“Detective, come on,” said Yarborough, trying to reclaim her composure and distance, positioning herself as judge rather than the accused, “let’s stop all this, please? You know criminals talk all sorts of bull to cut deals. This is hearsay and conjecture. Whatever happened to the Nikki Heat who deals in proof?”
“Proof,” said Heat. She crossed to the door and rapped lightly. Lovell and DeLongpre entered. While the Internal Affairs detectives rounded the table toward the flat-screen on the side wall, Nikki swallowed thickly, revisiting her grim memory of the paramedics cutting Rook’s shirt off. Spotting the holy medal she had never seen before. And after, listening to his final, pleading voice mail urging her to call him back and saying that he had the video on him. Nikki saved that call, his last words before he was shot. Then she examined the St. Christopher, which was not just a medal but a locket. And hidden inside—a black microSD video chip about the size of a pinkie nail.
Lovell stood, having finished his DVD setup, and waited.
“Let me set the stage,” resumed Heat. “Memorial Day weekend, 2004, Alan Barclay, a news video shooter, followed Gene Huddleston, Jr., from a nightclub in the Meat Packing District. Huddleston was just out of rehab—again—and Barclay trailed him to the Bronx, hoping to score some salable footage of the bad boy making a drug purchase. Both he and Huddleston got more than they bargained for. Watch.” Lovell started the DVD as DeLongpre dimmed the lights.
The video began with the camera in motion. Jerky footage of a dashboard and then a blur as the videographer got out of his car—still rolling video—and crossed a dark street. This was the raw stuff they edited out of Cops.
A block later, the lens moved to a hiding place behind a low wall. The shaky picture settled as the shooter rested his camera on the top cinder block, using it as a brace. The lens zoomed in and focused on a car parked about thirty yards away in front of a warehouse. Under the orange sodium lamps it was easy to make out a man Heat recognized as Sergio Torres approaching the M5. Huddleston got out and they chatted. Their voices were too low to understand but their conversation was easy; Huddleston seemed familiar with Torres. Then everything changed.
Headlights approached from both ends of the block as two cars with police lights flashing roared in and screeched to a halt, sandwiching the BMW. One was a blue-and-white, the other a plain-wrap Crown Victoria. Huddleston shouted for Torres to run, but he didn’t. Instead, he grabbed the kid by his shirt and slammed him facedown over the hood of his M5, cuffing him while The Discourager approached from his cruiser and Van Meter and Steljess joined the party from the undercover vehicle.
Nobody seemed in a hurry. It had the menacing feel of something that had been worked out. Huddleston was the only one agitated, whining, “Aw, come on, don’t bust me, my dad’ll kill me,” and “Do you have any idea who my dad is?”
Steljess could be heard now, “Shut the fuck up,” right before he kicked him in the ass as he bent over the car. Huddleston shouted curses that were ignored as they hauled him upright by the cuffs and started to lead him toward the warehouse.
The bravado of privilege turned on a dime to fear. Huddleston freaked. “Hey, where are you—? Just take me to jail then . . . What are you doing?” He tried to make a break. “Hey?!” But the four cops held him in check easily.
The video shook as the camera adjusted its angle to track the group. When it settled again, they were nearing the warehouse under the graffiti-tagged sign for the uniform rental company that once operated there. The door opened from the inside and a man held it wide for them. Nikki didn’t recognize him but figured he completed the set of five—Ingram, the SUV driver she killed in the Transverse.