Roach interrupted with a report on the unusual key found under Doug Sandmann’
s body. Raley posted photos of it as Ochoa recited from his notes. “It’s a high-
security key. New technology from an Australian company. As you can see from the
close-ups, it’s futuristic in design. Looks like a Star Wars X-Wing fighter and a
barracuda made a baby.”
Raley picked up from his partner. “According to the manufacturer’s Web site,
because of its dual shank and one-of-a-kind cutting, this key would fit only one in
about seventeen thousand locks. Here’s the good part: Each set is registered. It’s
the middle of the night in Australia, but hopefully, we can get a line on whose lock
this fits, because it could be the next victim’s.”
“We’re also making rounds of local locksmiths who carry the brand,” said
Detective Ochoa. “It’s high-end, so there aren’t that many.”
“So go to,” said Heat, and the squad dispersed. Her excitement at sensing some
traction became muted by mistrust. This killer was a gamesman, a manipulator who had
already murdered his third victim hours before he called to threaten it. Nikki only
hoped they could move fast enough to save his fourth.
Heat’s e-mail chimed with a message from Bart Callan: “Ran Carey Maggs, per
request. Your instinct right on. Clean returns on all data. PS: If you worked here,
you’d be home now! Haha—BC.”
As she saved the e-mail, Detectives Raley and Ochoa speed-walked to her desk, both
wearing eager faces. Raley said, “The lock manufacturer in Australia has a 24/7
help desk.”
Ochoa overlapped, “They tracked the serial number and said the lock and key set is
registered through a locksmith on Amsterdam.”
“Did you call?”
“No answer,” said Roach.
“At a locksmith?” Nikki leaped to her feet. “Amsterdam and what?”
Heat and Rook pulled up behind the Roach Coach five blocks south, at 77th. As they
came together on the sidewalk, Ochoa said to them, “Rales and I were just in this
neighborhood running a check on that Rollerblade wheel.” He indicated the skate
shop with a sign that read, “Central Park rentals by the hour or half day.”
Nikki’s attention went to Windsor’s Locks, the storefront next door. Something was
definitely off. The window had an “Open” sign, but behind it the shop was dark.
“OK, now this is too weird,” said Rook, pointing. “Rats. Check it out. A pet
store on one side with rats in the window and a roller skate store on the other?”
The pair of backup blue-and-whites Heat had called for pulled up behind her. Without
taking her eyes from the store, she told the unis to cover the back. As the patrol
officers deployed, she took the lead toward the glass door, flanked by Raley and
Ochoa. They paused. Heat put one hand on the grip of her Sig Sauer. She reached for
the door handle with the other.
“Wait,” said Ochoa. “You smell that?”
Heat sniffed. “Gas.”
SIX
“That smells stronger than just a tiny leak,” said Ochoa.
Detective Heat turned immediately to Raley. “Call it in.” Then she flashed back to
the natural gas explosion she’d investigated in 2006, a suicide that completely
leveled a three-story town house. “No sparks,” she told him. “Use your phone on
the upwind corner. Also, tell those uniforms to come back and start clearing these
buildings.” She waved a circle over her head to indicate the residences above the
shops. “And tell everyone: no smokes, no light switches, no phones.”
Ochoa was already on the move, waving people off the sidewalk, when Rook turned to
her from peeking in the locksmith’s window. “Nikki. Someone’s on the floor.”
She cupped her hands on the sides of her face to cut the glare and put her nose to
the glass. In the back of the narrow store, a pair of man’s legs protruded from
behind the counter, toes splayed out. Heat ran a quick calculation. The risk of
setting off an explosion versus the chance that if that man was alive but
suffocating on fumes, she might save him.