Heat had witnessed such posturing many times before. Sometimes they meant it, sometimes it was a pose to keep the upper hand in the negotiation. She proceeded, assuming the latter. “I am willing to call the DA and ask for their best deal. But first I want to know who told you to kidnap Mr. Rook.” When he had settled down and folded his hands in his lap, she gave a little nudge. “Think about it, George. You’re stacking a lot of years.” He gave his chin a ruminating stroke. She could hear the rasp of his stubble six feet away. “It’s as easy as answering a few questions. Who is this Black Knight?”
She waited while he considered. Then his shoulders began to shake. Nikki wondered if he was starting to weep—but no, he was giggling. A raspy, gotcha giggle. “Wanna know how I’m going to cut a deal?” He picked up his manacles and bit at the chain. “With my teeth.” His laughter came harder, in hoarse bursts. He dropped the restraints and the laugh. “You can save your shit to feed some fool. Which I am not.” Gallatin leaned forward, speaking casually. “You know who I liked? I liked the FBI dude. He seemed like a nice man. Think I’ll take my chances with him instead of whatever bone you and your DA decide to throw me.” Then he leaned back in his chair again. “Changed my mind. I’ll take that lap dance now.”
Special Agent Delaney was on hold in the Observation Room when Heat came out. He was not too pleased with Nikki for dragging her feet but surprised her by not coming at her too hard. “Look, Captain, I’ve played Hide the Hood plenty of times myself over my career. So I get it. I know you think you can get something before we can. But you’ve had your fun. Tag, I’m it.”
Heat agreed to deliver George Gallatin personally to Federal Plaza within the half hour, but asked if, in exchange, she could take part in the interrogation. The agent sighed and said, “I’m going to agree. But I want something from you then.”
“Name it.”
“I want to know how the hell you managed to locate that hideout using the damn public library.”
While they prepped Gallatin for transport downtown, Heat made a stop in the homicide bull pen for the latest. Detective Feller reported the results of his preliminary inquiries with the Coast Guard and the Port Authority about the barge company. “Channel Maritime, LLC, has a history of safety and immigration violations—all of which just sorta went away.”
“Translation:” said Rook, “a friend in government.”
Made sense to Heat, and, of course, she thought of Congressman Duer. But she had a hard time imagining a man of his stature bothering with low-level graft in a rusting business. “Let’s keep our minds open,” she said.
To make sure George Gallatin didn’t get any heroic notions, three strapping patrolmen led him in cuffs from the precinct to Heat’s unmarked car, which she had left double-parked along with a half-dozen other police cars on West 82nd. One of them palmed the prisoner’s head so he wouldn’t whack it when they assisted him into the backseat and belted him in. “Comfy?” asked Heat, who was standing in the road with Rook.
Gallatin’s only response was to flick his tongue at her in mock cunnilingus. One of the uniforms handed Nikki a transfer voucher to sign. “All yours,” he said, and closed the back door.
The window was fogging from Gallatin’s taunting breath as Nikki got out her keys and said to Rook, “You sure you want to go?”
But before he could answer, the ignition cranked and her car started. She turned, bending to see who was at the wheel, but there was nobody in the front seat. “How’d you do that?” asked Rook.
“I didn’t.” Nikki was reaching for the driver’s-side door handle when she heard the thunk! of the locks engaging. She tugged at the door. “It won’t open. Try your side.”
Rook jogged around the trunk to the passenger door and gave it a yank. “Locked.” They both tried the rear doors. Same. Then the engine started to rev, a few quick vrooms at first, followed by repeated gunnings loud enough to bring the heads of the three officers back out the glass doors of the precinct lobby to see what gave. Heat looked around for something to break the driver’s side window when her car roared off up the street—on its own, driverless—burning rubber at very high speed. As it raced off, George Gallatin twisted around in his seat as far as his handcuffs would let him. He made eye contact with Nikki as the police car roared onward. His expression was anything but cocky.