“None yet. We’ve got some unis canvassing the building and, of course, we’re already scoping for cams that might have picked up something.” Ochoa’s sure-footed rundown made her feel proud of these guys for seizing the moment. “CSU is here now, dusting and tweezing.”
“This old guy was a prime target. A retired broker from the Gordon Gekko days who had plenty to show for it.” Detective Ochoa drifted off mic. Heat could picture him surveying the apartment as he spoke. “The place has been tossed pretty good, but we contacted his insurer so we can get an inventory, in case somebody tries to fence anything.”
“Good move,” she said. “He was a stockbroker, so you might also check past clients or business partners. Gekko’s gone. We’re in the Madoff era now, so maybe somebody was getting revenge.”
Raley said, “Ahead of you,” and she could hear his smile at being able to say it. “Opie’s got a buddy at the First Precinct who’s the Wall Street go-to. His pal’s already doing some legwork for us.”
“Well, you guys are making me feel sort of unnecessary.”
“Just doin’ our jobs, ma’am,” said Ochoa before they hung up. “Just doin’ our jobs.”
The second she cradled her phone Rook took a seat on her pile of mail. “What’s your take on Commissioner Gilbert?”
“You really want to know?” she asked. Heat mulled the numerous possibilities she had been weighing and said, “Too soon to tell.”
He grinned and stood. Then he made a show of extracting a five-dollar bill from one pants pocket and putting it in his other. “I bet myself that’s what you’d say.”
“You’re a wiseass, know that?”
“Wise, smart, irresistible, whatever. This ass is all yours, Nikki Heat.”
Even clowning like he was, that declaration sparked another chest flutter, an echo of the one she’d felt that morning when she found the receipt. Nikki diverted by clearing her e-mail. “Check this out from Forensics.” He leaned in, his shoulder gently brushing against hers as they shared the screen. She didn’t move away. “The lab found residue of chicken blood and chicken feathers on that New Balance trainer from the planetarium.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?”
“Rook, I swear if you say he was a trying to be a birdman…”
He pulled a face. “Birdman? Where the hell did you come up with something as whack as that? I was going to say voodoo sacrifice.”
She hung her head and shook it. “All right,” he said, “you doubt me? Fire up your search engine and type in “Haiti” and “chicken blood” and see if Mr. Google doesn’t slap you with a page of voodoo links.”
“I don’t need to, Rook, I’m sure that’s so. But I had a more practical thought. An illegal immigrant needs a job, right?” She entered a search for chicken slaughterhouses in the area and came up with three. “I remember passing one of these places once in Queens and a lot of alien day laborers were hanging around outside hoping for work. Now, I won’t rule out some voodoo connection, but with two of these places so near to Flatbush, don’t you think we’d be smarter to put our limited manpower there first?”
“Well,” he said. “I suppose I can humor you.”
“You from the Health Department?” hollered the woman. The screen door of the rundown corner market slammed behind her and she rushed across the road toward the undercover car, nearly getting clipped by a lumber-supply truck. “The fuck took you so long? I been calling.”
Their second slaughterhouse that afternoon, and this marked the second complainer to accost them on arrival. An amused Rook came around to join Nikki on the sidewalk, which was wet in a radius around a coiled hose and tinged pink from rinsed blood. “No ma’am, I’m with the police.”