“Mr. Nicolosi.” Heat calculated her greeting to keep it cool. Chillier yet for Barsotti, whom she didn’t acknowledge. He was on her shit list for refusing to cooperate after being such a pain to apprehend.
“Come on, doll, everybody calls me Fat Tommy.” He tugged at the loose fabric of his jumpsuit. “For now.” He hauled himself to his feet with some effort and spread his arms for Rook. “Come on, big fella, bring it in.” After a careful hug of the frail old man, Rook took a step back, and Tommy cupped a hand on his jaw. “You had me worried, you know that? When that detective came to check me out, see if I kidnapped you, I shit myself. Not literally, but that’s coming next, I’m waiting. Mind if I…?” He indicated the gaudy plastic chair and Rook and Barsotti eased him back down into the form-fitting ass mold.
Heat made a clock check. “Is there something we can help you with? Otherwise, if you came to see how Rook was doing—”
“Can you help me? You’ve got that backwards, Nikki Heat. I’m here to help you.”
“I’m listening.”
Fat Tommy adjusted the angle of his big sunglasses. That seemed to alter his demeanor at the same time. The Goodfellas act went out the window, and the mobster grew steely and severe in a way that gave Nikki a minor chill. “I wasn’t kidding about getting pissed when I heard somebody fucked with your boyfriend. Rook’s always been stand-up with me. We don’t need to get into details, but I respect this man. Time for me to show it. Now, I don’t know if what you wanted out of my associate has anything to do with whoever kidnapped him. But in case it does, I am here to give you Joseph Barsotti with my blessing for him to cooperate.”
Nikki regarded Barsotti, who gave her a shrug of assent. “Well,” she said. “That is most appreciated, Fat Tommy.”
“Hear that?” said Rook. “She called you Fat Tommy.”
“About fucking time.” Then, as Barsotti went through the metal detector and into the precinct with Heat and Rook, Tommy called after to her. “And smart move ditching that uniform. You’ve got too much going on to hide it.”
Rook turned to her as the door closed. “Wouldn’t it be funny if that’s the real reason he came? To mentally undress you?” Nikki gave him a stony look. “Perhaps more ironic than funny,” he said. “Let’s go with that.”
Heat made a quick stop in her office to take a moment to formulate a strategy. Over the years she had learned that the most powerful tool an interrogator has is an objective to work toward. With this opportunity sprung on her unexpectedly, she didn’t want to blow it, and so a pause to reflect would be time well spent. Once she had an idea, she gathered the materials she would need into her file, then made a few quick status checks.
Detective Aguinaldo had managed to track down some of her former Military Police colleagues from Creech AFB. “One of my MP buds remembered an incident with one Airman Timothy Maloney. He had been called in to investigate a sexual harassment claim and discovered that the enlisted man had been spying on a female officer—wait for it—with a hobby-grade drone. No charges were filed, because Maloney claimed he’d lost control of it. Nonetheless, they kicked him out of the base’s amateur drone club.”
So Yardley Bell’s information was confirmed, that Maloney had not been a USAF drone op, but he had gotten bitten by the UAV bug at Creech. The question for Heat was whether he had left his toys in Nevada, or brought the hobby to New York—with lethal consequences?