“But you do have income from your shipping business.”
“I am drawing from other resources at the moment. I had to place Gilbert Maritime into a blind trust this summer when I received my appointment to Port Authority. It’s all about avoiding conflict of interest. The Authority receives decades of my expertise; I receive, well, nothing.”
“Still, a JetRanger makes that commute from the Hamptons a snap,” said Rook, reloading Heat’s topic.
“Did you use your copter yesterday morning?” she asked.
“Yes, I did. I was flown from Southampton to a speaking engagement in Fort Lee for a Port Authority readiness seminar concerning the George Washington Bridge. Same drill I just mentioned. Why?”
“What time was that?”
“Let’s see…early. The pilot got me there at seven-thirty for the seven forty-five meeting.”
“And how long were you there?”
“Until four in the afternoon.” A time span that would have alibied Gilbert from being anywhere near the Upper West Side when Beauvais fell. “Why so interested in my comings and goings to Fort Lee?”
“Like I said, just in the job description. Thank you for your cooperation, Commissioner Gilbert. Most appreciated.”
“Happy to make the acquaintance of the famous Nikki Heat.” He gave her a double handshake and enveloped her hand warmly. She escorted Gilbert as far as the lobby then doubled back to him before he got outside to his waiting black Suburban. “Oh, one more question: Does the word ‘conscience’ mean anything to you?”
He laughed heartily. “Lady, I’m a politician. Are you serious?”
On her way back to the bull pen, Rook met her with a briefcase. “The commish left this in the conference room.”
Heat hustled through the lobby and saw he was still out there, engaged in a sidewalk phone call. When she came through the door, he had his back to her and was speaking sharply, nothing like the affable charmer she’d just interviewed. “I don’t care if he’s in a goddamned meeting. You get me Fred Lohman—now.” Then he spotted Nikki in his periphery, flashed a winning grin, rolled his eyes, and said of himself, “What an idiot.” He took the briefcase mumbling something about getting distracted.
On her way back inside, Heat wondered why Keith Gilbert so urgently needed to speak with one of Manhattan’s top criminal attorneys. As he slid into the rear passenger seat of his gleaming SUV, the Port Authority commissioner caught her eye and held it briefly. In that unguarded moment she saw something foreign on him.
Strain.
Then he pulled the door closed and left.
“Roach on your desk,” said Rook as Heat returned to the bull pen. She pushed aside her mail and picked up the landline.
“You two better not be messing this up.”
Her detectives chuckled on the other end. “Oh, did we have an assignment or something?” said Ochoa.
“Here’s the thirty-second drill,” added his partner. “Doorman got overpowered from behind by multiple assailants in the middle of the night and locked up in the mail room.”
“He’s OK; he’s the one who called it in,” added Ochoa from their speakerphone.
“They forced the tenth-floor apartment door with a crowbar. Which was also used on the victim, Shelton David, eighty-six-year-old male, Dead On Scene, blunt force bleed-out is the ME’s prelim. He was in his pajamas and had a Louisville Slugger beside him on the floor. Probably heard the noise and grabbed it to defend himself.”
Heat nudged aside the burnished mental image of her mother’s pool of blood on her kitchen floor and asked, “Any eyewits?”