Nikki followed his gaze across Sixth and spotted the man from the subway in the passenger seat of the blue Chevy as it pulled up. “This way,” she said, and they both made a sharp turn in the opposite direction, not running, but striding quickly to get some cover behind the line of mail trucks parked beside the post office. As they passed the third truck in the line, another man stepped out from in front of it, blocking the sidewalk. Nikki reached for her hip.
“I wouldn’t,” the man said. He held his hands open to show they were empty, but they could also see he wasn’t alone. Two other men flanking them on the sidewalk held hands on holsters inside their coats. Footsteps from behind told them they were surrounded. The setup was perfect for an ambush—a dark, windowless street—and Heat kicked herself for taking the bait. She kept her hand on her gun, too, but didn’t draw.
“You’ve been running a check on me, Detective. I want to know why.” He let his hands fall to the sides of his tailored suit and sauntered closer. With his shaved head and goatee he resembled Ben Kingsley. But not the Gandhi Ben Kingsley. Menacing, like the Sexy Beast Ben Kingsley. That’s when Heat recognized Fariq Kuzbari, security attache to the Syrian Mission to the UN, standing before her.
“I have some questions to ask you, Mr. Kuzbari. Why don’t you come to my precinct during business hours tomorrow instead of a street at night? I imagine you must have the address.”
He chuckled. “That creates numerous complications. I have diplomatic immunity, you see, therefore this arrangement saves you a great deal of frustration.”
“Immunity, huh? How would your ambassador like to explain why the head of his secret police and his armed detail accosted a New York cop on an American street?”
“Feisty.”
Rook said, “You don’t want to know.”
Kuzbari spoke something in Arabic to his entourage, and they dropped their hands off their guns. “Better?”
Heat assessed the situation and took her hand off her Sig. His brow lowered. “Now, what kind of questions?”
She thought of pressing for the station-house interview but he had a point. A stall or, worse, a no-show, wouldn’t help her. “They’re about a homicide case I’m investigating.”
“How would such a matter be of any concern to me?”
“A woman was murdered in 1999. She was a piano tutor to your children. And she was my mother.”
If Kuzbari made any visual connection from Cynthia to Nikki, he didn’t let on. “My deep condolences. However, again, I must ask how this involves me.”
“She had been in your home twice a week the summer before she was killed. She traveled with you for five days to a resort in the Berkshires, Mr. Kuzbari.”
“These are all true facts, as I recollect them. Yet, if you are trying to assign some motive to me by implying I had some sort of relationship with your mother, you would be wasting your time as well as mine.” Nikki wasn’t suggesting anything like that, since Joe Flynn had pretty much ruled out an affair, but her experience as an interviewer told her not to say anything, to see where Kuzbari would go. “As for that week in the Berkshires—Lenox, as I recall—it was hardly a romantic getaway. I was there in my capacity of providing security to the ambassador at a symposium, and I stayed with him. Your mother roomed in a separate bungalow with my wife and children and another family attending the conference.”
“May I ask who they were?”
“Why, so you can harass them for no reason, as well? Detective Heat, I sympathize with your interest in settling this score, but I am confident I will be of no service. So, unless you have anything else, let us adjourn to continue our lives.”
Before she could reply, he turned and disappeared between the parked mail trucks. They heard a car door slam, then the rest of his group vanished, leaving Heat and Rook alone on the sidewalk.
Rook said, “At least no bags over our heads this time.”