She thought a beat and said, “He’s alive.” The detective let that simple fact provide all the details. “If I need vengeance kicks, I just Netflix Charles Bronson. Or Jodie Foster.” She turned to him. “Besides, I was aiming at you. You’re the one I wanted to kill.”
“And I even signed that liability waiver.”
“Lost opportunity, Rook. It’s going to haunt me.”
Roach stepped out of the building and came over. Ochoa said, “Paramedics are bringing him out now.”
Nikki waited until they carried Paxton’s gurney down the steps and rolled it up to the curb before she walked over followed by Raley, Ochoa, and Rook. In the harsh utility light shining down from above the ambulance door, Noah’s face was the color of an oyster. She checked with the paramedic standing with him. “Is he OK for a quick chat?”
“A minute or two, but that’s it,” said the EMT.
Heat stood so she loomed over him. “Just want you to know one good thing came out of that little hostage drama up there. Your gun. It’s a twenty-?five. Same caliber that killed Pochenko. We’re running ballistics on it. And giving you a paraffin test for gunpowder residue. What do you think we’ll find?”
“I have nothing to say.”
“What, no spoilers? Fine, I can wait for the results. Do you want me to call you with them, or would you rather wait to hear them at your arraignment?” Paxton looked away from her. “Tell me, when you raced over here to get your hands on those paintings, were you going to use it on Kimberly Starr, too? Is that why you had the gun with you?”
When he didn’t answer, she spoke to her team. “Kimberly owes me.”
“Big-?time,” said Raley.
Ochoa added, “You probably saved her life when you arrested her.”
Noah rolled his head back to face her. “You already arrested her?”
Heat nodded. “This afternoon, right after I found the paintings in the basement.”
“But that phone call to me. The one you wiretapped…”
“She was already in custody. Kimberly made that call for me.”
“Why?”
“Why else? To get you to come to my art show.” Nikki gave the sign to the paramedics and stepped away so the last picture the detective saw was the look on Noah Paxton’s face.
The heat wave broke late that night, and it did not go quietly. As a front from Canada bullied its way down the Hudson, it collided with the hot, stagnant air of New York and spawned an aerial show of lightning, swirling winds, and sideways rain. TV meteorologists patted themselves on the back and pointed to red and tangerine splotches on Doppler radar as the skies opened and the thunder ripped like cannon fire through the stone and glass canyons of Manhattan.
On Hudson in Tribeca, Nikki Heat slowed down to avoid splashing the diners huddled under umbrellas outside Nobu, praying in vain for open cabs to get them uptown in the downpour. She turned onto Rook’s street and pulled the police car into an open space in a loading zone up the block from his building.
“You still pissed at me?” he said.
“No more than usual.” She put the car in Park. “I just get quiet after I clear a case. It’s like I’ve been turned inside out.”
Rook hesitated, something on his mind. “Anyway, thanks for the ride in all this.”
“No problem.”
Frankenstein lightning hit so close that the strobe flash lit their faces the same time as the thunder crack. Tiny hailstones began to pepper the roof. “If you see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” said Rook, “duck.”
She gave up a thin laugh that turned into a yawn. “Sorry.”
“Sleepy?”
“No, tired. I’m way too cranked to sleep.”
They sat listening to the storm rage. A car crept past with water up to its hubcaps.