“Everyone like who?”
“Patients, I guess. I took a hike. But I did hear the fucker say he was going to kill King.” He waited and continued. “He said he was going to kill him. You didn’t write that down.”
Heat flicked a forefinger at the yellow pad in front of Barsotti. “You write it down.” Then she took out another photo from her file and dealt it to him across the table. “What about this guy? Ever see him?” He studied it a moment and nodded. “Are you certain?”
“Yes. A couple of times. Basically just hanging out at the medical building. I thought he was a doctor or something. But I remember seeing him.”
“I’m going to ask you to think. Get a calendar if you need one, and give me the dates and times.” Heat suppressed the exhilaration she felt, and she could tell from her connection to the man beside her that Rook was right there with her. She took the photo back and left.
Heat and Rook speed-strode the hall and into the bull pen. “We may have just gotten some traction,” she announced. The homicide squad gathered around. “Look who Joseph Barsotti just ID’d as someone he saw hanging around Lon King’s office multiple times.” Nikki posted the photo from her file on the Murder Board. “Eric Vreeland.”
“Tangier Swift’s PI?”
“None other,” said Rook.
Ochoa turned from the picture to Heat. “That’s large.”
“Extra,” she said. “I want Vreeland brought back in. It doesn’t make him the killer—necessarily—but it is our first nexus between Tangier Swift, Lon King, and Nathan Levy.”
“Two of our homicide victims,” said Raley.
Heat’s brow pulled into a vertical crease. “Two of our victims…” she said, but it sounded unsure enough to be a question.
“Just got the call,” said Feller. “They found Nathan Levy’s body in his truck fifteen minutes ago.”
“Poetic.” That was Rook’s first word when they got to the crime scene. And he wasn’t too wrong, Nikki thought. An automobile test driver killed behind the wheel might qualify. Except the only rhyme Heat saw was the hole in his forehead, same as two of the other vics.
Heat had gotten there quickly, even before the Medical Examiner, which gave her a clearer view of the site, a self-pay parking lot under the Highline, not far from Chelsea Piers. The patrol team that spotted the performance pickup truck had not only been alert, they were well trained. Rather than contaminating the scene, which happened with maddening frequency, they hadn’t done anything more than glove up and open the driver’s side door to see if he was alive or not. After that, the officers caution-taped the driveway to secure the zone and did the best possible thing. They waited.
“So the door was closed when you got here?” Heat asked, ever thorough.
“Yes,” answered the patrolwoman. “But the side window was down.”
Nikki walked back and forth, surveying the open door and the rolled-down window, then peeked inside. “Was the ignition turned on like it is now?”
“Huh, I didn’t notice.”
Beginner’s eyes, Heat told herself. She always came to her scenes as if she were just learning how to do this. Nothing got taken for granted that way. Veterans had a nasty habit of overlooking things. She made a note of the engaged ignition and that the battery seemed dead. The setup suggested Levy probably had been sitting there listening to the radio when he bought it. The seatbelt was unfastened and retracted. As for the body itself, it was facing the open window, but tilted back and away toward the passenger side—an obvious consequence of the gunshot.
Rook said, “May I state the obvious? Unless you can convince me this is a suicide, Mr. Levy’s not looking so good as our killer.”