Heat sucked in her lips, thinking. “That’s all fine, very likely in fact.”
“So don’t you think I’ve made my case for the time of death for Barbara Deerfield?”
“Oh, I’m already with you there. But you’re missing an even bigger point, Mr. Reporter.”
“Which is?”
“Which is a big why,” said the detective. “If there is a connection between these two murders, why did Pochenko kill Barbara Deerfield first? That’s a motive question. Work backwards from the motive and you usually find a killer.”
Rook looked at the board and then back to her. “You know, Mick Jagger never made me work this hard.”
But she didn’t seem to hear him. Heat was focused on Ochoa, who was coming into the room.
“Did it come in?” she asked. Ochoa held up some folded papers. “Excellent.”
“What’s going on?” said Rook.
“Some people wait for ships to come in, I wait for warrants.” Heat stepped to her desk and picked up her shoulder bag. “If you promise to be a good boy this time, I’ll let you come watch me arrest someone.”
Heat and Rook walked up the stairs of the dingy apartment building and turned onto the second floor at the landing. It was an old brownstone gone duplex in Hell’s Kitchen that somebody must have thought could use some paint because everything was painted instead of repaired. At this hour of the day, the air was ripe with a combo of disinfectant and cooking odors. The stifling heat only made it a more tactile experience.
“Are you sure he’s here?” said Rook in a whisper. Even then, his voice echoed like a cathedral rotunda.
“Positive,” she said. “We’ve had him under surveillance all day.”
Nikki stopped at apartment 27. The brass numerals had long ago, and many times, been painted over. A fossilized drip of pale green enamel formed a tear off the 7. Rook was standing right in front of the door. Nikki put her hands on his waist and placed him to the side. “In case he shoots. Don’t you ever watch Cops?” She stood to the opposite side. “Now, you stay out in the hall until I give the all clear.”
“I could have waited in the car for this.”
“You still can.”
He weighed that and took a half step back and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Heat knocked.
“Who is it?” came the muffled voice inside.
“NYPD, Gerald Buckley, open the door, we have a warrant.” Nikki made a short count of two, pivoted, and kicked the door down. She drew and entered the apartment, catching the door on the rebound and giving it her shoulder as she went through. “Freeze, now!”
She caught a glimpse of Buckley disappearing into the hall. She made sure the living room was clear before she followed, and in the brief lag before she entered the bedroom, he had time to get a leg out the window. Through the curtains she could see Ochoa waiting on the fire escape for him. Buckley stopped and started to come back inside. Nikki gave him a surprise assist, holstering her gun and yanking him backward by the collar.
“Whoa,” said Rook with awe.
Nikki turned to see him standing in the bedroom behind her. “I thought I told you to wait outside.”
“It smells out there.”
Turning her attention back on Buckley, who was facedown on the floor, Heat pulled his hands behind him.
Gerald Buckley, dishonored Guilford doorman, sat a few minutes later with his hands cuffed at his own dinette. Nikki and Rook sat on either side of him while Roach searched his place.
“I don’t know why you’re bugging me,” he said. “This what you do every time there’s a rip-?off somewhere, hassle the guys who happen to work there?”
“I’m not hassling you, Gerald,” said Heat, “I’m arresting you.”