Heat Rises (26 page)

“That’s narrowing it down?” said Rook.

“Hey, you don’t know the stuff I’ve left off. For instance, besides the physical evidence Forensics is running, I am very curious about two odd socks from the rectory: the prescription in Graf’s medicine cabinet, and what’s the significance of that missing St. Christopher medal?” She wrote “Rx” and “St. Christopher” on the board, then Nikki tapped her temple with the cap of the marker.

“Well, this is plenty to get started on,” said Rook. “Nice job, you.”

“You, too.” And then she couldn’t resist tossing a little barb. “By the way, Rook, I’m not going to be seeing any of this in the newspaper, am I?”

“Hey . . .”

“Come on, lighten up, I’m kidding.” He looked at her askance. “. . . Well,” she admitted, “half kidding.” Rook considered a moment and grabbed her coat off the bar stool. “You’re throwing me out?”

But then he grabbed his, too. “No, we’re both going out.”

“Where?” she asked.

“To fix the half that isn’t kidding.”

Riding up in the elevator at the Midtown offices of the
Ledger
, Heat
insisted the trip was not necessary. “Take a joke and let it go. I told you I trusted you.”

“Sorry. I can tell you still haven’t made peace with believing me. I want both. Trust and belief. And peace.”

Nikki shook her head. “Pulitzer, huh? For writing?”

The elevator let them out at the sixth-floor home of the Metro Section, a fluorescent-bright, open-plan sea of cubicles filled with men and women keyboarding at computers or talking into phone headsets, or both. Except for the fact that the space was about half a city block in size, the din of activity reminded Nikki of the bull pen at the Two-oh.

Tam Svejda gophered up at the far end of the room and waved both arms over her head as soon as she saw them. When they arrived at her corner cubicle, she yanked off her headset, sang out a “Hi-ee,” and threw a big hug on Rook. Nikki both enjoyed and did not enjoy watching the Bouncing Czech kick her right heel up behind her during the embrace like starlets do when they greet the hosts on late night talk shows. Heat was relieved to get a simple handshake, however distracting it was to have Tam beam at Rook during it.

“I got so excited when you said the both of you were coming up. What’s this about? Please tell me you have some more inside stuff.”

“Actually, we’re here about the other inside stuff,” said Rook. “Nikki . . . Detective Heat says you told her you got it from me.”

“That’s right,” Tam said.

Nikki arched a brow at him then turned away to survey the busy newsroom as Rook squirmed. “Well, that’s a bit hard to imagine,” he said. “Since we never spoke about any of this. In fact, when you asked me the other day on the phone, didn’t I specifically say I couldn’t give you any help?”

“That’s true . . . ,” said the reporter. That brought Heat’s attention back to the cubicle.

Rook said, “Then how could you say it was me?”

“I,” muttered Heat under her breath to the writer.

“Simple.” Tam sat and swiveled to her computer. After a few keystrokes her printer started spitting out pages. She handed the first one to Rook. “See? This is the e-mail you sent me.”

Heat moved close to him and they read it at the same time. It was an e-mail addressed from Rook to Tam. The subject line read, “The Two-oh, Inside.” What followed was a single spaced, full page of notes detailing facts about the troubled Graf case as well as the controversial problems surrounding Captain Montrose. The next three pages finished printing and she handed them over to Rook, too. He just skimmed, but the last paragraphs were all about the conflict surrounding Montrose’s funeral. Rook lowered the pages and felt Nikki’s stare. He said, “This looks a lot worse than it is.”

“Wanna bet?” said Heat.

Magoo was waiting for them in the vestibule of the loft when they got back to Tribeca. If Rook’s computer guru wasn’t college age, he was close to it, pear-shaped, about five-two, and had one of those sparse, curly beards, with only a promise of a mustache, that made Nikki wonder, why bother? His pale, earnest face was dominated by black-framed glasses with lenses as thick as they come, eliminating any doubt how Don Revert got the nickname Mister Magoo. The question, which would remain unasked, was why he kept it.

“You didn’t waste any time getting here,” Rook said as his consultant snapped open a hard-shell rolling equipment case and began to set up shop on the desktop in the office.

“You shine the Bat Signal in the sky, I must answer.” Magoo pulled out cables and diagnostic equipment—small black boxes with meters—and set them beside Rook’s laptop. During his setup, he looked up from time to time at Heat, treating her to glimpses of eyes made giant by his thick glasses.

“That’s a nice case,” she said, not knowing what else to offer.

“Oh, yeah. It’s the Pelican Protector. Of course, I got it with the foam lid liner and padded dividers. As you can see, I can pretty much use the Velcro tabs to custom configure it for any load.” Nikki was pretty certain that had just constituted foreplay.

Rook explained to his personal nerd the e-mail Tam Svejda received and then showed him the hard copy. “The thing is, I never sent it.” He said this as much for Magoo’s information as for reiteration to Heat.

“Yessss,” said Magoo. “Come check this out.”

He and Nikki both came around to flank him, but Rook’s laptop screen was filled with an intimidating string of code and commands that made no sense to either of them. “You’re going to have resort to plain English, my man,” said Rook.

“All right, how about, ‘Dude, you’ve been owned.’ Is that vanilla enough?”

“Getting warmer.”

“OK, layman’s terms. You know those ads on TV and radio for the services that allow you to subscribe to RDA? Remote desktop access?”

“Sure,” said Nikki, “you pay a fee and they set you up to be able to access your work computer from anywhere. Especially geared for traveling businesspeople. You go online from a laptop in your room at the Cedar Rapids Holiday Inn and you can do work and transfer files on your office computer in New York or LA. . . . That it?”

“Absolutely. It’s basically an access account that lets you make any remote computer you designate do what your other computer tells it.” He turned from Heat to Rook. “Somebody broke into your laptop and installed their own
RDA
account.”

“I’ve been hacked?” Rook straightened up from hunching over the desk and beamed at Nikki. “This is wonderful! . . . I mean, not so good for the computer but . . . Oh, man, excellent news. But also bad. It’s complicated. I’ll shut up.”

Heat was focused on other ramifications. “Can you tell who installed this RDA?”

“No, it’s heavily encrypted. Whoever hid this on the hard drive really has skills.”

“Rook was out of the country recently, could it have happened then?”

Magoo shook his head. “This was installed the other day. Anybody been in your loft? Maybe you left your laptop somewhere unattended?”

“Mm, no. I’ve had it with me at all times. Working at her place.” The same thought came to Heat, but Rook voiced it. “The water on the bathroom windowsill. Whoever it was didn’t break in to steal something. They broke in to probe me. Well, my computer. I feel so . . . violated.”

“Listen,” said Magoo, “I could try to break into it and see who it was. In fact, I’d love the challenge. But you have to know something. If I crack it, I may set off an alert to tell whoever it is that they’ve been busted. You want me to do that?”

“No,” said Nikki. Then she turned to Rook. “Get yourself another computer.”

Magoo left with a check that included a fee for his services plus the cost of a new, clean laptop he promised to return with inside the hour. As soon as the door closed, Nikki said, “I am so sorry I doubted you.”

Rook made a small shrug. “I don’t see it so much as doubting me. I think it was more like pouring sulfuric acid on my character and virtually shredding me as a human being.”

She smiled. “So we’re good now?”

“Way good.” Then he said, “Damn. I am so easy.”

She moved close and put her arms around him, pressing her groin against his. “Hey? I’ll make it up to you.”

“Count on it.”

“Later.”

“Tease.”

“To work.”

“Too bad.”

Heat began with her Priority List on the presentation pad. First in order was Sergio Torres. She might not have had the assets of the
NYPD
at her disposal, but she did have resources at the
FBI
. A few months before, while tracking down the serial killer from Texas who duct taped her to a chair in that very room, Nikki had contacted the Bureau’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime at Quantico, Virginia. During the process of investigating that case, she had forged a friendship with one of the
NCAVC
analysts. Heat got on the phone to her.

The beauty of a professional relationship in law enforcement is that little needs to be said to conduct business. Nikki supposed it was the residue of the code, attributed to John Wayne, of “Never complain, never explain.” Heat said she was working a case on her own and wanted to run a name without going through
NYPD
. “Mind if I ask your interest in the subject?” asked her analyst friend.

“He tried to kill me and I took him out.”

“Give me everything you’ve got, Nikki,” she said without pause. “We’ll run this
SOB
so you even know his favorite ice cream flavor.”

Heat fought off an unexpected well of emotion at the gesture and with coplike understatement thanked the analyst and said she’d be interested in whatever she learned.

Riding a sense of goodwill from the kindness of others, Nikki opened her cell phone to Recents and scrolled to Phyllis Yarborough’s number from the call she had made that morning. “I’m taking you up on your offer. I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“That guy who tried to kill me in Central Park the other day. His rap sheet undervalues his skill set. If it’s not ethically compromising to you given my job status, I was wondering if you could run him through your
RTCC
database and see if anything pops.”

As with her
FBI
contact in Quantico, Phyllis Yarborough did not skip a beat. “Give me the spelling of his name,” was her reply.

Rook was already up and running on his new MacBook Air and jumped to his feet when she finished her calls and came into his office. “I have run down a very interesting piece of information on one of our players,” he said.

“Do tell.” Nikki sat in the guest chair and let herself melt into the soft cushions, feeling newly upbeat and admitting to herself she was enjoying this new work arrangement with Rook.

“I ran some Googles and Bings on some of the names we’ve got on Murder Board South. Not exactly Philip Marlowe gumshoeing bad guys in
The Big Sleep
, but it has its rewards. I can snack, for instance. Anyway, I had gotten around to checking out our human rights activists at
Justicia a Garda
. Milena Silva, as presented, is an attorney. However, Pascual Guzman . . . know what he did before he left Colombia? A college professor at Universidad Nacional in Bogotá. And what did he teach?”

Nikki took a stab. “Marxist philosophy?”

“Try computer science.” Rook sat back at his desk and referred to his screen. “But Professor Guzman left the university. Why? It was in protest because he claimed the computer programming he was doing in his department was being used by the secret police to spy on dissidents.” Rook punched the air with his fist and stood. “That’s it. This is the guy who hacked my computer.”

“But why?”

“OK . . .” He came around the desk, pacing. “Want to hear my theory? Guzman . . . and a cadre of radicals he recruited here in New York embraced violence too much for their friend and ally, Father Gerry Graf, who was fine with the protests but not with the bloodletting to come. They fight. Graf has to go. They kill Graf, done and done. But no. Here comes Detective Nikki Heat with all her smarts and tenacity and they say, Heat has to go. They try to bushwhack you in the park, thoroughly underestimating the heat that is Heat. And when that doesn’t work, they try to take you out another way: hack me to get you in trouble with One Police Plaza and knocked off the case. Boom.”

“Let’s arrest them right now,” said Nikki.

Rook’s zeal deflated and he slumped down on the edge of his desk. “When you say that, it’s like you’re saying my theory is crazy and unsubstantiated.”

Heat smiled. “I know.”

“Well, come on, doesn’t it make sense?”

“Parts of it do. Especially Guzman being a computer guy. But . . . ,” she paused, slowing down to model behavior for him, “. . . but it’s all based on conjecture. Rook, have you ever thought of writing crime fiction instead?”

“Nah,” he said. “I’m all about keeping it real.”

They were planning their next moves when the impact of the severe winter cold charted their immediate course. The TV and radio news was all over a major breaking story at the power plant on the East Side, where one of the giant, ninety-five-foot-tall boilers that pumped thousand-degree steam through underground pipes and heated Lower Manhattan had exploded. A mechanic was injured and expected to survive, but the consequence was that there was a steam shutoff in the entire zone serviced by that plant. The spectacular TV helicopter pictures of the crippled plant went split screen as the anchor showed a map of the affected area which would be without steam for the next two or three days.

Nikki said, “Look, my apartment’s right in the middle of the zone.”

“Man,” said Rook. “Gotta feel sorry for the buildings that don’t have their own boilers ’cause the landlords are too cheap to upgrade from district steam, huh?” He chuckled and then read from her expression that she was living in one of them. “You’re kidding. Oh, I am loving the irony, Nikki: No heat. And minus-degree temperatures tonight? Let’s go get some of your clothes and lady-whatevers and bring them here.”

“You’ll use anything to get me to shack up here, won’t you?”