Deadly Heat

She waited with her back against the steel, measuring risk. Twenty feet of

exposure stretched between her and the helicopter. To her right, at the south end of

the tarmac, a vacant parking lot—minimal worry there. To her left, a parking lot

full of double-decker stacked cars bordered the north end of the blacktop. Lots of

cover. That’s where trouble would come from.

Her eyes became attracted to that light, and she made a decision. She broke across

the open space, a crouching silhouette cleaving to the shadow of the helicopter when

she got there. She panted, listening. A dinner yacht churned by, a charter spilling

party sounds and light. Only when it left did she dare to move and peek inside the

cockpit window.

It was empty. She ducked quickly to stay in the shadows and ran a memory recap. The

glow had come from the rear compartment. Duckwalking a little over a yard, she used

the body of the chopper for cover. Then she rose up and peered in the window of the

rear door.

What she saw stopped her heart.

Salena Kaye stared back at her from the passenger seat through dead eyes. Her mouth

hung open in a frozen scream, exposing smashed and missing teeth. Welts and

cigarette burns marked her face. A picklock protruded from the nearest ear canal,

above a dried flow of blood and plasma that had streamed down the side of her neck,

staining the shoulder of her white T-shirt. The handle of a large, military-style

knife jutted out of her sternum above an oval blotch of red. And around the knife’s

knuckle grip, someone had tied a string. An orange string.

Attached to a dangling bullet.




At that moment, lying prone atop the flat roof of the heliport’s office, Rainbow

watched her silhouette through the sight scope of his rifle. She had come to him

like all the others had. Inducing her had taken more doing than with the rest of

them; Salena Kaye had required an extraordinary amount of persuasion to make that

phone call. But her torture opened a surprising new door to his enjoyment. And the

result of it had succeeded in luring her to him. None of them could resist the

seduction of a great clue. Not even the famous Detective Heat.

Rainbow took his time, waiting for the moment. He wanted to witness the juncture of

horror’s full absorption—the lightning-crack realization when all the tumblers

fell into place, when all the strings connected. The months of planning and the

weeks of execution came down to this, and it would not be rushed. The taking of

Nikki Heat’s life had to come right at the instant he saw the revelation break

across her face.

To rush made it cheap. To wait made her his.

Patience. He settled the rifle stock on the sandbag and held the back of her head

center-scope so the crosshairs would track across her ear to her temple to her brow

to her forehead when she came around.

At last she began to turn.





EIGHTEEN





Rainbow wished he could see more of her face. Too much silhouette and shadow, he

thought. Maybe he shouldn’t have killed so many lights, after all. But the glow

inside the Sikorsky’s cabin should be enough. If she would only favor him just a

bit more. He tensed his jaw and muttered to himself, “Come on, Nikki, let me see

you.”

“You’d have to turn around,” said Detective Heat, “but I wouldn’t advise it.”

He lifted his head up from the rifle scope and cocked his head slightly to the side.

In his periphery he made her out. Heat, not ten feet away, hidden behind the rooftop

air-conditioning box with her elbows braced and her Sig aimed right at his head. She

spoke quietly, in total control. “NYPD. Move your hands away from that rifle, or I

’m going to get your brains all over my favorite jacket.”

Windsor complied. “How long have you been there?”

“Well before you,” said Detective Heat, the poster cop for tactics and cover.

“Now crawl backward toward me, slowly.” He got up on all fours, creeping in

reverse, moving out of reach of the rifle. “Good. Now, facedown, nose to the deck.

Spread your arms wide and turn your palms up.” As soon as he parked himself, Heat

came around, patted him down for weapons, and stood over him, bending slightly so

her head wouldn’t bump the steel girders on the underside of the FDR. “You even

scratch, I’ll shoot.” He said nothing, just kept his face to the tar.