Cementing his status as King of All Surveillance Media, Detective Raley took the NannyCam drive so he could pull the still frame of the cable guy and circulate it. Before they left, Heat cautioned him and Ochoa not to get themselves in trouble with Captain Irons. The two partners shared a look and scoffed. Rales said, “Hm, let’s see . . . Iron Man or Detective Heat . . . Iron Man or Detective Heat . . .”
“Just be careful,” she said.
“You, too,” said Ochoa. “You’re the one working with Rook.”
* * *
It was after hours, and Heat figured Lancer Standard would be closed for the night, so she looked up Lawrence Hays’s home address from the information Mrs. Borelli had given her out of the parish roster. “You really think you’re going to get anything out of him?” said Rook after she gave their taxi driver the street number on West End Avenue.
“If you mean a straight answer to any of my questions, no. But I want to jam this guy. Keep the pressure on him. An over-the-top ego like his, you never know what’ll shake out.”
Heat had just finished pressing the intercom at the top of the stone steps of the town house near 78th when the voice behind them said, “Help you?” It was Lawrence Hays. He wasn’t wearing a coat, so she figured he must have seen them approach on his security cams and come out a side door to surprise them. “I have an office, you know, you don’t need to harass me at my home.”
“Good evening to you, too, Mr. Hays. This is Jameson Rook.”
“Yeah, I know, the writer. Doctor says I have an allergy to the press, so you’ll pardon me if I don’t shake hands.”
“And I have one to blood, so it all works out,” said Rook.
Before the macho sideshow escalated, Nikki thrust out the surveillance still she had of the cable guy from Pleasure Bound. “Have you ever seen this man?”
“This again?” said Hays. He angled the photo to the light, gave it a quick eyeball, and handed it back. “Nope. What’s he? Some Craigslist stud who stuck you with the motel bill, Miss Heat?”
She ignored the distraction. “He tried to blow up my apartment.”
“And a new HD flat screen,” added Rook. “Using military grade C4. Mean anything to you?”
Hays smiled mirthlessly at Nikki. “Tell you something you don’t seem to get. If I wanted to blow you up, you wouldn’t be standing here. Right now there’d be pieces of you coming back down on Gramercy Park like confetti.”
Heat said, “So you’re saying you do know where I live, that’s interesting.”
“Tell you what I don’t know. Is why you’re on a holy crusade for some priest who not only protected that scumbag who messed with my kid—my kid!—but who was also aiding and abetting homegrown terrorists.”
“Why,” said Rook, “just because he was a social activist?”
“Wake up. Graf was neck-deep with those Colombian revolutionarios.”
Nikki kept him going so he wouldn’t lose his steam. “Justicia a Garda? Gimme a break, they’re no terrorists.”
“No? Have you seen them in action? How many of your men have these cowards killed and blown up? Use your head. If they’ll attack their own government prisons just to break out their brainwashing socialist writers, how long do you think it is before that gig gets imported here?”
“Mr. Hays,” said Heat, “are you saying some of your contractors were killed in Colombia by members of the organization Father Graf supported?”
“I’m not saying anything.” Too late. He realized he had slipped and voiced an additional motive for Graf’s murder and started walking it back. “For reasons of national security, I cannot confirm or deny the actions of my government consulting firm.”
“I think you just did,” said Nikki.
“Know what I think? I think you’d better get lost. Because something else I know about you, Nikki Heat, besides your address. You’re not even a cop anymore. That’s right.” He started to chuckle, and said, “So get off my property. Before I call the police—the real police!”
They could still hear him laughing when he turned and slipped off into the night.
* * *
Heat woke up the next morning with Rook’s face in hers. Kneeling be side the bed in his T-shirt and boxer briefs, all he needed was a leash in his teeth to look like a retriever waiting for his trip to the park. “What time is it?”