Rook came along in Heat’s car to where the Bronx meets the water’s edge on a tidy residential avenue of freestanding duplexes, single-family two-story Capes, one-and two-car garages, clean yards, no shortage of wrought iron fences painted white, American flags on display, and a portable basketball hoop parked in the gutter about every half block as if by city ordinance. “Here we go,” said Rook, as if Nikki could miss the three radio cars and the Crime Scene Unit van in front of the cream-and-beige clapboard surrounded by Do Not Cross tape.
They pulled into the space created by the departing ambulance, which left with no lights or siren on. A traffic officer gestured for clusters of looky-loo neighbors to clear the street to let it out. On the walk up to the door, Nikki drew in a chestful of clear air that tasted of the sea. On a warmer day, with fewer murders and less bureaucracy on her back, she might have gone sailboarding. As she exhaled, Nikki told herself the fact that she had not one second to consider that was probably the very reason she should just go do it. Someday, she thought. But not today.
When Heat and Rook had cleared the vinyl tape and approached the red brick driveway they found Nathan Levy seated with his legs dangling over the open tailgate of his silver F-450 swigging a bottle of Brooklyn Lager. He gave Rook a head dip of acknowledgment, which seemed to be as far as Levy wanted to go with him. Heat flashed tin and ID’d herself. Levy brought the bottle down and said, “Open container, but it’s my own property, so cool, right?”
“We’re not here to enforce Quality of Life on you, Mr. Levy.”
“Good, because I fucking need something to steady my nerves.”
On first meeting, it didn’t seem to Heat that he needed an excuse. She could see evidence of his drinking in the puffy eyelids and the meaty complexion that didn’t go with the cross-fit build. The Mardi Gras beads dangling from the pickup’s rearview mirror also suggested a party-hearty lifestyle. “Were you hit? I heard you weren’t hit.”
He shook his head no. “Ambulance was just a precaution, I guess. Or what they do. Hell if I know. I don’t even know what I fucking know anymore.”
Nikki waited for him to tip back another swallow of beer. Even in his loose tee shirt, the solidness of his upper body was evident. It was hard to be sure, the way he was seated on the tailgate, but she made him out to be on the short side, yet in the way that athletes such as divers, soccer players, and yes, race car drivers, are: compact, lean, agile. She imagined his hands on a steering wheel testing tight turns on the proving track, flexing against G-forces and winning. “Do you mind telling me what happened?”
He barked out a laugh barked, and she could smell hops. “Somebody fucking shot at me, that’s what happened.” Shock did funny things, so she waited him out. He set the bottle on the truck-bed liner beside him and explained. “I was coming out to go meet my buds for a rehearsal. Out of fucking nowhere, I hear this—bang!—gunshot. Something zips past me. A bullet. It smacks the garage behind me.”
Both Heat and Rook turned behind him. In the gap between his performance pickup and the white M3, a single bullet hole punctuated the frame of his garage door, right above his saxophone case, which lay sideways on the bricks where CSU was setting up shop.
“Close,” said Rook. “You see where it came from?”
“I was a little busy trying not to piss my pants.” And once again dialing down the asshole factor, he went further. “I wasn’t paying much attention. I’ve been kind of distracted since Fred Lobbrecht bought it. It really hit me.”
Rook, not hiding his annoyance at Levy’s snarkiness, said, “So much so that you were going to jam with your buds?”
Levy frowned at Rook. Then he took another swig and continued his account. “So I duck. And here’s the freaky part. I come up and see this flying saucer, you know, one of those drone things at the end of my driveway, zipping off.”
“Which way?” said Heat and Rook in unison.
Levy pointed over the roof of his house.
“Can we look?” Nikki asked.