* * *
Heat mulled resources and decided it would be more productive for her to wait for the manager of the underground sex club to arrive and unlock the video closet. That way she could free up her own pair of detectives to snag some uniformed officers and canvass the neighborhood on foot. Since the taxi team had volunteered to hit the diners, all-night workers, and delivery guys, she charged Raley and Ochoa (collectively and always affectionately known as “Roach”) to concentrate on finding an ID or a wallet. “You should do the usual scans. Trash cans, Dumpsters, subway grates, under apartment stoops, or anyplace else that’s a handy place for a dump and run. Not a lot of doorman buildings in this neighborhood, but if you see one, ask. Oh, and check out the Phoenix House up the block. Maybe some of our friends in recovery were up and heard or saw something.”
Roach’s cell phones chimed about two seconds apart. Heat held up her own mobile and said, “That’s a head shot I just e-mailed you of our vic. If you get a chance, flash it, you never know.”
“Right,” said Ochoa. “Who doesn’t love to have a picture of a choking victim shoved in their face before breakfast?”
As they started up the stairs to street level, she called after them, “And make note of any surveillance cams you see with a street view. Banks, jewelry stores, you know the drill. We can drop in and have them do a playback when they open for business later this morning.”
* * *
Detective Heat had to shake off a foul mood after dealing with the manager of Pleasure Bound. Nikki doubted the woman had been awakened by Raley. On the contrary, Roxanne Paltz vibed having been up all night, heavily and severely made up and arriving in a tight vinyl outfit that creaked whenever she moved on the chair in her office. Her granny glasses had blue lenses matching the tips of her spiky, bleach-damaged hair, which gave off the unmistakable scent of cannabis. When Nikki told her the real reason they were there, the dead man in her torture chamber, she lost color and reeled. Heat showed her the picture on her cell phone, and the woman nearly got sick. She sat down unsteadily and drank a sip of the water Nikki gave her from the cooler, but after she recovered, said she’d never seen the guy.
When Nikki asked if she could have a look at the surveillance video, it got contentious, and Roxanne Paltz was suddenly all about constitutional rights. Speaking with the authority of someone who had been hassled for running a sex trade business, she cited just cause, unlawful search, client confidentiality, and freedom of expression. Her lawyer was on speed dial, and even though it wasn’t even six in the morning, she called and woke him up, Nikki having to deal with her raccoon mascara glower while she parroted back his certainty that no cabinets could be unlocked or video screened without a judge’s warrant.
“I’m just asking for a little cooperation,” said Nikki.
Roxanne sat there listening to the attorney on her phone, nodding and nodding, vinyl creaking with each head bob. And then she hung up. “He says to go fuck yourself.”
Nikki Heat paused and gave a slight smile. “Judging from some of the equipment you’ve got here, this would probably be the one place I could actually do that.”
* * *
The detective knew she would get the search warrant and had just ended her call downtown to get the wheels turning on one when her phone vibrated in her hand. It was Raley. “Come topside, I think we got something.”