Raging Heat

Heat had no issue with wealth. She just never felt impressed with someone just because he or she had it. Nikki’s mother, who spent her postcollege years tutoring piano in some of the wealthiest homes in Europe used to tell her, “Money magnifies,” which was to say it only enlarges your nature. Give a million to a meth addict, in a year you’re not going to see anything but a lawn full of weeds and a mouth with fewer teeth.

Danny led them past the winding staircase through a showplace kitchen that included an actual curved-glass, refrigerated deli counter full of sausages and cheese, shelves lined with canisters of color-coordinated pastas, and a collection of pepper mills through the years. That led to a den, which was recessed a step down and done in darker, more clubby colors than the airy off-whites and ecrus of the rooms they’d passed through. Without being overly precious, this shipping magnate’s home office was designed and decorated to appear exactly like the fantasy image of a captain’s quarters on an early twentieth-century luxury liner. Portholes with brass framing gave onto the infinity pool, and beyond it, the sea. The beadboard ceiling felt low and enveloping. A stand-up desk, angled for a view of the room dominated one corner. A heavy wooden executive desk overlooked the hearth and was flanked by wing chairs of bottle green leather and finished with hammered brass nails.

They watched the caretaker go to a built-in cabinet of the wet bar. He opened one glass door and felt around the inside frame on one side, and, not finding what he was looking for, did the same on the other. “Huh. He said the key was in here.”

“You’ve never gotten it before?”

He looked at her like she was nuts. “Nobody comes in this room but Mr. G.” He closed that cabinet and opened the door next to it. He reached in and Heat heard a small metallic tink against a coupe glass. “Gotcha.” Danny came out with a small key looped on a circular leather thong. As he went to the big desk and knelt beside one of the large file drawers, Nikki thought about the choice of weapon on Gilbert’s registration. If you were going to get a handgun for home protection, the revolver was a good option for the amateur owner. The mechanics were uncomplicated—pistols jammed—and the Sturm Ruger .38 Spl +P had a concealed hammer, which made the weapon easier to draw and clear without snagging.

The small latch clicked and Heat came around the desk beside Danny. “I’ll take it from here, thank you.” He did his habitual shrug-nod and stood away, giving her access. Nikki drew the brass handle back and looked inside. She turned to the caretaker and said, “We’re good from here. I’ll give you the key on our way out.”

It took Danny a few seconds to comprehend he was being dismissed, but then he left the room. Aguinaldo studied Heat, and when Nikki tilted her glance downward, the other detective came around the desk to look inside the drawer.

There was nothing in it but an empty holster.


Back outside on the driveway, Inez Aguinaldo returned a casual wave to the officer in a black and silver Southampton Town police cruiser that was U-turning on the shoulder to park behind them. She said to Nikki, “I have to say you were pretty chill in there.”

Although she may have seemed unfazed, the instant Heat saw the empty holster it had felt like a pinball was suddenly released in her brain and that the shiny marble was bouncing around up there, tripping lights and dinging bells in a quick succession of questions: Where was the gun? Ding. Why did Gilbert cooperate with the warrant if he knew it was gone? Ding. Did he have any idea it was gone? Ding. Did he know, and merely act cooperative as a pose of innocence? Ding? Was it somewhere in the house, or somewhere in the surf? Ding-ding. “Chill is all relative, Detective Aguinaldo.”

“I don’t believe for a second that Gilbert forgot where his gun was,” said the local. “I mean, you saw that office. It’s as orderly as the Smithsonian in there. Everything in its perfect place.”