Heat Rises (20 page)

“Well, take a breath. We went over this. Your ride-along days are over. I can’t have you tagging along now. There’s too much going on.”

“I won’t be in the way.” Her stare forced him to admit, “Much.”

“Not happening. Besides, it’s too complicated now. I’m under a lot of attention and it might appear unprofessional.”

“Why? Lieutenants have boyfriends, too.”

“Maybe, but not working cases with them.” She watched his jaw flex. “Why is this such a big push for you?”

“Because of yesterday. I want to keep an eye on you.”

She moved close and held him. “Rook, that is so very . . .”

“. . . Sweet?”

“I’ll go with stupid.”

The seal was off the door to the glass office, and the two Men in Black from Internal Affairs were waiting for Heat when she entered it. “You can close that,” said Lovell, the angular one with the sharp, pterodactyl features, who was seated behind the desk. His partner, DeLongpre, had perched on the bookcase, strategically in Lovell’s eye line and slightly behind the guest chair so they could trade signals. Nikki noticed the hefty one had carelessly shoved the framed photos of Montrose’s wife aside to make room on the shelf for his ass.

“We have some questions for you about your commander,” began Lovell when she took her seat.

“You mean there’s something you don’t know? You spent enough time working him over.”

Lovell smiled patiently. “Just because we’re IA doesn’t make us the enemy, Detective Heat, you ought to know that.”

Then DeLongpre said, “So let’s dial down the snark factor,” making himself sound exactly like the enemy. Or the bad cop to Lovell’s good one.

“How can I help you?” she said.

They asked general questions at first: how long they knew each other, her view of his performance, how she would characterize his leadership over the years. Heat was truthful but guarded. These guys were in the business of looking for spiders in the basement, and Nikki didn’t want to further sully the captain’s rep. Actually, she was glad for the opportunity to put it out that Montrose had been such an exemplary boss and, not insignificantly, a fine human being. But all that goodwill Nikki thought she was building ended up leveraged against her.

Lovell said, “Sounds like you had a great relationship.”

“We did.”

“Then what happened?” He tilted his head back and scrutinized her over his hooked Triassic Period nose. When she didn’t reply, he said, “Come on, he lost it. What was it about, and when?”

Nikki had conducted enough interrogations of her own to know when she was getting channeled. “I don’t know if I feel comfortable with those exact words.”

“Then choose your own,” said Lovell.

DeLongpre added, “Because goodness knows we want you to feel comfortable.”

“I don’t know if I would say he lost it,” she said. “It was more like a slow change. A little more tense, that’s all. I cut him slack because of his wife getting killed.” She didn’t know which was stronger, her instinct to protect his memory or her mistrust of these two.

Lovell said, “Is that why you said to your squad yesterday . . . ,” he read from his notepad, ” ‘Cap’s been off the charts lately, but this has me shaking my head’?”

Who gave them that? Heat wondered. Although she had an idea. “That’s out of context. I think I said it when he was
MIA
.”

Lovell held the pad up and repeated, ” ‘Cap’s been off the charts lately . . .’ Sounds like plenty of context to me. I hear you two really tore it up in this office yesterday morning. Shouting, desk pounding . . . Well?”

“He was feeling pressure. The CompStat push, you know. Target numbers.”

“Yeah, he told us about that, too. But why was he up your skirt?” said DeLongpre. Heat knew that was calculated to press a button, so she ignored it. But she had to answer. So she tossed them a bone.

“We had some disagreements about the case I’m working on.” She was prepared to say little and leave it general. But they had other ideas.

“The priest, right? And you thought he was involved somehow in the killing, is that what set him off?”

Heat was stunned. As she grappled for a reply, DeLongpre jumped in. “He conducted a solo search of the rectory, correct? You found that suspicious.”

Then Lovell hit her with “And he screwed with your case, blocking viable avenues of your investigation.”

“Especially hinky, since the phone records established Montrose had a relationship with the vic,” said his partner.

These guys were thorough. “If you know all these things, what do you want from me?”

“More.” Lovell unfolded all six-two of himself from the chair and came around to sit on the front of the desk. He smoothed his skinny black tie and looked down at her from his perch. “We want to know what else you’re holding.”

“You expect me to dish dirt on my old skip?”

“We expect you to assist the department in its investigation, Detective.”

DeLongpre said, “He was into something, let’s hear what you’ve got.”

She looked from
MIB
to
MIB
. They had positioned themselves so that following their conversation felt like watching a tennis match. “I don’t have anything. No more than you already mentioned.” Which was mostly true. The rest was unfounded and circumstantial, like the captain’s finger cut.

In a singsong, DeLongpre said, “Bull . . . shit . . .”

She didn’t turn his way but spoke her remarks calmly to Lovell. “I deal in facts. You want to spitball, call Detective Hinesburg in again. I’m going to apply myself to finding out who killed my commander.”

“Find out who killed him?” When Lovell raised his eyebrows, the lines in his vast forehead formed an inverted V. “Nobody killed him but him.”

“You don’t have proof of that.”

“You just gave it,” he said. The Internal Affairs man got off the desk and walked the room, ticking off each point on a finger. “Straight-shooting, tough-but-fair captain’s wife dies a year ago and he goes around the bend. He starts to slip. Can’t handle the pressure of the command, and the pack wolves at HQ descend on him, making him even more erratic. Maybe it’s temptation, maybe it’s anger at the system, he gets himself involved in something—we don’t know what yet, but we’ll damn sure find out—and when you . . . his protégée . . . called him on it and handed him his ass yesterday, he felt the walls closing in.” Lovell snapped his fingers once. “He leaves your meeting and eats his gun.”

Nikki shot to her feet. “Hold on, you’re putting this on me?”

Lovell smiled, and deep vertical creases appeared on his cheeks. “Give me something that says it isn’t.”

“Till then,” said DeLongpre, “live with it.”

Heat was aware of someone standing over her and broke off her glazed stare following her floating screen saver. It was Ochoa. “Ran a check on the doc who wrote the weird prescription for Father Graf. Dude’s bogus. Address is a mail drop. Nobody heard of him.”

Nikki shook off the heavy residue of her IA meeting. “Is he licensed to practice in New York?”

“Was,” said the detective. “A little bit tough, though. Seeing how he died at a nursing home in Florida ten years ago.”

Her phone rang. Hinesburg was calling from outside Interrogation to tell her the drug dealer had arrived.

“I have never seen this man before in my life,” said Alejandro Martinez. He slid the mug shot of Sergio Torres across the table to Heat. She noticed how delicate his hands were. Immaculately manicured, too.

“Are you positive?” she asked. “His rap sheet includes drug busts up in Washington Heights and the Bronx. Would have been about the time you got out of O-Town.”

“I assure you, Detective, since I left the penitentiary I have not engaged in any narcotics sales or consorted with any criminals. That would be a violation of my parole.” He chuckled. “Ossining has a lot of fine qualities, but I don’t plan to return.” Nikki took in this dapper man, sounding so refined, positively Continental—and wondered how much blood had gotten under those clear lacquered nails before he was finally busted. Watching him sit there, looking all soap opera
patrón
at sixty-two, with his distinguished gray temples and his Dries Van Noten suit complete with pocket square, who would ever suspect the scores of lives he had ruined and bodies he had disposed of in empty oil drums and lime pits?

“Life’s been good for you since then, it appears,” she said. “Expensive clothes, jewelry . . . I like the wristband.”

Martinez pulled back the monogrammed cuff on his right wrist and extended his arm across the divide so Nikki could appreciate the pounded silver bracelet studded with gemstones. “Nice,” she said. “What are these, emeralds?”

“Yes. Like it? It’s from Colombia. I saw it on a business trip and couldn’t resist.”

“Did you buy that recently?” Heat wasn’t jewelry shopping. She was laying groundwork.

“No, as I’m sure you know, the terms of my parole do not permit international travel.”

“But you sure could afford a piece or two like that. Mr. Martinez, you seem to have plenty of money.”

“My experience in Sing Sing brought me to reflect humbly on money and its use. In my own individual way, I try to use whatever wealth I have managed to save as a tool for good.”

“Does that include your drug money? I’m thinking specifically about a few hundred thou you scored back in 2003 in Atlantic City.”

The man was unruffled. “I’m sure I am not aware of what you’re talking about.”

Nikki reached over to the chair beside her and moved the open cookie tins of cash onto the table. “Does this refresh your memory?” For the first time since she came in the room, Heat saw the veneer crack. Not much, but his eyes flicked side to side. “No? Let me help you. This cash has been traced back to a deal brokered in your hotel suite at one of the casinos. The buyer was undercover
DEA
. He went in with a wire and this cash and was supposed to come out with a duffel of cocaine. Instead, he turned up in a Pennsylvania landfill three weeks later.”

The twinkle of rogue charm left his eyes as they hardened. But still he said nothing. “Let’s try some more show-and-tell.” Nikki handed over a picture of Father Graf.

“I don’t know this one, either.” He was lying. Cool as he was, Martinez showed the classic stress tells . . . the blinks, the dry mouth.

“Look again, I think you do.”

He gave the most cursory glance and slid it back. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Do you have any idea how this money ended up in his possession?”

“I would refer you to my prior answer. I don’t know him.”

Nikki told the ex-con about the priest’s murder and asked him where he was that night. He pondered, fixing his eyes to the ceiling and swabbing a chalky tongue over his laminates.

“As I recall, I was out to dinner. Yes, at La Grenouille and then back to my apartment for the remainder of the night. I’d rented
Quantum of Solace
on Blu-ray. You could be a Bond Girl yourself, Detective.”

Heat ignored the comment but made a note of his alibi. She collected the tins of cash to go. Then she sat them back down and opened her pad again. “And where were you yesterday between eleven &A.M.& and two &P.M.&?”

“Do you plan to convict me of every murder in New York City?”

“No, Mr. Martinez. I’ll be satisfied with just two.”

After Nikki returned the
DEA
cash to Property, she went back to the bull pen to check messages before she left for her orals. At the entrance, she stopped and stared in disbelief. Internal Affairs had boxed and cleared everything in Captain Montrose’s office. It sat completely empty.

Late that afternoon at One Police Plaza, they called Heat’s name. She put down the magazine she couldn’t concentrate on and stepped into the examination room.

It was just as Nikki had pictured it when she had visualized the orals in her mental preparation. Heat had learned from others who had taken the boards what to expect, and there was the scene before her. She stepped into a fluorescent-lit, windowless classroom where five examiners—a mix of active duty captains and administrators—sat behind a long table facing a lone chair. Hers. When Nikki said hello and took her seat, the dynamic suddenly reminded her of the ballet school judges scene in
Flashdance
. If only she could get through this by busting a move.

“Good afternoon, Detective,” began the administrator from Personnel who was moderating. Ripples of test anxiety stirred in Nikki. “Each member here will be asking you open-ended questions relevant to the duties of lieutenant in the
NYPD
. You may answer in any way you choose. Each of us will score your answers, then we’ll combine results to determine the disposition of your candidacy. Do you understand today’s procedure?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

And then it began.

“What do you see as your weakness?” asked the woman from Community Relations. A trapdoor if there ever was one. If you say you don’t have one, points off for being cocky. Name a flaw that inhibits your ability to do the job, you might as well get up and leave the room then.

“My weakness,” began Nikki, “is that I care so much about the job that I invest in it at the expense of my personal life. That’s largely because I don’t see this so much as a job but a career—or actually, a mission. Being a member of this department is my life. To serve the victims, plus my fellow officers and detectives . . .” The simple process of diving in and speaking from her heart calmed the stage fright inside her. The satisfied looks from the panel told her she was off on the right foot, too, and that didn’t hurt her ability to keep her head.

Focused and relaxed as she had now become, the questions that came at her during the next half hour felt more like honest conversation than a make-break test. Nikki deftly fielded inquiries about everything from how she would specifically go about evaluating those under her, to her feelings about workplace diversity, to means to deal with sexual harassment, to command judgments such as when, and when not, to deploy vehicle pursuits.

As the session came near its end, one of the judges, a commander from Staten Island who from his body language she read as the sole doubter up there, said, “I see here that you killed someone the other day.”