Frozen Heat nh-4

by Richard Castle

  “You could star on Big Bang Theory. What was she searching?”

  “Directions to a restaurant on the Upper West Side.”

  “When?”

  “The night she was murdered.”

  “Drop whatever you’re doing, Opie. Go now to that restaurant. Go right now and show her picture, learn everything you can.”

  “Feller and I are en route as we speak.”

  “If this pans out, I suppose I’ll owe IT, big time.”

  Rhymer said, “Maybe a lipstick smooch to go under the autograph.”

  “OK, now you’re creeping me out,” she said, then hung up.

  As Heat turned off the rural two-lane, her tires crunched the long pebble drive leading to Vaja Nikoladze’s Victorian country house, and the sound of barking dogs rose from a kennel behind a stand of rhododendrons in the side pasture. She parked beside the blue hybrid, nosing up to the split-rail fence that separated the driveway from the back field. When they got out, Heat and Rook paused to admire the green sweep of meadow leading down toward the line of hardwoods whose foliage shimmered under the midday sun. They couldn’t see it, but between those trees and the cliffs of the Palisades just beyond, the Hudson River flowed.

  Rook said, “Look out there where the field ends. Is that the most realistic scarecrow you’ve ever seen, or what?”

  “I’m going with ‘or what?’ That’s no scarecrow. That’s a man.”

  And, just as she said it, the stock-still figure in the distance began walking toward them. He moved steadily through the meadow, with a dancer’s grace and economy, in spite of his trail boots and heavy Carhartt jeans. The man never looked behind him or to the side. But they never had a sense he was looking at them, either, even though a broad smile cut across his face when he drew near. His hands, which he had been holding cupped in front of his belt buckle, as if in casual prayer, rose up to his chin and a single forefinger extended. He was signaling them to remain quiet.

  When he was one yard away, Vaja Nikoladze stopped and whispered in an accent that sounded Russian to their ears. “One moment, if you please. I have her on a sit-stay.” Then he rotated. Turning his back to them to face the meadow, he raised one arm straight out to the side, held it there for five seconds, and then swung his palm swiftly to his chest.

  The instant he did, a very large dog began bounding across the pasture to him at full speed. He held his place as the Georgian Shepherd, about the size and color of a small bear, charged at him. At the last moment, and without so much as a hand signal to command it, the dog stopped and dropped to an alert sit, her front paws aligned with the toes of his boots. “Good girl, Duda.” He bent to pet her broad face and scratch under her ears as her tail wagged. “Now, go to place.” Duda stood, turned, and trotted, cutting a straight line for the kennel, and went inside.

  “How awesome is that?” said Nikki.

  “She has promise,” he said. “With more training, she may be a winning show dog.” He stuck his hand out. “I am Vaja. You are Nikki Heat, yes?”

  Because it was such a warm spring day, he invited them to sit on the gallery that wrapped around the back of the house. They declined his pitcher of iced tea and settled into teak rocking chairs while he perched up on the rail to face them. His dangling feet not only made Nikoladze appear shorter in spite of his elevation, but boylike instead of the fifty Heat made him to be.

  “Up in town at the institute they told us to find you here,” began Nikki. “You’re taking a personal leave?”

  “A brief one, yes. I’m mourning the loss of one of my dogs. Fred would have been the first Georgian Shepherd to win Best in Show at Westminster, I believe.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Heat and Rook, nearly in unison.

  He made a pained smile and said, “Even show dogs get sick. They are only human, yes?” Nikki observed that his Georgian accent grew thicker in sadness.

  Rook must have had the same thought and said, “So you’re from Georgia. Spent some mighty good times in Tbilisi on an assignment not long ago.”

  “Ah, yes, I enjoyed your article very much, Mr. Rook. Insightful. But the times were not so good when I defected. We were still under the boot of Moscow.”

  “That was when?” asked Detective Heat. The mention of defecting from a Russian satellite and its potential clandestine implications snagged her interest.

  “1989. I was twenty-eight and, not to be boastful, one of the leading biochemists in the Soviet Union. Such as it was then. You know, yes, that there is much bad blood between Georgian people and Russians?”

  “Yes,” said Rook. “Lots of actual blood.”

  “Mostly Georgian. And Moscow, they wanted my talent put to use for war, so it was double insult. I was young, and no family to worry about, so I left for freedom, you see. Soon, I was fortunate to get fellowship at the Spokes Institute here.”

  “And just what is the Spokes Institute?” she asked.

  “You call it think tank, I guess. Although, many days, there is more talking than thinking.” He chuckled. “But our mission is policy study to demilitarize science. So is good fit for someone like me. Plus the fellowship grant gives me time to follow my passion for breeding the next prize-winning show dog.” He laughed again, then fell off into brief melancholy, no doubt at the memory of Fred.

  Heat had questions to ask concerning his defection but used this lull to transition to her business. She asked Vaja if he’d been following the murder cases in the news, and he confessed he had been preoccupied lately with losing his poor dog. But Nikoladze had heard of the suitcase murder because of its spectacular nature. Heat told him, in addition to Nicole Bernardin’s killing, she was also investigating her mother’s. Then she asked the same basic questions she had that morning at the brewery about the events surrounding Cynthia Heat’s tutoring in his home back in 1999: her mother’s state of mind; her sense of agitation; whether she was being followed or bothered; if there were things upset or missing in the house.

  Vaja said, “I would much like to help you with your questions, but unfortunately, I don’t have enough information to share. You see, your mother only came here to tutor twice.”

  “Your child gave up?” asked Rook.

  The scientist looked down at him from his perch on the railing with amusement. “My child? I assure you that would be most unlikely.”

  Nikki asked, “Who, then?”

  “My protege.”

  “A protege from the institute?”

  “No.” Nikoladze hesitated but continued. “He was someone I met at a dog show in Florida. He also came from Tbilisi.” Heat sensed his discomfort at the subject and understood why, but knowing that often the host household was not the target for her mother to spy on but could be the link to an acquaintance who was, she started troweling away layers.

  “He showed dogs, as well?”

  Vaja lowered his eyes and said, “No, he was groomer’s assistant.” Then, as if he’d decided to surrender, he let it out. “We had much in common. He and I hit it off, so I invited him to come here to learn from me about breeding and training the dogs. I also got him the piano lessons, but he was not serious enough.”

  Rook said, “The piano’s not for everyone.”

  “Serious enough about me.”

  Nikki took out her notepad. “May I ask the name of this protege?”

  With a sigh, Vaja said, “This must be my time for emotional pain, old and new.” Nikki thought, You’re preaching to the choir on that one, pal. She uncapped her pen to prompt him. “His name is Mamuka. Mamuka Leonidze.” Mindful of the language difference, he spelled out the name for her.

  “Do you know where Mamuka is now?” she asked.

  “Ten years ago he left for Canada to join Cirque du Soleil as an acrobat. After that, I do not know.” Then he added, “If you find him, tell me, I’m curious.”

  Vaja escorted them to their car, which gave Heat a chance to walk the conversation back to the topic of his defection. “Do you ever have contact with represent
atives of foreign governments?”

  “All the time, of course. The Spokes Institute is a global think tank.”

  “I mean outside your policy work. Any government contact?”

  “Only to report my address as a legal alien.”

  She and Rook hadn’t conferred, but he was right there with her and asked, “What about spies? Secret police?”

  “Not since I left Georgia.” But then he reconsidered. “Well, they did come to me a little bit after I first got here, but by the mid-nineties, after Shevardnadze was ousted, they started to leave me alone.”

  “Who?” asked Nikki.

  “You want names? This is just like back in Tbilisi but no concrete room.”

  Rook said, “I’ll give you one, then. Anatoly Kije, you know of him?”

  “You mean the Soul Crusher? Everyone knew of him back then. But since I left? No.”

  “One more name,” said Heat. “Tyler Wynn.”

  “No, afraid I don’t know that one.”

  The low rumble of a diesel shuddered the air as the Amtrak Adirondack passed a quarter mile away along the banks of the Hudson, heading up to Albany. Heat slid into the front seat and asked Vaja to call her if anyone else contacted him about this case. He nodded and said something, but she couldn’t hear it because the train horn blasted and he got drowned out by all the yelps and howls answering it from within the dog kennel. The soundless movement of his mouth felt to her like the perfect image for the empty motion of pursuing these leads.

  Back on the road, Rook expressed his frustration another way. “Seems like our sexy insurance investigator’s list is a lot like he is. Sizzle without the steak. Or, more to the point, tan without the sun. Did you see those goggle marks?”

  “Come on, Rook, it’s not Joe Flynn’s fault these didn’t pan out yet.”

  “Did you say ‘yet’?” He saw her tenacious look and said, “Got it.”

  She gave it some gas and resolved to practice what she preached to her squad. When you ground out, you don’t quit. You go back. Dig harder. Do the work. After putting in some more study of these people and reviewing their interviews, Heat had a feeling she’d be seeing some of them again.

  Nikki’s cell phone buzzed with a text when she passed through the precinct lobby with Rook. “Finally,” she said. “A message from Carter Damon.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “Nothing. Well, not nothing. It’s a partial. He must have lost service or hit send by mistake.” She held the screen out to him. All it said was “I am” and the rest was blank.

  “Hm, ‘I am…’ Let me guess-’the walrus’? ‘Such an asshole for not calling you back’?” The duty sergeant zapped the security lock and Rook pushed the door open to let her go first.

  Heat was texting back to Damon, telling him to call, when Detective Raley snagged her as she came into the bull pen. “I’ve got something I want to show you before Irons and his maiden came back.” She looked past his shoulder and could see a financial statement up on his monitor. Sensitive, following her hasty exit earlier, Raley asked, “You OK with this, Detective?”

  Rook sidled up close to her. She steeled herself and said, “Whatcha got?”

  “After you left this morning, I did more tracking and found new information on your mom’s account. Don’t know why, maybe it was a data entry screwup, or it didn’t get posted until after the Thanksgiving holiday, but New Amsterdam Bank filed the rest of her November, ‘99 transactions in December. Check it out.”

  Nikki leaned in once again, feeling steadier this time, and read the statement. “It says here the two hundred thousand dollars got withdrawn, as cash, the day after the deposit.” She stood up and turned to Rook, who was still at her elbow. “That would have been the same day she was killed.”

  “Remember in the hospital, Tyler Wynn asked if you saw your mom hide anything? Could it be the money someone was after?”

  “Could be, but think about it, Rook. Ten years, three killings? Isn’t that a lot of carnage for two hundred grand?”

  “Depends,” said Ochoa from his desk. “I know guys who’d gut you for a ham sandwich.”

  Raley killed the screen on his monitor and said, “Heads up” just as Captain Irons strolled in.

  “Heat? A minute?” Instead of leading her to his office, he beckoned her aside to her own desk and stood there until she joined him. “I don’t know who you’ve been pissing off, but I got a call from the deputy mayor’s office saying there’s a complaint about you harassing people on this vendetta of yours.”

  “First of all, sir, it’s a case, not a vendetta. And, second, have you ever been on an investigation that didn’t bruise someone’s toes along the way?”

  “Well…”

  Seeing him standing there, stumped, reminded Heat that the ex-administrator was pretty much experience-free when it came to working the street. “It happens. Who complained?”

  “They didn’t tell me. They just wanted to know if you had a plan or if you were just beating bushes with a stick, and I couldn’t answer because I’m kind of out of the loop.” Behind him, Roach mouthed “Kind of?” and Heat had to look away so she wouldn’t laugh. “That’s gonna change, pronto. I’m going to study your latest Murder Board postings and then I want a full and detailed briefing so I can dig in.”

  “But sir, what about tracking down the driver of the truck that delivered the tainted gas to OCME? I thought that was your priority.”

  “Not to worry. I delegated that to my secret weapon. Sharon Hinesburg.” Irons strode over to the Murder Boards and camped out with his hands in his pockets as he read them, manifesting Heat’s nightmare scenario. Nikki snagged Rook by the elbow, pulled him into the back hall, and shut the door.

  “Cone of Silence, huh? Can you hear me, Chief?”

  “Grow up, Rook. We need to do something.”

  “Who do you suppose complained? Fariq Kuzbari? Oh, I know! I bet it was Eugene Summers. That snarky butler can dish it out, but he can’t take it.”

  “My money’s on The Bulldog, Helen Miksit, but that doesn’t matter. What does matter is keeping Irons from meddling in the case more than he already has.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “No, it’s how you’re going to do that. I need you to distract him.”

  “You mean be the rodeo clown again?”

  “Yes, put on your red nose and big shoes. Try teasing him with a bogus interview for an article. It worked before.”

  “True, although past results are no guarantee of future performance.” She just stared at him. “Perhaps I spent a little too much time watching TV in my rehab.”

  Irons looked annoyed when Rook stepped right between him and the board he was reading. “Got a minute, Captain?”

  “I’m a little busy, as you can see.”

  “Oh, sorry. I just had some thoughts about that article I’m working on, but no problem. Later’s fine.” He’d stepped away precisely two paces before Irons gripped his shoulder.

  “Be more comfortable in my office, I think.” He led Rook to his glass box.

  Detectives Feller and Rhymer came back from their trip to the restaurant Nicole Bernardin had gotten Web directions to from HopStop. “Got a hit,” said Opie as they joined Nikki at her desk.

  “Harling and Walendy’s Steakhouse up at Ninety-fourth and Broadway. Had to wait for the assistant manager to come in for his shift, but he definitely ID’d our vic,” said Feller. “Said Bernardin came in about seven P.M. The reason he noticed her was because she took up a table drinking nothing but club soda for a half hour waiting for someone and never ate dinner.”

  Heat asked, “Did he say why not? Did she get a call or Something and leave?”

  “No, she met a guy there,” said Rhymer. “He came in, sat down, they talked about five minutes. She goes, but he keeps the table and has a bone-in rib eye.”

  Nikki frowned. “They actually remember his order?”

  “Even better. They got their picture taken with him whi
le he ate it.” Feller held up a framed photo of waitstaff and a chef posed around the table of a familiar face grinning at a rib eye and giant baked potato. “Got this off their wall in the bar.”

  “Is that who I think it is?” asked Heat.

  “None other,” said Rhymer. “Lloyd Lewis, treasure hunter.”

  “May I see that?” she asked.

  He handed it to her. “OK, but be careful. The man’s a legend.”

  Nikki said, “It’s a photo.”

  “Of a legend,” Rhymer repeated with emphasis.

  “He’s been like this all afternoon,” said Feller.

  Heat studied the picture briefly then handed it back, pretending to drop it just to watch Rhymer freak. He didn’t disappoint. “Let’s get Lloyd Lewis in here and talk to him.”

  “We’ll have to wait,” said Feller. “His agent says he’s on a secret adventure somewhere on the Amazon.”

  “A secret adventure. How cool is that?” said Rhymer.

  “Gimme a golll-ee, Opie,” said his partner. “Give it up. Just once for ol’ Randy.”

  As Heat and Rook got on the elevator to his loft that evening, she held up her cell phone. “Carter Damon texted me back. ‘Apologies for not returning your call… Came across an old case file you’ll find very interesting.’ He wants me to meet him for coffee.” As Nikki replied, the elevator started to shake.

  “Incoming,” said Rook, and they both hopped back out into his lobby. “Getting sick of those. If I liked aftershocks, I’d move to LA, where I could at least die tan.”

  When she came out from the bedroom a few minutes later, he handed her one of the Sierra Nevadas he’d opened. They clinked necks, and he said, “What have you got there?”

  Nikki held up the velvet pouch. “The charm bracelet my dad stole from my mom.”

  “You make it sound so underhanded.”

  “Go ahead, defend him, you who shoplifts jerk spice rub.” She shook the bracelet into her palm and examined the two charms, spinning the gold plated numerals between her thumb and forefinger, wondering what the one and nine meant. If anything.