“I want a lawyer.”
“And so you shall have one. You’re going to need one, too. Your biker pal, Doc? He…I don’t want to say “dropped the dime,” that’s so Starsky and Hutch.” Nikki’s digressions were pissing him off, which made her want to do them all the more. Get him rattled, loosen his tongue. “Let’s be more civilized, let’s say he implicated you in a sworn statement.”
“I don’t know any bikers.”
“Interesting. Because Doc, a biker, by the way, says you were the one who hired him to pull the art theft at the Guilford. He says you made a rush call to him when the blackout hit. You asked him to get a crew together to break into the Starr apartment and steal all the artwork.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s tough to put a crew together for a big job like that on short notice, Gerald. Doc says he came up short and asked you to be his fourth on the job. Which, I guess is why you had to call in and tell Henry you couldn’t make your shift. I love the irony. You had to call in and say you couldn’t work so you could come in and pull a job. Do you appreciate irony, Gerald?”
“Why are you tearing my place up? What are you looking for?”
“Anything that can make your life difficult,” Heat said. Raley appeared in the doorway, held up a handgun, and continued his search. “That might do. Hope that’s got a permit, or this could be a troublesome visit.”
“Bitch.”
“You know it,” she said with a smile. He turned his head away and just sat there. “So much to talk about.”
Ochoa spoke from the living room. “Detective Heat?” Raley came in to take her place with the prisoner as Nikki excused herself.
Buckley looked at Rook and said, “What are you staring at?”
“A man in deep doo-?doo.”
Ochoa stood at the far end of the couch, where the liquor cabinet door was open. He pointed inside and said, “I found this stashed in here behind the peppermint schnapps and gin bottles.” With his gloved hand, he held up a camera. An expensive, high-?quality digital SLR.
“Check it out.” He turned the camera body upside down so she could read the tiny rectangular inventory label with the bar code and serial number on the bottom. And the print above the code read, “Property of Sotheby’s.”
Heat Wave
FIFTEEN
Jameson Rook stood in the precinct Observation Room staring in at Interrogation, where Gerald Buckley waited, fully involved in picking his nose. The door opened and closed behind Rook. Nikki Heat glided up to his elbow and looked through the window with him. “Charming,” she said.
“Know what’s worse? I can’t look away.” Indeed, Rook kept watching as he said, “Don’t they know people are watching them on the other side of that mirror? And the guy’s got to want it, manacled like that.”
“Are you quite done?”
“Yes.”
“Sotheby’s confirms the serial number as Barbara Deerfield’s camera. The memory chip is full of shots she took of Starr’s art collection.”
“Taken that morning?” he asked. “The shots will be time stamped.”
“Ooo, scary good. Somebody’s catching on.” He took a small bow and she continued. “Yes, from the morning of. Raley’s copying all the photos to his hard drive.”
“Raley, the new king of all media.”
“I believe that would be czar.”
“So that means Buckley was either there when she was killed, or he got her camera from Pochenko after.” He turned to her. “Or am I offending your methodical ways with my reckless speculation?”
“No, actually, I’m right there with you this time, writer boy. Either way, that camera connects Buckley and Pochenko.” She moved toward the door to Interrogation. “Let’s see if I can get him to say how.”
She was just reaching for the door when Ochoa came in from the hall. “His lawyer just got here.”
“You know, I thought I heard the garbage truck.”
“You may have a little time. Somehow her briefcase got lost when she was coming through security.”