The houses in that neighborhood were narrow but deep, like shoeboxes. With a slight limp, Nathan Levy led them through the breezeway between his home and his neighbors’. When they reached his backyard, they mounted the cedar deck that overlooked the bay formed by the mouth of the East River. “This is where it went. Where it flew to or from is anybody’s guess.”
Immediately to the left and right were more decks and more backyards, nothing special. Peering beyond, Heat and Rook could see, to the north, the Throggs Neck Bridge to Queens, crossing above the SUNY Maritime College on its way over the water. To the south lay the new Trump golf course at Ferry Point and the Whitestone Bridge beyond that. Plenty of open land, lots of open water, and no sign of a drone or its controller. Rook observed, “With the one-mile range, that thing could have gone anywhere.”
“And be long gone,” agreed Heat.
“Early in the season to have a boat in.” Rook had his eye on the red-and-white speedboat tied to Levy’s dock.
“Only if you’re too prissy for cold weather.”
Nikki was trying to figure out if his antagonism was a sign of test-driver testosterone, beer-fueled, trauma-induced, or a cover for something. “You sure you didn’t get injured this morning?”
“No, why?”
“I see you’re favoring your right leg.”
The man stood a little straighter. “It’s nothing. Just racked it up. Playing handball. I’ve got a Saturday group at my gym and one of them got stupid.”
Oversell, though Nikki. Usually a hint that there’s a lie receiving compensatory cover. She filed that away and asked Levy if anyone had threatened him, even in an indirect way. He said no. He also told her he hadn’t had any sightings of any strangers or unknown cars around. The block was low-crime, and with so many kids around, folks tended to beat the jungle drums when there was any unusual stuff going on. Heat recalled the crowd behind the crime scene tape and got the idea.
“Just one more thing for now. Do you recognize any of these men?”
She showed him a headshot of Timothy Maloney. Levy shook his head no. Same for Joseph Barsotti. When she offered Sampson Stallings’s drawing of his apartment intruder, he said, “A cartoon? What? The Syrians hack the memory out of your camera, too?”
“Just yes or no is fine. Does he look familiar?”
“No.”
To wrap it up, she flashed him a screen grab of Tangier Swift from his corporate website. “You’re kidding, right? That’s Swift, the fucker killing everyone with his shitty software.” Levy fixed Rook with a glare, as if he should have known that, but said nothing more.
“Has he approached you, directly or indirectly, with any threat or intimidation?”
“The asshole breathes intimidation, that would be nothing.”
“What about threats then?” continued Nikki. “We know about your Forenetics Splinter Group.”
Levy’s head snapped toward Rook again. “I see. You interview me, then go to the police. Fuck you.”
“It’s a murder case now,” said Rook.
“Fuck you sideways.”
Heat tried to reel in Levy with questions. “Do you think today’s attack was linked to your whistle-blowing?”
Levy seemed about to go on, but turned aside dismissively. “I never should have gotten into this.”
“Why not?”
“I’m done talking about it, OK?”
Rook said, “Your hands are shaking.”
“Wouldn’t yours be? Look what the hell’s happening. Look what they did to Fred Lobbrecht. And I heard from Abigail they tried to get Backhouse, too. With a goddamn drone.” He handed Heat’s cell phone back. “Today I got lucky. I know from driving cars, luck only gets you so far.”
“Mr. Levy,” said Heat, “you’re not being totally open with me about something, and if you’re really worried, I advise you to start sharing, so I can help.”