now that they had a picture, not just a sketch.

  Nikki also spent some time back at the murder board, studying all the names on it. Rook came up behind her and voiced her thoughts. "Time line isn't your friend so much now, is it?"

  "No," she said. "Case has been bending the other way for the last thirty-six hours, but now it's pointing in a different direction. With a pro killer on this level we're off alibis and totally onto motives." She tacked up the color photo of Rance Eugene Wolf beside the sketch and stepped away from the whiteboard. "Saddle up. I want to revisit some of these myself," she told Rook.

  "You mean the dog walker I heard was such a fan, Miss Heat?"

  "No, definitely not that one." And on the way out, she paused at the door and said in a British accent, "The adulation. Sometimes it bores me so."

  Cassidy Towne's nosy neighbor was easy to find. Mr. Galway was at his usual post on West 78th, in front of his town house grinding his teeth at the rising wall of uncollected garbage. "Can't you police do something?" he said to Nikki. "This strike is threatening the health and safety of the citizens of this city. Can't you arrest someone?"

  "Who?" asked Rook. "The union or the mayor?"

  "Both," he snapped. "And you can go in the clink with them for having such a smart mouth."

  The old fossil said he never saw the guy in the picture, but asked to keep it in case he showed up again. Back in the car, Rook suggested that Rance Eugene Wolf would have done them all a favor if he had just gone to the wrong address, which earned an arm swat from Nikki.

  Chester Ludlow said he had never seen Wolf before, either. Ensconced at his usual corner in the Milmar Club, he didn't even seem to want to touch the photo, let alone keep it. The duration of his observation of the picture barely qualified as a glance.

  Heat said, "I think you should take another, more careful look, Mr. Ludlow."

  "You know, I preferred when people still called me 'Congressman' Ludlow. With that form of address, they very seldom told me what I could and couldn't do."

  "Or, apparently, who," said Rook.

  Ludlow narrowed his eyes at him and then smiled thinly. "I see you still roam Manhattan without neckwear."

  "Maybe I like borrowed ties. Maybe I like the way they smell."

  "I'm not ordering you to do anything, sir." Nikki paused to let him enjoy her white lie of respect. "You did say you retained a private security firm to gather information on Cassidy Towne. Well, this man worked for such a firm, and I would like to know if you ever saw him."

  The disgraced politician sighed and took a longer look at Wolf's ID shot. "The answer's the same."

  "Have you ever heard the name Rance Wolf?"

  "No."

  "Maybe he had another name?" she asked. "Talked with a Texas drawl, soft-spoken?"

  "No. Y'all."

  Nikki took back the photo he was holding out to her. "Did you employ a firm called Hard Line Security for your inquiry?"

  He smiled. "With all due respect, Detective, they don't sound expensive enough to be a firm I would hire." Since it was past noon and they were on the East Side, Rook said lunch was on him at E.A.T. up near 80th and Madison. After she ordered her spinach and chevre salad and he put in for a meat loaf sandwich, Nikki said, "So you're still not going to talk about it?"

  He feigned innocence. "Still not going to talk about what?"

  She mocked him: "What? What?" Her iced tea arrived and she peeled the straw wrapper thoughtfully. "Come on, seriously, it's me. You can tell me."

  "I'll tell you what… This table is wobbly." He grabbed a sugar packet and ducked under the table, then came up seconds later, testing the adjustment. "Better?"

  "Now I understand why you were so hesitant about going with me to the publisher this morning." He shrugged, so she pressed. "Come on. I promise not to judge. Have you seriously been trying to break in as a romance fiction writer?"

  "Trying to break in?" He cocked his head and grinned. "Trying? Lady, I am in. I am so in."

  "OK… how are you in? I've never seen one of your books. I've even Googled your name."

  "For shame," he said. "OK, here's the deal. It's not uncommon for magazine writers to supplement their income. Some teach, some rob banks, some do a little ghostwriting here and there. I do mine there."

  "At Ardor Books?"

  "Yes."

  "You write bodice rippers?"

  "Romance fiction, please. You might say I make some pretty handy side money as one of their authors."

  "I know 'romance fiction' a little bit. What name do you use? Are you Rex Monteeth, Victor Blessing?" She paused and pointed at him. "You're not Andre Falcon, are you?"

  Rook leaned forward and beckoned her closer. After a glance side to side at the other tables, he whispered, "Victoria St. Clair."

  Nikki shrieked a laugh, causing every head in the place to turn. "Oh, my God! You're Victoria St. Clair?!!"

  He hung his head. "It's nice to see that you're not judging."

  "You? Victoria St. Clair?"

  "No judging here. This is more like straight to the execution."

  "Rook, come on. This is big. I've read Victoria St. Clair. There's nothing to be ashamed of." And then she laughed, but covered her mouth with her hand, stopping herself. "Sorry, sorry. I was just thinking about what you said the other day about everybody having a secret life. But you. You're an A-list magazine writer, a war correspondent, you've got two Pulitzers… and you're Victoria St. Clair? This is so… I dunno… beyond secret."

  Rook turned to the restaurant, to see all the faces staring, and said, "Not so much anymore." Roach entered the law offices of Ronnie Strong on a floor below the DMV in Herald Square, and both detectives felt as if they had walked into the waiting room of an orthopedic practice. A woman with both hands fully casted so that only the tips of her fingers were visible was dictating instructions to a teenage boy, probably her son, who was helping her fill out an intake form. A man in a wheelchair with no visible injury also completed paperwork. A strapping construction worker whose chair was flanked by two Gristedes bags of receipts and paperwork gave them a sharp look and said, "He ain't here, fellas."

  The receptionist was a very pleasant woman in a conservative suit but with a fish hook in her lip. "Gentlemen, have you been done wrong?"

  Ochoa turned so he wouldn't laugh and muttered to Raley, "Hell, it's been a while since I was even done."

  Raley maintained his composure and asked to see Mr. Strong. The receptionist said he was out of the office, making a new series of commercials, and that they could come back tomorrow. Raley flashed his tin and got the address of the studio.

  It wasn't much of a surprise to Roach that Ronnie Strong, Esq., was not in his law offices that day. The joke in the legal profession was that Ronnie Strong might have passed the bar, but he couldn't pass a TV camera.

  The production facility he used was a graffitied brick warehouse abutting a Chinese import distribution center in Brooklyn. Situated halfway between the old Navy Yard and the Williamsburg Bridge, it wasn't exactly Hollywood, but then Ronnie Strong wasn't exactly an attorney.

  There was nobody stopping Raley and Ochoa, so they just walked in. The front office was empty and smelling of coffee and cigarette smoke that had fused with the water-stained Tahitian-themed wallpaper. Raley called a "Hello?" but when nobody responded, they followed the short hallway to the blaring sound of the same jingle the squad had recited that morning. "Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong! Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong! Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong!"

  The door to the stage was wide open. Clearly, these were no sticklers for sound aesthetics. When
the detectives walked in, they both took a quick step back. The studio was so small, they were afraid they were going to walk into the shot.

  On the set, which was a rented motor boat on a trailer, two buxom models in scant bikinis wore props indicating some sort of accident. One had her arm in a sling; the other stood on crutches, although without a cast. That could have been a budget saver, although more likely it was to keep her legs visible.

  "Let's go one more time," said a man in a Hawaiian shirt, chewing an unlit cigar.

  Raley whispered to Ochoa, "Bet he's the owner. He matches the wallpaper."

  Ochoa said, "It's an unfair world, partner."

  "How so… this time?"

  "Nikki Heat, she goes to a TV studio, it's polished marble and glass in the lobby, green room with hot and cold running canapes, and what do we get?"

  "Know what I think, Detective Ochoa? I think we've been wronged."

  "And, action!" called the director, and he added for clarity, "Go!"

  Both actresses reached down into a bait box and came up with handfuls of cash. There seemed to be no concern that the one in the arm sling had full utility of the limb. She's the one who smiled and said, "Justice is no accident." To which the other held up her loot and shouted, "Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong!"

  That was when Ronnie Strong himself, who looked something like an overripe pear in a toupee, popped up from the hatch between them and said, "Did somebody call me?" The girls hugged him, each planting a kiss on a cheek as the jingle played, "Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong! Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong! Been done wrong? Call Ronnie Strong!"

  "And we're clear," said the director. And then for good measure, "Stop."

  Roach didn't have to get the lawyer's attention. Ronnie Strong had spotted them during the commercial, and both detectives would know when it aired that his side-stage eye line when he said, "Did somebody call me?" was directly to them. Such were the small perks of police work.

  While the girls left to change into nurse uniforms, Ronnie Strong beckoned them over to the boat. "You want some help down?" asked Ochoa.

  "No, we're doing the next one in the boat, too," he said. "It's a nurses script, but hey, I rented it for the day. You guys are cops, right?"

  Roach flashed ID, and the lawyer sat down to rest on the gunwale close to Raley. Rales couldn't stop staring at the orange makeup ringing Strong's white collar, so he concentrated on the hairpiece, which had a sweat curl in the front that was starting to expose the tape.

  "You boys ever get hurt on the job? Suffer hearing loss from the firing range, maybe? I can help."

  "Thanks just the same, but we're here to talk about one of your clients, Mr. Strong," said Ochoa. "Esteban Padilla."

  "Padilla? Oh, sure. What do you want to know? Saw him yesterday, he's still pressing charges."

  Ochoa tried not to make eye contact with Raley, but peripherally, he caught his partner turning away to mask a chuckle. "Esteban Padilla is dead, Mr. Strong. He was killed several days ago."

  "Wrongful death, I hope? Was he operating any machinery?"

  "I know you have a lot of clients, Mr. Strong," offered Raley.

  "You bet," said the lawyer. "And they all get personal service."

  Raley continued, "I'm sure they do. But let us refresh your memory. Esteban Padilla was a limo driver who got fired last spring. He came to you with his complaint."

  "Right, right, and we filed a wrongful dismissal." Ronnie Strong tapped a forefinger on his temple. "It's all in here. Eventually."

  "Can you tell us what the grounds were for the case?" asked Ochoa.

  "Sure, give me a sec. OK, got it. Esteban Padilla. He's this good kid from Spanish Harlem. Making a nice living, an honest living, driving stretch limos for years. And he did it all, the long ones, the town cars, the Hummers… Those stretch Hummers are awesome, aren't they, fellas? Anyway, eight years of loyal service to those rat bastards and they just can him without cause. I asked him if there was some reason, anything. Was he stealing, was he schtupping clients, did he give his boss the finger? Nothing. Eight years and, bam, done.

  "I told this kid, 'You've been wronged.' I told him we'd sue them to their socks, clean them out so he'd never have to worry another day in his life."

  "What happened to the case?" said Ochoa.

  Strong shrugged. "Never got anywhere."

  "What?" said Raley. "You decided you didn't have a case?"

  "Oh, I had a case. We were ready to rock and roll. Then all of a sudden Padilla comes to me and says drop it, Ronnie. Just drop the whole deal."

  Roach made eye contact. Ochoa's nod to his partner told him he could ask it. Raley said, "When he came to you and said to forget the whole thing, did he say why?"

  "No."

  "Did he seem nervous, agitated, fearful?"

  "No. It was weird. He was the most relaxed I'd ever seen him. In fact, I'd even say he seemed happy." Roach's visit to the Rolling Service Limousine Company in Queens was not as entertaining or half as cordial as the one they had just paid to Ronnie Strong. The surroundings, however, were about as refined.

  They made their way through the service bays, past rows of black cars getting buffed and polished in the huge warehouse, until they found the manager's office. It was a squalid glass box in a back corner, next to a toilet with a grimy door sign that had an arrow on it that could be twisted from "occupied" to "occupeed."

  The manager made them stand and wait while he took a complaint from a client who'd been left stranded at the curb at Lincoln Center during one of the Fashion Week events and wanted restitution. "What can I say to you?" said the manager, looking right at the detectives, taking his time while he talked. "This was weeks ago and you call just now? And I checked with my driver, and he said you were not there when he came. It's your word against his. If I listened to everyone who said this, I would not have money to do my business."

  Ten minutes later, the passive-aggressive tyrant finished and hung up. "Customers," he said.

  Raley couldn't resist. "Who needs 'em, right?"

  "I hear that," the little man said without irony. "Total pain in the ass. What do you want?"

  "We're here to ask you about one of your former drivers, Esteban Padilla." Ochoa watched the skin tighten on the manager's face.

  "Padilla doesn't work here anymore. I have nothing to say."

  "He was fired, right?" Roach was going to get their ten minutes back and then some.

  "I cannot discuss personnel issues."

  "You just did with that client," said Raley. "So give it up for us. Why was he fired?"

  "These are confidential matters. I don't even remember."

  Ochoa said, "Hold on, you've got me confused. Which is it, confidential or no memory? I want to have this right when I go from here to the Taxi and Limousine Commission to get your operating permit reviewed."

  The manager sat in his chair, rocking, processing. At last he said, "Esteban Padilla was let go for insubordination to passengers. We made a change, simple as that."

  "After eight years, the man was suddenly a problem? Doesn't wash for me," said Ochoa. "Does it wash for you, Detective Raley?"

  "Not even a little, partner."

  The detectives knew the surest way to make a lie cave in under its own weight was to go for the facts. Nikki Heat had told them it was the subheading for her Rule #1: "The time line is your friend."-"When you get a whiff of BS, go for specifics."

  "You see, sir, we're involved in a homicide investigation, and you just gave us some information that one of your clients may have had a grudge against your driver, the murder victim. That's something that sounds to us like cause to ask you who the clients were who complained about Mr. Padilla." Raley folded his arms and waited.

  "I don't remember."

  "I see," said Raley. "If you thought about it, might you remember?"

  "Probably not. It's been a while."

  Ochoa decided it was time for more facts. "Here's what I think will help. And I k
now you want to help. You keep records of your rides, right? I mean, you're required to. And I even see you have the one on your desk from that complaint call you just took, so I know you have them. We're going to ask you to give us all your manifests for all the rides Esteban Padilla booked prior to his dismissal. We'll start with four months' worth. How's that sound to you versus a nasty inspection from the TLC?" Two hours later, back at the precinct, Raley, Ochoa, Heat, and Rook sat at their respective desks poring over the limousine manifests for Esteban Padilla's bookings during the months leading up to his dismissal. It was slightly more exciting than screening Cassidy Towne's reused typewriter ribbon days before. But it was the donkey work, the desk work, that got to the facts. Even though they didn't exactly know what facts they were looking for, the idea was to find something… someone… that connected to the case.

  Ochoa was refilling his coffee, rolling his head to loosen his cramped shoulder muscles, when Raley said, "Got one."

  "Whatcha got, Rales?" asked Heat.

  "Got a name here for a ride he gave to someone we've talked to." Raley pulled a manifest from the file and went to the center of the room. As the others gathered before him, he held up the sheet in front of him, under his chin, so the others could see the name.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In the new Yankee Stadium, on an off day for the Pinstripes, a trainer and a hitting coach stood a few yards behind Toby Mills, watching him make slow swings with a bat weighted by a donut on its barrel. It was an oddity to see Mills holding lumber. Pitchers in the American League seldom appear at the plate-the exceptions being occasional interleague contests like the Subway Series, and, of course, World Series games played at rival parks. With the Bombers on pace to clinch another pennant and invade a National League park soon, it was time for their star pitcher to get some BP. As he made slow, easy arcs, the staff studied him, but not to assess his skills. They wanted to see how his weight was transferring on his legs after his hamstring pull. All they cared about was if he was healthy, if he would be ready.

  Two other pairs of eyes were also on Toby Mills. Heat and Rook stood in the first row of seats above the Yankee dugout. "For a pitcher, he's got one helluva swing," said Nikki, not taking her eyes off the player.