Before Callan could answer, Bell jumped in. “Detective Heat, give me a
fucking break. Is this your first rodeo? The fact that we’ve known since lunchtime
has nothing to do with anything. We needed every bit of that time to set our
logistics and bolt this down. He’s in there, we are here, and he’s not going
anywhere. And second?” The agent took a step closer to Nikki, literally and
symbolically nudging Callan out of her way. “I got him. He’s under the jar. Are
you seriously complaining?”
Nikki paused. Her fury cooling to embers, she collected herself and said, “No.”
And meant it. Interference aside, Yardley Bell had come through. In one day she had
accomplished what Nikki had not been able to in a month. The irony for Heat was that
she had only told Bell about tracking Wynn’s consumer habits as a smoke screen for
hiding the code. Yardley had not only run with it, but within hours she’d found the
man who ordered her mother’s murder. Her feet back under her, Heat looked from
Callan back to Bell and said, “How can I help?”
Special Agent Callan stepped forward, as if to remind everyone of the in-charge part
of his title. “You can run the capture,” he said. When Bell turned to him, about
to protest, he continued, “We are already utilizing resources from the Seventeenth
Precinct. My decision is that we continue our cooperation with local law enforcement
by having Detective Heat lead the takedown. End of conversation.”
“Forget it, Rook, you’re staying here,” called Nikki on her way back from mapping
out the plan of attack with the Emergency Services supervisor. Rook stayed on her
heels as Heat strode between a dozen heavily armed emergency services unit cops—The
NYPD’s elite SWAT officers—suited up in black fatigues, ballistic helmets, and
Ironclad gloves. The writer stayed close as she walked toward her detectives from
the Twentieth, who were pulling on body armor from the trunk of the Roach Coach.
“You wanted it to be like old times, Rook, you got it. Stay with the car.”
“How’s that for a stroll down memory lane?” teased Ochoa.
“More like the boulevard of broken dreams,” from Raley.
“Come on, Nikki, I’ve come so far. Why are you leaving me behind?”
“We’ve been through this before. You’ll be in the way. And it’s dangerous.”
“Ah, but this time I brought my own protection.” He unzipped a gym bag. “I called
Rhymer so he’d bring this. Tada.” From the bag, he pulled out his own bulletproof
vest. One word was stenciled across the chest and back: “Journalist.”
“You are kidding,” said Heat, as she tightened the Velcro tabs on hers.
Standing at the open trunk of his car, Detective Feller said, “Hey, what are these
embroidered things on the front that look like two gold coins?”
“These? Pulitzers.” And then he added, “There’s room for a few more.”
Sharon Hinesburg said, “A bulletproof vest with bling?” They all turned as the
detective approached, pulling on her own gear. “You guys forgot to give me the
heads-up. Good thing I still had the monitor on at home.”
The loose chatter stopped, and the detectives attended their preparations with eyes
averted from her. The squad knew the open secret. “Detective Heat, a moment?”
Hinesburg beckoned her aside and lowered her voice. “Look. I’m not blind. I’m
aware how I get kicked to the curb a lot or get handed the dog assignments. I also
know it probably wasn’t any accident nobody called me to roll on this.” Heat saw
tears welling in Sharon’s eyes and knew two things: One, Hinesburg was in on the
open secret, and two, Nikki didn’t have time for this.
She decided to be honest. At least about the latter. “Sharon, this isn’t the
place.”
“I promise I’ll have my head in this. You won’t be sorry.”