Raging Heat

“An indulgent stance when you’re not in my chair,” he said. “I want your assurance that you have a case.”


Nikki said yes, but didn’t feel it would be wise to share everything her squad had gathered. Maybe she didn’t have a law degree, but Heat knew what an abundance of caution was, too. “I’ve got solid stuff, Zach. I’ve got forensic evidence. I’ve got phone records connecting Gilbert to Beauvais, even though he denied knowing him. I’ve got the doctor who treated Beauvais, who ID’d Gilbert to him as the guy who shot him.”

“Tell me you have the gun.”

“I have a search warrant in-process.”

“What’s the delay? No, let me guess, Wally Irons.”

“You win.”

Zach Hamner didn’t laugh. The Hammer never laughed because he wasn’t human. But this time, his sourness had cause; he was feeling pressure. “We have to get this right, Heat. You have to get it right. A dropped ball will hurt the whole team, but a fumble on your end will have most serious repercussions vis-à-vis your viability for future endeavors. You know what I’m talking about, right?”

“Yes, of course, the task force.” She saw Rook look up from his screen and quickly back at that mention. Would this open discussion, or just be the elephant in the kitchen? Nikki yearned for friendly contact and came around the counter to drape an arm on Rook.

“Fine then,” said The Hammer. She heard papers shuffling on his desk. “Let’s cover some bases. Keep digging. And bring in that doctor for a sworn statement. I’ll see what I can do to move along the search warrant for the gun.”

“That would be helpful.”

“All I can say is, this better be airtight. Let me hear you say it.” When Heat didn’t respond, he said, “Detective?”

Nikki didn’t reply because she was too transfixed by what she happened to see on Rook’s MacBook. It was a security camera still photo. Two men—both dangerous-looking, with prison time written on their faces—were leaning into the foreground of the shot, which had the slightly fish-eye effect you got from a wide-angle lens. Heat had seen many pictures like this before. This pair was caught in the act of installing a dummy keypad and card skimmer to steal PINs and account codes from ATMs. But that’s not what gave her pause. What made Heat momentarily speechless was who she saw standing lookout in the background: Fabian Beauvais.

“Hello? Did I lose you?”

“No, I’m here.” And then, trying to sound like she still believed it, Nikki said, “…Airtight.”





Nikki set her phone on the counter and quietly examined the image on the computer screen of Fabian Beauvais with the two thugs monkeying with the ATM. She paid special attention to the pair to see if she knew either of them as her ambushers from Chelsea. Not only did she not recognize them, they were totally different breeds. The Chelsea gang, including the SRO duo, had a paramilitary flavor, clean-cut, disciplined, even dressed in uniforms of a sort. The two in this picture with Beauvais were street players. Urban gangstas, wild-ass freaks born to raise hell. “When did you get this?”

“Now. Came as e-mail overnight. Looks like I got two files. The other one’s a video. Want to see what it’s about?” He didn’t need an answer. Rook had already executed his trackpad clicks.

Street surveillance video came up, shot from an elevated cam, probably bracketed to a lamppost. It had no audio, but the texture, although grainy, was sharp enough to make out Fabian Beauvais running up an urban sidewalk toward the camera, throwing panicked glances over his shoulder at the two men chasing him. Seconds after he ran out of the frame, his pursuers stopped right under the camera. One of them raised a pistol and fired. Heat counted three muzzle flashes. After the shooting, the two thugs—the same gangstas from the ATM still photo—cocked their heads to look off-camera in Beauvais’s direction and then backed away, jogging out of the shot the same way they’d come into it.