Nikki said, “Sure. You can wait for him there.”
“In the Zoo Lockup,” said Rook.
“But it’s Sunday. It could take him hours.…Maybe he evacuated.”
“Alternatively, we could just talk,” said Heat.
Alicia didn’t need to think too long. “Fine.”
Rook sat. Heat picked up her pen.
“Let’s start with why you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie to you. About what?”
“You said Fabian Beauvais hurt himself with the hedge clippers.”
“That’s what he told me.”
“He’d been shot.”
“Then he’s the one who lied.” Delamater’s answers came a little to defensively for Nikki’s taste. Was she lying again, or was she just scared of the Zoo? She came at her from another angle.
“Have you ever seen Keith Gilbert with a gun?”
“No.”
“What about the night of the intruder? The Southampton police said you were there when they arrived and that Gilbert had a handgun.”
“Oh, wait, yeah. That. But Keith isn’t a gun guy. I thought that’s what you meant. He was just trying to protect me.”
Rook said more than asked, “From a drunken crime novelist?”
“We didn’t know it was him.”
“What’s a mystery writer gonna do?” said Rook. “Tease you with a scary cliff-hanger?”
Heat put a hand on the table between them. “Rook, I’ve got this.” Actually, she was glad for the sidetrack. It gave her what she wanted, which was a chance to hairpin turn back to the Haitian in hopes of shifting her off-balance. “During his time working on your property, did you and Fabian Beauvais have a good relationship?”
“Sure. We got along fine.” Then she reconsidered. “‘…Relationship?’ You mean like sleeping together?” Heat’s turn not to reply. The woman kept going. “No, never. Not like that. But we were friendly. Ish.”
“Did he ever open up to you about having any papers?”
“You mean, like, immigration papers?”
“Alicia, I’m not here to bust you for sleeping with the help or hiring an illegal. I want to know if Mr. Beauvais talked about possessing any documents.”
“No, why would he tell me that?” Again, that defensive oversell.
“So he never talked about documents he had or gave you a package or file to keep?” Delamater shook no. “I can’t hear that.”
“No.”
“Did you ever see him with one? Maybe a file, a small bag, or a thick manila envelope?”
“Again, sorry.” But then the eyes trailed off. Not to the mirror but to the ceiling. Heat smelled something and persisted.
“Maybe it slipped your mind. That happens. Think about it.”
“I don’t need to. No.”
Nikki smiled and said, “OK, good, good.” Which made Alicia relax. Which was just what Heat wanted before she jerked her chain.
“What blew up your romance with Keith Gilbert?” The woman’s features widened and blotches surfaced on her neck. “Come on, Alicia, I know about the restraining order. What happened?”
“That is…that is very personal.”
“And it’s why I am asking you. He wanted you out of his life for some reason. Did he catch you in bed with Fabian?”
“He did not!”
“Then what turned?”
“Do you have to ask this?”
“Did his wife find out you were crossing Beckett’s Neck for more than a cup of sugar?”
“No. I mean, she never knew.”
“Did you push him? Play me, or trade me?”
“I didn’t push anything. It was him. He just fucked me over.” Heat’s pressure had touched a nerve. “It was so exciting, having our little affair when I worked with him. Dangerous and new.…Hot. But it got too tough to manage a relationship in the workplace, you know? It got to be a distraction. Too large to handle.” Nikki didn’t turn but sensed Rook’s slow swivel to her.
“Go on,” said Heat.
“So then he gets the idea I could quit Gilbert Maritime and have a place in the Hamptons near him. Close, but under the radar, if the wife should ever decide to show up. So he bought my house, helped me get my business going, and it was all fun and games — until that bastard cut me off. Asshole scumbag.” Alicia Delamater had started slowly but became hostage to a juggernaut of growing rage. “Know what he called me? A political liability. See? It wasn’t his wife. His goddamned career was his wife. And I couldn’t compete. How do you fucking compete with that? Tell me. Huh?”
The outburst ended in tears, racking sobs with Alicia cupping her face in both hands. Maybe it was the all-nighter in the Bronx that lowered her own guard, but the testimony hit close to home for Nikki, too, who still felt Rook’s unspoken scrutiny. She hoped to hell he would have the grace to keep it unsaid.
They could have held Alicia Delamater on a ticky-tacky charge, something like lying to a police officer. But her attorney would have had her sprung, and what was the point? Heat did the next best thing, which was to tell her she was still considering whether to charge her with hindering an investigation and to remain at the Midtown extended-stay hotel where she had been hiding all this time.
“What’s your take?” asked Rook when she’d left.
“Smoke screens and dodges, that’s my gut. The fact that she’s no longer in bed with Gilbert doesn’t mean she’s not part of this somehow. I want to find out more.”
“Do you really think she’ll open up later?”
Nikki wagged no. “She’ll only have time to come up with better lies. And show up with her attorney. No, I want to find out without relying on Alicia Delamater’s help. I want some search warrants.”
“On what grounds?” Rook’s undercurrent of skepticism annoyed her. But she checked herself. With fatigue and emotions swirling, this was not the time to pick a fight or get offended. So she answered plainly.
“Access to material evidence, lying, her admission that she hid from us.”
He sucked his teeth. “After the DA pulled your arrest, they’re not going to go for search warrants on that foundation.”
“No, but I think I know who will. Your old poker buddy.”
“Judge Simpson? Don’t you owe him money from the last game?”
“Perfect. Then he’ll take my call.”
After Heat completed her conversation with Horace Simpson, who agreed to her request for a search warrant of Alicia Delamater’s Manhattan rental, she made one more call. This one went to Detective Sergeant Inez Aguinaldo in Southampton, who began by offering her condolences to Nikki and the precinct after the death of the captain.
Nikki thanked her and said, “I know I’ve been leaning on you a lot, but I’d like to press my luck.”
“Name it.”
“And I’m sure you’re busy with your own ramp-up to Sandy.”
“Tell me what you need, Detective Heat. I’ll make the storm wait.”
So Nikki voiced her request for Aguinaldo to search Delamater’s house at Beckett’s Neck.
When she told the Southampton investigator what to look for, she asked, “Won’t I need a warrant?”
“Oh, right,” said Heat. “That’s my second favor.”
The other detective laughed and told her she knew just who to call. “That’s the virtue of a tight community.”
Nikki finished the conversation feeling fortunate to have crossed paths with Inez Aguinaldo, who, at each step, obliterated the cliché of the small-town cop. She placed the phone back in its cradle and rotated her chair so she could reassess the Murder Board on the other side of the squad room. The latest addition was a purple line drawn with an arrow from Zarek Braun to a new name in handwriting she could hardly recognize as her own: CAPT. WALLY IRONS.
Tilting her head, she peered into the darkness of his office. In the coppery glow of the sodium streetlamps spilling in the window, Nikki made out a familiar shape: the reflection, in dry cleaner plastic, of his media-ready, dress uniform shirt. The light began to slowly diffuse as in the form of a headless ghost-man; however, it was no apparition. Just a blur from bone-deep fatigue. The aura faded away and, the next thing Heat knew, a hand was gently rocking her shoulder while a voice from a distant tunnel asked her to wake up.