“Mr. Gogol.”
“This man say many things. Maybe delirious or drunk from getting in bar fight and shot that way. Yes, that is what I think happened. The drinking.”
Nikki stared at Ivan Gogol. His wasn’t the face of a liar. What she read on him was fear. Almost panic. Someone had said — or done — something to turn him into a wreck. Heat’s concern for him blended with her own as she witnessed a critical piece of her case — her airtight case — deflate before her eyes. “Ivan, if you are at all afraid, please know that the NYPD will provide you with—”
“Enough. I will say nothing more.” He pushed the pad away again with such force that the pen slid off the table and clacked somewhere below on the linoleum. Nobody reached to pick it up. It was going to be of no use.
TEN
he old salts working the Atlantic off Long Island didn’t have Doppler radar, computer models, or satellite imagery to predict a brewing storm. They smelled the air, watched the birds, or consulted the Farmers’ Almanac, if the pages hadn’t been torn out in the privy. Of course, they also got surprised a lot. In 1938 the Long Island Express slammed into the Northeast killing about eight hundred people who got little advance notice. So much for red skies in the morning.
Detective Heat only had sunshine and sixty-two degrees to ponder as she drove past the exit for the Fire Island National Seashore. Instead of scoping out weather telltales, her attention went to patrolling side and rearview mirrors in case a certain Impala or vehicle yet-to-be-detected seemed to be following. After the attack in Chelsea she knew Captain Irons would insist on a uni driver or even try to make her take a blue-and-white to Southampton, so Nikki ducked out to her plain wrap Taurus right after the busted interview with Ivan Gogol to ensure some needed solitude for the trip.
Could it really have been only two days before that she covered this same road with Rook? So much had changed in that span, and little of it for the better. Notably Rook, not riding along. Whatever he was doing at that moment, she only hoped it would not result in further disruption. Nikki pushed to stay positive. Sure, the Russian doctor had crapped out, yet she had her warrant. But the situation felt much too fluid to let her relax.
Heat had begun by seeing Beauvais’s planetarium crash and the home invasion on West End Avenue as two different cases. But then came the connection between the Haitian couple as lovers. And now — thanks to Lauren Parry — the forensic nexus between the SRO goons and Jeanne Capois tied them together, as well. However, the rise of Earl Sliney as the possible shooter jumbled things. Nikki wondered, was she really working one case, or could she possibly be back to two?
Along the drive she’d spot-checked the AM radio for updates on the hurricane. The latest report said Sandy had crossed Cuba as a Category Two with wind speeds of 114 miles per hour, causing the unconfirmed deaths of eleven people. The eye didn’t make landfall on Hispaniola, but, as it churned north, Sandy’s powerful swirl dumped twenty inches of rain and killed about fifty souls in Haiti. As of eight that morning, NOAA had tropical storm warnings out for southeast Florida, and the entire Eastern seaboard of the U.S. had started getting serious about disaster readiness.
When the newscaster said, “We go now, live, to a joint news conference with the mayor, the governor, and a commissioner of the Port Authority,” Nikki cranked up the volume. Hizzoner sounded like his usual easygoing self as he announced he had already opened his Office of Emergency Management Situation Room and that all city agencies were synergizing in response to the coming weather event. The governor cited regular discussions with FEMA and the president, who was monitoring the situation closely. The MTA was preparing to move buses and trains to higher ground in the next twenty-four hours. The mayor chimed in that citizens could also expect to see workers sand bagging subway entrances and fastening plywood over sidewalk ventilation grates to prevent flooding. That image gave Nikki her first visceral feeling about a storm that had seemed so abstract until then. And the feeling she got was not just of impact but something more portentous: inevitability.
A reporter asked the governor if the charges against Commissioner Gilbert would adversely impact readiness. The question was followed by a pressroom full of murmurs.
“I’ll answer that,” said Keith Gilbert. Heat pictured him stepping to the microphone, sparing the governor from a perilous moment. “Shortly after I was sworn in last July, well before anybody even knew about this storm, I led the Port Authority in a readiness drill, rehearsing for an emergency such as this. We did it in full-scale, war games style using JFK, Newark Liberty, and the Bayonne Bridge as venues. Three months ago. This is how we roll. We plan. We prepare. Now we execute.
“I am about to activate the PA’s Emergency Management Office,” Gilbert continued. “Our highly trained personnel continue to inspect all assets for readiness and function. Maritime and air terminals are stepping up precautions. Construction at the new World Trade Center is battening down. Also, with an anticipated landfall early next week, I am ordering that, this weekend, critical staff — and that includes Operations and PAPD — will all be working.” The room started yelling out questions all at once. He didn’t call on anyone. Instead, he delivered his sound bite.
“One more comment to more directly address the reporter’s question. Twenty-one years ago, an event called The Perfect Storm lashed the north Atlantic. Now, we see that disparate components could similarly be gathering, poised to fall into place and create a perfectly larger catastrophe. You know I’m a sailor. I am. A sailor who’s weathered all kinds of seas. Anyone who’s sailed with me knows one thing. I know how to keep my eye on what’s important. And to know a real storm from a passing squall.”
During his dramatic pause, Nikki shook her head and muttered, “Politicians.”
Just as she had two days before, Heat pushed the call buzzer outside the security gate at Cosmo, Keith Gilbert’s mansion on Beckett’s Neck in Southampton. Moments after, a voice she recognized asked, “Help you?”
“Danny, hi, this is Detective Heat from the NYPD. We met on Tuesday?”
“…Yeah?” he replied through the tinny speaker. From his detached tone she couldn’t tell if that meant “So what?” or “Yes, I recall.”
“Would you open, please? I have a search warrant.”
When he came out, Danny ogled the document like it was radioactive. His gaze lifted from it to Nikki and then over to Detective Sergeant Aguinaldo whose unmarked SUV was parked parallel to Heat’s Taurus. “This is kind of above my pay grade. Mind if I call Mr. G?”
Nikki thought about it. “Sure, OK. But do it here, though.” She didn’t want Danny out of her sight behind a heavy gate so he could potentially interfere with the search. He nodded blandly and flipped open his cell, walking a few yards to the side for privacy.
“I don’t think there’s going to be a problem with this guy,” said Aguinaldo in a low voice. “I mean that paper’s all you need to go in. If there’s an issue, I’ll just call for someone to watch him out here while we execute your warrant.” Heat appreciated the other detective’s calm take. Instead of exerting small-town bullying — of which Heat had seen her share over the years — Inez Aguinaldo had a cool, professional air. That sort of thing was beyond training. It was how she came wired from the factory.
“There’s a dog, too.”
“We do dogs,” Aguinaldo said with a smile. “Listen, early for lunch, but I brought two panini from Sean’s Place on Hampton Road.”
“Thank you, very thoughtful.”
“I’ve got your choice. Grilled ham and Havarti or grilled ham and Havarti.”