He laughed. “You’re joking, right? That was most of them.”
And then she said it. But Maggs didn’t recall any Vaja Nikoladze by name, so she texted him his photo, too, and waited for him to look at it. “Sorry. He meets the boffin test, but I don’t remember him hanging out with Ari.”
Nikki chalked up another disappointment, but at least she’d gotten her ID of Petar, firming up his connection to Ari Weiss’s murder.
Rook convinced her to step out with him for a quick bite at the new Shake Shack that had just opened on Columbus, but they didn’t get that far. In fact, Detective Raley called them to a stop in the precinct lobby. “What’s up, Sean? You spot something on the Coney Crest tapes?”
“No, still screening them. But Miguel and I just got a hit on something else. Trust me, you will want to see this.”
“I think the Shake Shack will have to manage without us,” said Rook.
When Heat came back into the bull pen, Ochoa had the results up on his monitor at Roach Central, which is what the pair had dubbed the corner where they had pushed their desks. “OK,” he said as Heat sat in his chair, “we’ve been scouring the NYPD license plate surveillance cams from last month for any sign of that van that was hauling around the body of your mom’s spy partner. We track the van, we find the lab, right?”
“We do,” said Rook.
“We hope,” said Heat.
“We scored,” said Ochoa. “Big-time. Here’s the first hit. And yes, it’s from the night she was killed. ” He clicked the mouse and a blurry image of the plate came up. The location read, “E-ZPass Lane 2, Henry Hudson Bridge.”
“Is this right?” asked Heat. “All the way up there?”
Roach nodded in unison. “It’s correct,” said Raley.
“But we wondered the same thing,” added Ochoa. “We asked ourselves, What’s the van-and the body-doing coming down into the city from way up there? So we ran some further checks.”
“I love you, Roach,” said Heat.
Raley continued, “We combed a net of traffic cams at on-ramps in Westchester County and north.”
“It wasn’t as hard as it seems, since we knew the general time and exact date.” Ochoa clicked again and the screen filled with four shots of the same plate at different locations. “So, backtracking, here’s where we see the first appearance of the van on its drive south toward New York City.” He double-clicked the top image. When it opened, the location stamp made Heat gasp.
FIFTEEN
That maroon van could have been coming from any number of places when it got photographed getting on the Saw Mill River Parkway at Hastings-on-Hudson, but Nikki Heat could only think of one. Rook said it out loud. “Vaja.” In a single mouse click all the reasons-all the instincts-she’d had about holding on to the biochemist as a person of interest seemed to be borne out. Heat only prayed it wasn’t too late.
“Roach, saddle up.” She turned to the other detectives in the bull pen. “Feller. Rhymer. You, too. We’re taking a ride to Westchester.”
“What about me?” Detective Hinesburg came in from the kitchenette holding a plate of deli salad scoops. Suddenly it was PE class, all the teams had been chosen, and everyone started getting very busy avoiding eye contact. Heat simply didn’t want Sharon there. And she sure didn’t want to ride with her. She wasn’t about to foist her on Roach or Feller and Rhymer, either.
“I need you here to hold the fort.” Nikki felt bad for that, but in a way she knew she’d get over it in a hurry. In truth, Hinesburg could take care of a few things that would get Heat on the road faster. “Start by calling the State Police, Troop K. Tell them we are en route for a seal and seize at a place off Warburton Avenue in Hastings and need an assist. Give the Troop K lead my cell. I’ll coordinate logistics from the car.”
“Got it,” said Hinesburg, seeming content to be relevant. “What about town police?”
By then Heat and the others had reached the door. “I know the locals and have them in my contacts. I’ll handle them myself after I notify DHS.”
“What’s this guy done, anyway?” she asked.
“I hope nothing yet.” And then Heat rolled.
They took up observation positions where the Old Croton Trailway ran along a wooded hill above Vaja Nikoladze’s property. “Got just about one more hour of daylight,” said Ochoa. He turned to his left to indicate the low sun’s reflection kicking off the glass skin of the Manhattan skyline twenty-two miles downriver. From that distance, it could have been Oz.
Heat didn’t bother to look. Her focus remained through her binoculars, studying the secluded acreage below. She scanned Nikoladze’s metallic blue hybrid, which sat empty, nosed against the weathered rail where the gravel drive met the pasture beside his house. The freshly painted Victorian showed no sign of life from her vantage point. All the curtains were open but to no movement, no passing forms or shadows. And no lights inside. A breeze rustled the pink blossoms of the stand of rhododendrons near the kennel on the right side of the pasture. Nikki had never seen all the dogs he kept in there, but on her first visit the month before, she met the Georgian shepherd Vaja had anointed to reclaim the glory of his beloved show dog that had suddenly died. It crossed her mind at that moment to wonder what unexpected tragedy befell the biochemist’s dog, and if what she had read on Nikoladze’s face as grief had actually been self-reproach. Heat listened for the dogs but only heard the stir of wind mixing with the clatter of a northbound train behind the trees at the back of the meadow as it traveled along the Hudson River.
“Callan’s landing now,” said Heat, adjusting the volume in her earpiece.
Rook turned to her. “Why couldn’t we take a chopper?”
“Dude,” said Feller. “We got here in like a half hour. In case you didn’t notice, we are waiting for the slicks with their f-ing chopper.”
“Maybe it’s not so much wanting to ride in one. I was sort of hoping for once in my life I could turn to someone and say, ‘Prepare the chopper.’ ”
Raley said, “Go ahead man, hit me one time.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“Really, here’s your chance, go ahead.”
Rook considered a beat and said, “Prepare the chopper.”
“Eat shit,” said Raley. Ochoa held out a fist and the partners bumped.
“Boys,” said Heat.
“That’s fine,” said Rook. “I know you’re just ripping me because you see me almost as a brother cop.”
“Hey, if that works for you, bro,” said Ochoa.
They met Agents Callan and Bell down on the road, around a bend that concealed them from being seen from Vaja’s property. Callan greeted Heat’s team and said, “Sorry for the delay-we had to set down in some nature preserve.”
“Mayberry doesn’t have a copter pad,” said Yardley Bell.
Nikki spread a map on the hood of her car. “No sweat. Gave us time to set up logistics. We own the area, basically. State Police have closed this road to traffic between Odell Avenue and Yonkers Yacht Club. To the west, it’s just railroad tracks and river. East is woods and the trail up the hill, where we had our OP. Detective Feller is up there maintaining surveillance.”
“Any sign?” asked Callan.
“Nothing. Car’s there, but that’s not definitive.”
Agent Bell asked, “What about his workplace?”
“Checked on that. I have excellent cooperation from local law enforcement,” Nikki said, trying to push back on her Mayberry dig. “They drove my Detective Rhymer to the institute, and he confirms Nikoladze is not there. They are remaining on-scene in case he shows, and to make sure no calls go to him.”
Special Agent Callan nodded approval. “Very thorough-for a local.” He snuck Heat a wink and asked, “How we going in?”
Heat opened up a sketch she had drawn of the compound on a blank sheet of printer paper. Just as she pulled out her red Sharpie to mark arrows for the raid, Yardley Bell interrupted. “Here, maybe this will be more helpful.” She unfolded a large, color satellite photo of the property. “This was taken just after noon today.”