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.