Deadly Heat

She gave Nikoladze the benefit of the doubt. He had been friendly and

cooperative when Heat and Rook first visited him three weeks before. But since that

time Vaja had been away showing his prized Georgian shepherds at various out-of-

state competitions. Now the Hastings detective was calling to alert Nikki that her

person of interest had just been spotted back in town. Wrenched but resolute not to

let it drop, Heat juggled the Conklin ball up in the air and headed north. As she

pulled onto the Saw Mill Parkway, a flicker of anticipation filled her. She knew

better than to get ahead of herself, but Nikki dared to hope she might finally be

moving forward after almost a month of relentless disappointment.

Forty minutes later, steam cleaning rubber floor mats outside the kennel on his back

pasture, Vaja Nikoladze looked up at the undercover police car pulling off the two-

lane that ran between his neighborhood’s horse pastures and woodlots. Even from a

distance, the small man looked surprised when he heard them crunch the pea gravel of

his car park. As they made their way across the vast lawn, deep-throated barks

echoed inside the long outbuilding before Nikki even spoke. “Afternoon.”

Nikoladze didn’t reply, but instead pulled a push broom from a bucket of soapy

water and power steamed the foam out of the short bristles. The two of them waited,

not even trying to engage over the noisy jet spray of the pressurized nozzle. When

he had finished, he cut the steam, leaned the broom against the wall, and draped the

thick black rubber mats over the decorative railing to drip dry in the sun. Unlike

their cordial visit weeks prior, Vaja gave every sign now that he wanted nothing to

do with Detective Heat or her ride-along journalist.

“I have a telephone, you know.” After more than twenty years in the US, his

Georgian accent remained thick and still sounded Russian to Heat’s ears.

“We were kind of in the neighborhood,” said Rook, earning a glower in return.

“You have come to get more material on me for your next article, Jameson? Maybe not

everyone in United States is eager to be so well known, you think of that?” When

Rook had accompanied Nikki last time, he and Vaja got along quite well. Nikoladze

had offered refreshments, swapped stories, even given an obedience demonstration of

his top show dog. Rook’s subsequent write-up of the biochemist in his FirstPress

article had been minimal—a couple of lines at the most—mere connective tissue in

the story of Nikki’s quest to find a killer. Clearly, Vaja took exception to the

limelight.

Heat didn’t care. She pushed right back. “We’re here to follow up on my official

police investigation, Mr. Nikoladze. And the reason I didn’t call first is that you

have been uncommunicative. I have left you too many unreturned messages and e-mails.

So ding dong, comrade.”

Rook circled off to sightsee the Palisades, visible above the tree line. Vaja set

aside his chores and crossed his arms. “I have some pictures I want you to look at,

” said Heat.

“Yes, so your unending messages have said. I told you last time, I don’t know this

Tyler Wynn.”

As she swiped each image on her smart phone, Nikki said, “Indulge me. I want you to

see Tyler Wynn, and also this woman, Salena Kaye, and this man here, Petar Matic.”

He barely looked at them. “I cannot help you.”

“Does that mean you don’t recognize them or you can’t help?”

“Both.” He stared at her with resolve mixed with petulance. “I must inform you

that I have been told not to speak to you, or risk deportation.”

Rook circled back around from his sightseeing and made eye contact with Nikki. Then

her brow lowered and she took a step closer to Vaja. “Exactly who told you this,

Mr. Nikoladze?”

When she heard the name, Nikki fumed.




“Detective Heat, NYPD.” She flashed tin and added, “Special Agent Callan is

expecting us.” The reception officer at the Department of Homeland Security’s New

York field office cleared his throat in an exaggerated way that pulled Rook’s

attention from the ceiling. He’d been counting cameras since they stepped from

Varick Street into the lobby of the huge government building.

“Oh, sorry. Jameson Rook, model citizen.” He handed over his driver’s license and

whispered to Nikki, “More cameras than a Best Buy at Christmas. Five bucks says

Jack Bauer already knows we’re here.”