The last time she’d seen the beer tycoon and social activist, Heat was
thrashing around looking for clues in her mother’s murder. Now she hoped for
another crumb—any connection, however slight—that could link Weiss to the fugitive
Tyler Wynn and warm up the trail to his capture.
When she reached the cobblestones of the South Street Seaport, Nikki stopped.
Survival instinct took over and she made a survey of the area. The pedestrian walks
and courtyards were empty. It was way too early for the tourists who would pack the
place later. She saw only a soda delivery truck and a solitary cleaner hosing off a
café patio. Feeling suddenly alone and exposed, Heat made a back check behind her
then scanned the rooftops of the old buildings. Somewhere a killer waited for her.
Despite that fact, she pressed on toward the nineteenth-century brick warehouse that
housed Brewery Boz. Nikki knew she was a target. She also knew this could be the
next stop on the road to staying alive.
At the loading dock behind the microbrewery, Nikki climbed four concrete steps off
the alley and heard a high-pitched whine on the other side of a metal door. Carey
Maggs had told her to knock loudly so he could hear her over the power tools. She
rapped with a key and the whirring stopped. Hinges squeaked, and a filthy man who
looked more like a day laborer than a multimillionaire stood grinning. “You still
look just like yer mum.” That’s what he’d told Nikki on her visit three weeks
before. He would know. Cynthia Heat had also been his piano tutor in London back in
1976, when Maggs was just a boy.
“I’d say pardon the mess, but you didn’t give me much notice, and I’m in the
middle of a restoration. Behold, an authentic relic of the London Metropolitan Fire
Brigade, circa 1870.” Behind him, surrounded by giant stainless steel vats filled
with Durdles’ Finest lager, stout, and pale ale, stood a vintage fire wagon—a
carriage that once got pulled by horses and probably was why London burned.
“Looks new.”
“Bloody better. Been slaving on it morning and night to get it ready in time for
the march.” She gave him a puzzled look and he explained, “The Walk Against Global
Oppression. I committed Brewery Boz as corporate sponsor. What can I say? Bleeding
heart, bleeding checkbook.” He set aside his electric buffer and followed Heat
around as she admired the wagon. Its red paint gleamed from the wax he’d applied,
and the copper chimney of the steam pump’s giant boiler shined like a mirror. “But
I get promo out of it, too.” She noticed the gold leaf stencil on the side. “
‘Boz Brigade,’ ” he said, reading with her. “I mean, what better mascot for a
Charles Dickens–themed beer than a Victorian artifact like this?”
Niceties having been observed, Detective Heat said, “Let’s talk.”
The gastropub adjacent to the brewery wouldn’t open for hours, but Maggs led her
inside to the bar and made them each a latte.
“Delicious,” she said. “But latte in a pub?”
“I know, scandalous.” Maggs’s British accent had a playfully challenging tone
that reminded her of someone she couldn’t quite place. “But we can be true to our
Dickens leitmotif without confining ourselves to blood pudding and spotted dick,
right?” Then she put her finger on it. Christopher Hitchens. “Yeah, I get that a
lot. He’s Portsmouth, not London, but it’s the Oxonian thing. We’re a bunch of
know-it-alls, petrified that we don’t.”
Since he’d brought up his college, Nikki snagged it. “Oxford is kind of why I’m
here,” she said. “I need to ask you about your old classmate.”
“Ari.” He grew serious and slid his coffee aside.
“When we talked a few weeks ago, you said Dr. Weiss was a houseguest of yours
around Thanksgiving 1999.” Nikki didn’t need to, but she glanced at her notes from
the prior interview, a technique that kept interviewees honest. “You said his stay
overlapped the week my mother was tutoring your son.”
He paused to reflect. “Yes, but as I told you before, I can’t believe Ari had
anything to do with your mother’s murder.”