“I see,” said the detective. “And you don’t think they’d notice their nanny going out of the apartment with a painting? Or the space gaping on the wall?”
He reflected then shut down. “You have a question for everything, don’t you?”
“Rook, if we don’t poke holes, the defense attorneys will. That’s why I need to build a case.”
“Didn’t I just do that for you?”
“Notice I’m still building.” She found the picture she was looking for and slipped it into an envelope. “Roach.”
Raley and Ochoa stepped over to her desk. “You’re taking the Roach Coach on a short drive out of town with this photo of Gerald Buckley. Go to that place he mentioned back at the M.E.’s. Shouldn’t be hard to find. Show the picture, see if you get any hits, and then I want you back here, pronto.”
“Going out of the city, how’d I miss that? Oh, right, Buckley freeze-out again,” said Rook. “Let me guess. You’re going to see if Agda lied about NYU and was really somewhere else with the paintings?”
“Raley, do you have a map?”
“I don’t need a map.”
“No, but Rook does,” said Heat. “He’s been all over his.”
After Raley and Ochoa left, she put the file away in her desk. Rook was still lurking. “What are we going to do?”
Nikki indicated a chair. “We? We, which is to say you, are going to park your Pulitzer Prize-winning butt and stay out of my way while I scare up some warrants.”
Rook took a seat. “Arrest warrants? Plural?”
“Search warrants, plural. I need two of them plus a warrant for a wiretap.” She looked at her watch and whispered a curse. “Day’s half-shot and I need them like now.”
“Um, I believe I can be of service if you’re in a hurry.”
“No, Rook.”
“It’s cake.”
“I said no. Stay out of this.”
“I did it before.”
“Ignoring my instructions.”
“And getting you your warrant.” He glanced around to make sure the bull pen was empty and lowered his voice. “After the other night, aren’t we past this?”
“Don’t. Even.”
“Let me help you.”
“No. Do not call Judge Simpson.”
“Give me one good reason.”
“Because now that the judge and I are poker buddies,” she grinned and picked up her phone, “I can call him myself.”
“You sleep with me, then you make fun of my theories and steal all my friends.” Rook leaned back and crossed his arms. “Just for that, you’re not meeting Bono.”
Horace Simpson came through with the warrants, accompanied by a judicial warning that Heat had better get her heinie back to Rook’s poker table so he could win back his losses. And to think all these years the detective had been going through channels to reach judges.
Getting the search warrants in hand turned out to be the easy part. Her wiretap required time to set up, meaning several hours of waiting. Not Nikki Heat. She strode into the bull pen from Captain Montrose’s office and grabbed her bag.
“What now?” asked Rook.
“Cap sprung a team off patrol for me. We’re rolling to execute my search warrants.” When he stood up to join her, she said, “Sorry, Rook, we’re at a critical phase. This is police-only.”
“Come on, I’ll stay in the car, I promise. It’s hot, but just leave the window open a crack for me. They say that’s dangerous, but I’m tough, I’ll bring water.”
“You’re better off right here reviewing your evidence. You’ve got the whiteboard to study, you’ve got air-conditioning, and you’ll have time, lots of time.” As she crossed the room with her back to him, she said, “Remember, think like a detective.”
“You might as well take me, I know where you’re going.” That stopped her. When she turned to face him from the doorway, he said, “The Guilford and to a personal storage place on Varick.”
She looked down at her bag. “You snooped my warrants, didn’t you?”
His turn to grin. “Just thinking like a journalist.”
Two hours later, Heat returned to find Rook staring at the whiteboard. “Come up with any more theories while I was out?”
“In fact, yes.”
She went to her desk and checked her voice mail. Her mailbox was empty. Nikki tossed the handset onto the cradle in frustration and looked at her watch.
“You all right? Trouble with your search warrants?”
“Au contraire,” she said. “I’m just stressing my wiretap. The other stuff went great. Better than great.”
“What did you find?”
“You first. What’s your new theory?”
“Well. I’ve been thinking it all over and now I know who it is.”
“Not Agda?”
“Why? Is it Agda?”
“Rook.”
“Sorry, sorry. OK. This is off-the-wall. I’m off Agda. But I’m thinking about something she said about the new piano.” This piqued Nikki’s interest. She sat against the edge of her desk with her arms folded. “Am I getting warmer?” he asked.
“I know I’m not getting younger. Get to it.”
“When you interviewed her, Agda said something like the new piano was so gorgeous, she almost fainted when it came out of the crate.” He paused. “Who delivers pianos in crates anymore? Nobody.”
“Interesting, go on.” In fact, these were waters she was fishing in, and Nikki was curious to hear his take.
“We know the piano came in because we saw it there after the theft. So I got to wondering, why bring in a crate unless something is going to go out in it after you remove the piano from it?”
“And so now you are saying it’s who?”
“Obviously. The piano company is a front for art thieves.”
“Is that your final answer?” The flat expression she showed him made Rook backpedal so fast, Nikki wanted to burst out laughing. But she held her poker face.
“Or…,” he said, “let me finish. You served a warrant at the Guilford and at a personal storage place. I’m sticking with my piano crate scenario, but I say it’s…Kimberly Starr.” Although her face remained neutral, Rook became animated. “I’m right, I know it. I can see it all over you. Tell me I’m wrong, then.”
“I’m not telling you squat.” Raley and Ochoa came into the bull pen. Heat started over to them. “Why spoil the fun?”
“Raley and I showed around Buckley’s picture,” said Ochoa. “We scored two positive hits. That doesn’t suck.”
“Doesn’t suck at all.” Nikki dared to let herself feel the thrill of gathering momentum on the case. “And they’ll testify?”
“Affirm,” said Raley.
Nikki’s desk phone rang and she lunged for it. “Detective Heat.” She kept nodding as if the caller could see her, and said, “Excellent. Great. Excellent. Thanks much.” When she hung up, she turned to her team. “Wiretap’s up. We’re going to the dance.” For once things were moving at Heat speed.
Nikki and Rook sat wedged into a corner of the tiny room, knee-to-knee on metal folding chairs behind the police technician who was recording the calls. The AC vent whistled, so Heat had had the air turned off to let her hear without that distraction, and it was suffocating in there.
A blue LED meter spiked on the console. “Picking up,” said the technician.
Heat put on her headphones. The ring purred on the line. Her breathing became shallow the way it had on the raid in Long Island City, only this time she couldn’t calm herself. Her heart thunked at a disco cadence until Nikki heard the click of the answer and one of the beats skipped.
“Hello?”
“I’m using your direct line because I don’t want the receptionist knowing I’m calling you,” said Kimberly Starr.
“OK…” Noah Paxton sounded wary of her. “I don’t understand why not.”
Nikki hand-signaled the technician to ensure he was recording. He nodded.
Kimberly continued, “You’re about to understand, Noah.”
“Is something wrong? You sound strange.”
Nikki closed her eyes into a tight squint of concentration, wanting only to hear. With headphones on, the fidelity was iPod-quality. She clocked every nuance. The air hiss of the office chair Noah was sitting in. The hard swallow that came from Kimberly.