“Access to material evidence, lying, her admission that she hid from us.”
He sucked his teeth. “After the DA pulled your arrest, they’re not going to go for search warrants on that foundation.”
“No, but I think I know who will. Your old poker buddy.”
“Judge Simpson? Don’t you owe him money from the last game?”
“Perfect. Then he’ll take my call.”
After Heat completed her conversation with Horace Simpson, who agreed to her request for a search warrant of Alicia Delamater’s Manhattan rental, she made one more call. This one went to Detective Sergeant Inez Aguinaldo in Southampton, who began by offering her condolences to Nikki and the precinct after the death of the captain.
Nikki thanked her and said, “I know I’ve been leaning on you a lot, but I’d like to press my luck.”
“Name it.”
“And I’m sure you’re busy with your own ramp-up to Sandy.”
“Tell me what you need, Detective Heat. I’ll make the storm wait.”
So Nikki voiced her request for Aguinaldo to search Delamater’s house at Beckett’s Neck.
When she told the Southampton investigator what to look for, she asked, “Won’t I need a warrant?”
“Oh, right,” said Heat. “That’s my second favor.”
The other detective laughed and told her she knew just who to call. “That’s the virtue of a tight community.”
Nikki finished the conversation feeling fortunate to have crossed paths with Inez Aguinaldo, who, at each step, obliterated the cliché of the small-town cop. She placed the phone back in its cradle and rotated her chair so she could reassess the Murder Board on the other side of the squad room. The latest addition was a purple line drawn with an arrow from Zarek Braun to a new name in handwriting she could hardly recognize as her own: CAPT. WALLY IRONS.
Tilting her head, she peered into the darkness of his office. In the coppery glow of the sodium streetlamps spilling in the window, Nikki made out a familiar shape: the reflection, in dry cleaner plastic, of his media-ready, dress uniform shirt. The light began to slowly diffuse as in the form of a headless ghost-man; however, it was no apparition. Just a blur from bone-deep fatigue. The aura faded away and, the next thing Heat knew, a hand was gently rocking her shoulder while a voice from a distant tunnel asked her to wake up.
Her eyes popped open and she arched up in her task chair. Roach stood over her. “Sorry to startle you,” said Ochoa. “My BCI man just called. They’ve cornered Earl Sliney and Mayshon Franklin.”
The cobwebs dissolved and she got to her feet. As she grabbed her coat, Raley asked, “What about him?” Across the bull pen, Rook had his head down on a desk.
She called out, “Rook,” and his head gophered up. “We’re rolling.” Through his walrus yawn he called shotgun.
They convoyed with gum balls lit but no sirens across the Williamsburg Bridge to Brooklyn; Heat, Rook, and Feller leading Raley, Ochoa, and Rhymer in the Roach Coach. Behind them the Manhattan skyline set the low ceiling ablaze like a CGI special effect and the car got buffeted by forceful gusts advertising the imminent arrival of a hurricane.
Rook scrolled his iPad and called out occasional tidbits about the storm. “Whoa, with the freak convergence of meteorological factors and the full moon tomorrow night, they say there could be storm surges of eleven to twelve feet. Know what that means, don’t you? Ocean-view dining in Times Square.”
“If I have to sit back here,” said Detective Feller, “can I at least have some quiet?”
The silence that followed lasted a full ten seconds before Rook finger-swiped another Web page and horse chuckled. “Are there any fans of irony here? The Metropolitan Opera announced it’s canceling performances of The Tempest, due to—wait for it—the hurricane. Gotta love it.” Another burst of wind pounded the Taurus and he hollered at the window, “‘Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow!’”
“Uh, Rook?” said Heat.