Detective Sharon Hinesburg was not high on Heat’s list. She was lazy and usually did the bare minimum, which often resulted in sloppy work. Nikki tended to give her busywork. But a murder at Lincoln Center was going to hit the news cycle with a vengeance. The brass at One Police Plaza were going to want answers, and they were going to want them yesterday. Which meant all hands on deck.
“Rales,” Heat said, gesturing to the growing crowd spilling down the steps at the Illumination Lawn. “Get that area cordoned off. We need to keep those people back. And check the cameras on- and off-site. Maybe one of them caught our killer.”
“On it,” Raley said, and he strode off. Heat heard him giving directions to some of the unis nearby as he set about enacting her orders. Sean Raley, just like Miguel Ochoa, was someone she trusted with her life. He gave the job 110 percent. No matter what, she could depend on him to do what she asked, and to do it to the best of his ability.
A few minutes later, Ochoa returned, a team of people behind him hauling steel-framed structures, the legs folded up into the unit frames. They stepped into the pool, wading through the water. In a matter of minutes, they’d set up the platforms, making a bridge between the plaza and the bronze sculpture and dead body.
In another few minutes, the ME was crossing that bridge, medical bag in hand. At the end of the platform, the crew from Juilliard had put up a set of steps. Heat and Rook were across the platform bridge in seconds, catching up to Lauren as she started up. “Get us something good, Laur,” Heat said.
Parry didn’t turn around but lifted her hand in acknowledgment. “You know I will.”
Heat paced—as much as that was possible—on the platform. The temperature had climbed another few degrees. She dragged the back of her hand across her forehead, whisking away the sweat beading there. Impatience bubbled inside her. “Anything, Lauren?”
Parry spun her head around. “Geez, give me a minute, will you?”
Heat folded her arms and dipped her chin. “Sorry.”
Parry went back to work. “The way he’s laid out, it’s like he fell from the sky. There’s definitely a wound to the back of the head. If I had to venture a guess, I’d say it’s the result of a drunken night gone bad, but until I get him on my table, I can’t give you more.”
Parry met Heat’s eyes. The single glance communicated volumes. They were both baffled by how the vic had ended up dead in the middle of the Paul Milstein Pool and Terrace on the bronze statue created by Henry Moore.
Ochoa came up behind them, his notebook in hand.
“Got something?” Heat asked.
“Guy at NYU reported his roommate missing. Five ten. Dark hair. Slim. Korean. Our John Doe fits the description.” He swung his arm upward. “Meet Joon Chin.”
They all fell silent for a moment, and then Nikki Heat threw out a heavy sigh. She looked up at the body on the sculpture. “What were you up to, Joon, and how the hell did you get up there?”
“Well?” Heat asked the ME when she finally descended the makeshift lift her detectives had put together.
Lauren Parry grimaced, pulling off the nitrile gloves she’d been wearing. She was fastidious about crime scene contamination. Heat had heard Parry say it a million times: We don’t want any of the crime scene DNA on us, and we don’t want to transfer any of our DNA to the crime scene. I change my gloves as often as necessary. She closed her file and tucked it into her bag. “Well, nothing. The way our vic is positioned limits what I can see and determine on-site. I’ll know more once I get a closer look.”
“Do you have anything for me? Ballpark TOD? COD?”
“From what I can tell, and keep in mind, this is not an official determination, I’d say maybe a prank gone bad?”
“But that doesn’t explain how he got up there on the sculpture,” Rook said. “He had to have been killed somewhere else and placed here.”
“Why would someone do that?” Heat mused. “If you murder someone, why go through the trouble of putting the body on a sculpture in the middle of a pool? Number one, someone could see something. It’s pretty risky.”
“And number two,” Rook said, “is that it’s a damn challenging feat. I don’t think it’s possible for even two or three guys to finagle a body up to that position without some help.”
“What kind of help?”
Parry raised her hand, pen pointing toward the sky. “I can help with that. There are ligature marks on his right wrist. Can’t see his left side at all until he’s off the rock. If I had to guess, whoever is behind this kid’s death used a rope of some sort to pull him up to the top.”
“Inventive,” Rook said.
Heat couldn’t disagree with that, but none of it answered the question of why? She voiced it aloud. “Why would someone go to the trouble of hauling Joon Chin up there?”
Rook cleared his throat, which was his tell. He had something important to say, and he wanted people to listen. “Killers are people, too,” he said.
Parry stared at Rook. “Really? That’s your big reveal? Killers are people, too,” she said, “but if you’re saying they deserve some sort of sympathy for whatever past wrongs turned them into monsters, you’re not going to get any understanding from me.”
Rook backtracked. “He doesn’t deserve understanding, and that certainly wasn’t the point.”
“Then what is the point, Rook?” Heat sounded snappy because she was feeling snappy. And frustrated. She was hot. The baking sun hadn’t abated, and there was not even the slightest hint of a breeze in the air. She could move to the shade, but Joon Chin could not, and that got to her. The breath was gone from his body. He was not coming back.
“We are all motivated by emotion. We do what makes us happy. What gives us some sense of purpose. What is satisfying. Why did you become a cop?”
He knew the answer to that, so she didn’t answer.
“Joon Chin was killed by someone who knew him, someone who wanted to make a statement about the killing. This was a very personal and deliberate act. Why else would the killer go to the trouble of hauling a dead body to the top of a sculpture in the middle of a pond?”
It was a good point. “So we need to find out who Joon Chin is, who his friends are, what he was involved in, and who might have had a personal vendetta against him,” Heat said. “Time to get to work.”
Nikki Heat had defined herself as a detective for years and she’d embodied the part 100 percent. The shift in mindset from detective to captain of the Two-Oh was significant, and she still wasn’t fully at ease. But each day she became more comfortable in her new role.
She stood off to one side in the bull pen, waiting to review the murder board with her squad. Her old desk was still unoccupied, and part of her wanted to walk over to what was familiar and comfortable. But she resisted. She’d quickly discovered that there was a fine line between being one of the guys and being their leader—a natural separation of state, so to speak. Over the years, she’d studied the leaders she’d worked with, as well as those who had orbited her world in one way or another. Those observations had helped her formulate her own views on the characteristics a leader should embody; fairness, consistency, and honesty topped the list. And then the ability to empower those around her.
Heat watched as her detectives came into the bull pen. Rhymer and Feller came in first, leaning back against Raley’s desk, facing the murder board. Rook came next, walking straight over to her and, without a word, handing her one of the cups of coffee he’d carried in. He gave her a quick nod, then moved off to sit on the squeaky chair at the desk he’d claimed as his own.
Detectives Ochoa and Raley came in next. After her promotion to captain, she’d taken her time, but she’d eventually appointed them co-leaders of the murder squad. It had taken a while, but they had found their footing, figuring out how to work together without stepping on each other’s toes.
Detective Inez Aguinaldo strode into the bull pen next. She was the newbie on the squad, but she had already proven herself mult
iple times over with her drive and intelligence. Heat had handpicked Aguinaldo from the Southampton Police Department to fill the void in the squad when she’d been promoted. It was one of the smartest decisions she’d made.
Detective Sharon Hinesburg scurried in last. Her tardiness and Rook’s presence meant she had three choices: sitting in the old metal folding chair next to the murder board; taking up everyone’s time with putting her things down at her desk and rolling her own chair up to the group; or leaning against a desk, like Feller and Rhymer. Hinesburg looked around indecisively, as if she were stuck in a conundrum she couldn’t claw her way out of. Heat was just about to speak up, scolding the detective for being late and holding them up, but Rook, being the charming, chivalrous man he was, stood and offered her his chair. Nikki’s immediate thought was that if she were in the same situation as Hinesburg, she would have rejected the chair. The bull pen was not the place to give in to social gender norms. Every moment, in fact, was a test for a woman working in a traditionally male job. Showing weakness of any kind was never an option for Nikki. Aguinaldo had exhibited the same sensibility. Hinesburg, however, didn’t view things the same way. She gladly accepted the chair from Rook, who then stepped to the sidelines.
Out of habit, Heat started to stand, but she stopped herself when she remembered that taking the lead on an individual investigation was no longer her role. She glanced around, but only Rook, from the rise of his brows and upward curve of his mouth, seemed to have noticed her slip.
A moment later, Ochoa and Raley strode up to the front of the group, standing on either side of the murder board. They took turns being the lead on an investigation. They’d worked out their method of fair play. Raley took up one of the dry-erase markers and wrote JOON CHIN in block letters across the top of the whiteboard, while Ochoa addressed the gathered detectives. Today he was calling the shots. “What do we know about our vic?” he began.
Feller spoke up first. “My canvas turned up zilch. No one saw anything. Hinesburg got a hit, though.”
Hinesburg’s entire upper body moved as she nodded in affirmation.
Nikki raised her eyebrows. Wonders never ceased.
“I did,” Hinesburg said. “A Juilliard girl who said she was coming home late after seeing an off-Broadway show. Said she passed a group of college-aged guys who, according to her, had come from the lawn onto Columbus. It was after midnight, so naturally, she was wary. She didn’t want to pass by them—”
Smart, Nikki thought.
“So she hailed a passing cab, holding it off until they passed. When they were gone, she sent the cab on its way and hurried to her dorm room.”
“How many?” Raley asked.
Hinesburg looked at her notes again. “Three.”
Heat tried not to pass judgment against her for the fact that she’d had to check her notes to give a simple fact she’d discovered only an hour prior. It was hard, though, because three was not a difficult number to remember. It didn’t instill a lot of confidence in Hinesburg; although, on the flip side, Heat was glad that the detective had, at least, taken notes.
“What was their demeanor?” Heat asked. “Any distinguishing characteristics?”
Again, Hinesburg consulted her notes. “Two wore dark clothing. The other had on a light-colored NYU sweatshirt. One was on the short end of the height spectrum. The other two were tall. Around six feet, according to her estimation.”
As Raley recorded the information on the whiteboard, Ochoa addressed Hinesburg. “Were they wet?”
Hinesburg stared at him. “Wet?”
Ochoa calmly explained his thinking. “If these three were the ones who positioned Joon Chin on the sculpture, they’d have been in the water.”
Raley piped up. “Right. They wouldn’t have had a platform and makeshift lift courtesy of Juilliard, like we did.”
Hinesburg looked like a trapped animal. “She didn’t say.”
“And you didn’t ask,” Heat said, the shoddy police work implication left unspoken.
Ochoa dipped his chin and drew in a breath. It was his typical give me strength move. “Anything else, Hinesburg?”
All eyes in the bull pen were on the detective as she looked at her notepad. “Um, she said they had their phones out. Scrolling or texting, she couldn’t be sure. One of them said something about sending a message, so my guess is they were texting?”
“Pretty cold if they’d just murdered someone,” Rook commented.
All of the detectives nodded their agreement. Feller spoke up. “First they kill the guy, and then they act like nothing happened.”
Raley tapped the capped dry-erase marker against his palm. “Which would lead us to believe that, if these are our guys, they had no remorse.”
“Any other leads?” Heat asked.
Raley noted the information on the board before giving his own report. “The traffic cams on Columbus. I’ll get a look at those. Already have the feed from the park and the pool area. I’ve only given it a prelim glance. It’s dark, so hard to make out much, but it does show four individuals walking down the stairs toward the pool. One of them did have on some sort of light shirt, but we only have a view from the back.”
“Four go in, three come out,” Rook said. “Like Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None.”
“Agatha who-stie?” Ochoa asked.
Rook looked aghast. “Miguel, say it isn’t so. Do you not know who Agatha Christie is?”
Ochoa shook his head, not looking the least bit worried about what Jameson Rook deemed as a gap in his knowledge. “Nope.”
“She is only the grande dame of mystery writers. British author of some sixty-six crime novels, most featuring either the iconic Hercule Poirot or the elderly, yet incredibly astute Miss Marple.”
Raley held his arm up, pointing his marker toward the ceiling. “And, if I’m not mistaken, the Broadway play The Mousetrap.”
Rook nodded his approval. “Right you are, Sean. Which just so happens to be the longest-running play ever.”
“Dude,” Ochoa said, shaking his head in disappointment at his partner.
Raley shrugged his shoulders innocently. “What? I happen to like the theater.”
“Miguel,” Rook said, “a little culture, even if it comes in the bastardized form of classic books being made into mediocre movies, as is the case with several of Christie’s books, never hurt anyone.”
Ochoa was unimpressed. “Whatever, Holmes. I’ll stick to the Yankees.”
Heat would never tire of the good-natured banter between her squad leaders and her husband, but right now, they had a task at hand. “If the Yankees made a Broadway musical, we’d all be happy, but in the meantime, can we get back to the case, please?”
Rook’s eyes grew large. “The Yankees in a musical. That’s not a bad idea, Heat. Our own Long Islander—Billy Joel, of course—could write the music—”
Heat cut him off by clapping her hands twice in quick succession. “Rook. The case.”
Rook threw up his hands apologetically. “Right. Sorry. Got lost in my own thoughts. Carry on, gentlemen.”
Raley picked up where they’d left off. “I’d lay odds that one of the guys on film going into the plaza was our vic, which, in all likelihood, makes the other three the perpetrators.”
“It’s the best lead we’ve got,” Ochoa said.
“It’s the only lead we’ve got,” Raley amended.
“COD?” Heat asked.
“Yeah, call from the ME just came in. The guy drowned,” Raley said, adding it to the board.
“And he went into the plaza willingly?” Heat asked, directing the question to Raley.
“Just four guys having some fun. From what I could see on the video, they were laughing and talking.”
“A hazing?” Feller asked. “You know the Greek world. They can take things too far.”
Rhymer nodded. “Remember they shut down Greek life for a stint, and then suspended one of the fraternities—Pi Kappa Phi, I think it was—at
Florida State after a pledge died? Kids can be stupid.”
“This ain’t Florida,” Ochoa said. “Greek life at NYU is not a thing, dude.”
It might not be, but Raley wrote FRATERNITY HAZING? on the murder board anyway. They couldn’t eliminate anything until they had a solid reason to eliminate it. “Maybe a challenge to see how long he could hold his breath underwater?”
“That all sounds plausible if it weren’t for the staging of the body,” Rook said. “If the kid drowned in a hazing, his friends would have called 911—”
“Not if they didn’t want it known that they were involved in it,” Ochoa said.
“Point taken, but why not just leave the body in the pool, then? Why go to the trouble of hauling the body to the top of the sculpture? They might have been caught red-handed, or they might have been seen. They took a pretty big risk doing that.”
“Anything else?” Heat asked. They didn’t have a lot, but at least they had somewhere to start.
When no one spoke, Ochoa gave the orders. “Me and Raley will hit NYU and the fraternities. Aguinaldo, find out where our vic lived, and if he had a roommate. Report back on what you find.”
“Will do,” Aguinaldo said.
“Feller. Rhymer. Find the vic’s family and see what they know.”
“Yep,” Rhymer said, answering for both of them.
With orders in hand, the squad had started to disperse when Hinesburg piped up. “Where do you want me?”
“Good work with the lead,” Ochoa said. “See if you can get anything more from your witness. Ask if the guys she saw might have been for a swim. And then check the cab company. It’s a long shot, but maybe the cabbie logged the stop even though our girl didn’t take a ride. And maybe he remembers something.”
After everyone was gone, Rook turned to Nikki. “What about you?”
She hooked her thumb toward her office and frowned. “Paperwork. Emails to answer. No fieldwork for me.”
Rook followed her into her office. “You miss being in the thick of it, don’t you?”
Crashing Heat Page 4
