Agent Callan beckoned them inside the RV, the interior of which had been fitted with all the tech essentials to command and communicate during a tactical operation. “Cool,” said Rook. “It’s like Air Force One’s dinghy.” He scowled and attempted Harrison Ford. “Get off my RV.” Registering their stares, he said, “Proceed.”
“To the best of our info,” said Callan, “Tyler Wynn has a safe house in a fourth-floor apartment up the block near First Avenue.” A junior agent at the console brought up a satellite photo of the neighborhood with resolution unlike anything available on Google Earth. He then touched the screen to zoom in and highlight the building. Callan continued, “Like the rest of this neighborhood, it’s mostly over-sixty-fives with money.”
“Hide in plain sight,” said Heat.
“Exactly.”
Then she asked, “What do you mean by your best info? Have you had a sighting or an eyewit?”
“We have not seen the target ourselves, although we now have a surveillance dome over this place.” Then the agent went on, “What we did, however, was send in one of our tech units posing as a repair team to service the building’s security cameras. Basically, that allowed us to tap their system without sending up any flares, in case the doorman or concierge are getting spiffed by Wynn for warnings.” Callan signaled the board operator, and a window of security video rolled and then froze on the image of Tyler Wynn getting off the elevator on the fourth floor, holding a tennis racquet. “Is this your man?”
Heat said, “The time stamp is just after ten this morning. Is this the latest hit?”
“Affirm. We scrubbed video from then until now, all possible exits. Target went in this ayem and hasn’t come out.”
“How did you find him?” asked Rook.
“All thanks to you,” said Agent Bell. Nikki caught the shoulder pat Yardley gave him. And how it lingered and trailed across his back.
“Hey, great, I’ll take it, but how?”
“You gave me the idea yesterday of tracking him through his retail purchases. You know, the RFID chips?”
Rook said, “Of course, I know. We are all over that at the precinct.”
“And that’s adorable,” she said, somehow not sounding condescending this time, not to Rook. “But come on, we’re in The Bigs. We have the resources. We do this in our sleep. In fact, we did. Our mainframes were humming overnight, and-thanks to your list of Wynn’s connoisseur tastes-they spit out critical overlaps to this address. We sent in the geeks to tap the security cams, and by noon, we had him.”
“Noon?!” shouted Heat, unable to control the flash bang of rage that had just gone off inside her. “Are you kidding me? You have known this since noon today?” She turned to Rook and saw him fuming, too, which only fueled her anger and resentment. “You walk into my precinct, you essentially hijack my investigation-plus, without telling my squad we’re wasting our goddamned time, you duplicate our efforts to follow the RFIDs-and now take a bow like we should throw roses and kiss your ass?” She whipped her head to Callan. “Is this what you feds call cooperative interface?”
Before Callan could answer, Bell jumped in. “Detective Heat, give me a fucking break. Is this your first rodeo? The fact that we’ve known since lunchtime has nothing to do with anything. We needed every bit of that time to set our logistics and bolt this down. He’s in there, we are here, and he’s not going anywhere. And second?” The agent took a step closer to Nikki, literally and symbolically nudging Callan out of her way. “I got him. He’s under the jar. Are you seriously complaining?”
Nikki paused. Her fury cooling to embers, she collected herself and said, “No.” And meant it. Interference aside, Yardley Bell had come through. In one day she had accomplished what Nikki had not been able to in a month. The irony for Heat was that she had only told Bell about tracking Wynn’s consumer habits as a smoke screen for hiding the code. Yardley had not only run with it, but within hours she’d found the man who ordered her mother’s murder. Her feet back under her, Heat looked from Callan back to Bell and said, “How can I help?”
Special Agent Callan stepped forward, as if to remind everyone of the in-charge part of his title. “You can run the capture,” he said. When Bell turned to him, about to protest, he continued, “We are already utilizing resources from the Seventeenth Precinct. My decision is that we continue our cooperation with local law enforcement by having Detective Heat lead the takedown. End of conversation.”
“Forget it, Rook, you’re staying here,” called Nikki on her way back from mapping out the plan of attack with the Emergency Services supervisor. Rook stayed on her heels as Heat strode between a dozen heavily armed emergency services unit cops-The NYPD’s elite SWAT officers-suited up in black fatigues, ballistic helmets, and Ironclad gloves. The writer stayed close as she walked toward her detectives from the Twentieth, who were pulling on body armor from the trunk of the Roach Coach. “You wanted it to be like old times, Rook, you got it. Stay with the car.”
“How’s that for a stroll down memory lane?” teased Ochoa.
“More like the boulevard of broken dreams,” from Raley.
“Come on, Nikki, I’ve come so far. Why are you leaving me behind?”
“We’ve been through this before. You’ll be in the way. And it’s dangerous.”
“Ah, but this time I brought my own protection.” He unzipped a gym bag. “I called Rhymer so he’d bring this. Tada.” From the bag, he pulled out his own bulletproof vest. One word was stenciled across the chest and back: “Journalist.”
“You are kidding,” said Heat, as she tightened the Velcro tabs on hers.
Standing at the open trunk of his car, Detective Feller said, “Hey, what are these embroidered things on the front that look like two gold coins?”
“These? Pulitzers.” And then he added, “There’s room for a few more.”
Sharon Hinesburg said, “A bulletproof vest with bling?” They all turned as the detective approached, pulling on her own gear. “You guys forgot to give me the heads-up. Good thing I still had the monitor on at home.”
The loose chatter stopped, and the detectives attended their preparations with eyes averted from her. The squad knew the open secret. “Detective Heat, a moment?” Hinesburg beckoned her aside and lowered her voice. “Look. I’m not blind. I’m aware how I get kicked to the curb a lot or get handed the dog assignments. I also know it probably wasn’t any accident nobody called me to roll on this.” Heat saw tears welling in Sharon’s eyes and knew two things: One, Hinesburg was in on the open secret, and two, Nikki didn’t have time for this.
She decided to be honest. At least about the latter. “Sharon, this isn’t the place.”
“I promise I’ll have my head in this. You won’t be sorry.”
Nikki decided these were the last two seconds she could afford on Hinesburg and said, “Get ready.”
Numerous high-rise luxury apartments and office towers didn’t make Sutton Place the friendliest neighborhood for air support. But as the first phase of her deployment began and her unit moved on foot along East 57th to the front door of the Kluga Building, those same elevated rooftops provided the dome of cover Agent Callan had boasted about. In lieu of a chopper, DHS and NYPD sharpshooters kept vigil on the roofs overhead as Heat’s team silently double-timed up the sidewalk. Simultaneously, a contingent from ESU’s fabled Hercules Squad mirrored their movement on East 58th to cover the back exit. When she reached her position mid-block, two doors from Wynn’s entrance canopy, Nikki hand signaled and her troop stopped, all of them planting their backs against the stone façade of the building to minimize their visibility from overhead windows.