“That’s right, six,” said Rook. The first thing he said and it was a shot at her.
“Did he suffer?”
“No,” said Heat, “he died instantly.”
Lamb grinned, showing a row of laminates. “Well, maybe in hell, then.”
Their gold Crown Victoria rolled south on the West Side Highway, the AC blasting and humidity condensing into wisps of fog around the dashboard vents. “So what’s your take?” asked Rook. “Think Omar offed him?”
“Could have. I’ve got him on my list, but that’s not what that was about.”
“Glad to hear it, Detective. No rush, there’s only, what, three million more people to meet and greet in New York. Not that you aren’t a charming interviewer.”
“God, you’re impatient. Did you tell Bono you were tired of relief stations in Ethiopia? Did you push the Chechen warlords to pick up the pace? ‘Come on, Ivan, let’s see a little warlord action?’”
“I just like to cut through, is all.”
She was glad for this sea change. It got her off his personal radar, so she ran with it. “You want to actually learn something on this ride-?along project of yours? Try listening. This is police work. Killers don’t walk around with bloody knives on them, and the home invasion crews don’t dress like the Hamburglar. You talk to people. You listen. You see if they’re hiding something. Or sometimes, if you pay attention, you get insight; information you didn’t have before.”
“Like what?”
“Like this.”
As they pulled up, the Starr construction site on Eleventh Avenue on the lower west side was dead. Almost noon, and no sign of work. No sign of workers. It was a ghost site. She parked off the street, on the dirt strip between the curb and the plywood construction fence. When they got out, Nikki said, “You hear what I hear?”
“Nothing.”
“Exactly.”
“Yo, miss, this is a closed site, you gotta go.” A guy in a hard hat and no shirt kicked up dust on his way to meet them as they squeezed in the chain-?link gate. With that swagger and that gut, Heat could picture whooping New Jersey housewives sticking dollar bills in his Speedo. “You, too, buddy,” he said to Rook. “Adios.” Heat flashed tin and Shirtless mouthed the F-?bomb.
“Bueno,” said Rook.
Nikki Heat squared herself to the guy. “I want to talk to your foreman.”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
She cupped a hand to her ear. “Did you hear me ask? No, I definitely don’t think it was a question.”
“Oh, my God. Jamie?” The voice came from across the yard. A skinny man in sunglasses and blue satin warm-?ups stood in the open door of the site trailer.
“Heyyy,” called Rook. “Fat Tommy!”
The man waved them over. “Come on, hurry up, I’m not air-?conditioning the Tri-?State Area, you know.”
Inside the double-?wide, Heat sat with Rook and his pal, but she didn’t take the chair she was offered. Although there were no current warrants on him, Tomasso “Fat Tommy” Nicolosi ran enforcement for one of the New York families, and caution dictated she not get wedged in between the table and the Masonite wall. She took the outside seat and angled it so her back wasn’t to the door. Through his smile, the look she got from Fat Tommy said he knew exactly what she was doing.
“What happened to you, Fat Tommy? You’re not fat.”
“The wife’s got me doing NutroMinder. God, has it been that long since I saw you?” He took off his tinted glasses and turned his pouchy eyes to Heat. “Jamie was doing this article a couple of years ago on ‘the life’ on Staten Island. We got to know each other, he seemed OK for a reporter, and what do you know, he ends up doing me a little favor.” Heat smiled thinly and he laughed. “Don’t worry, Detective, it was legal.”
“I just killed a couple guys is all.”
“Kidder. Have you noticed he’s a kidder?”
“Oh, Jamie? He has me going all the time,” she said.
“OK,” said Fat Tommy, “I can see this ain’t no social call, so go ahead. The two of us can catch up later.”