“So? Just one of many clients. And what’s with ‘scumbag’? I have no problem with what I do.”
“Let’s talk about what you do.”
“Not going to happen.”
“We’ll see. What is your interest in Lon King?”
“Who?”
“Sampson Stallings?”
“Who?”
“Nathan Levy.”
“I’m lost here.”
“Nathan Levy. I just followed you on his street.”
Vreeland’s face was all innocence. “Did I even know that? I was going for a drive. Nice day, thought I’d check out that new Jack Nicklaus course The Donald is building. I saw you following me—an obvious cop, come on—so I pulled over. Now, for reasons I don’t understand, here I am. Waiting for my very, very good lawyer.”
Conversation wasn’t going where she wanted it to, but at least he was talking. Heat kept pounding. “What did you do with the materials you stole from that apartment on Roosevelt Island?”
“Whose apartment? What materials?”
Before she could press more, the door opened and Helen Miksit tromped in. She didn’t bother to sit. The blockily built lawyer had accessorized her tweed St. John with a matching frown, and it was all Nikki’s. “Heat, I thought I trained you better than this. Hey, Eric. Don’t get too comfortable.” As a former hardball prosecutor and now as one of the city’s top criminal defense attorneys, Miksit was a badger in court, and in Nikki’s unhappy personal experience, bare knuckles in the station house. “This interview is over.”
“Not your call, counselor.” Heat remained seated facing Vreeland, signaling a delicate operation that could not be interrupted. Nobody told the lawyer.
“Bullshit. You have charges?”
“Not yet. But a man who encountered your client in his apartment is coming down to ID him.”
Miksit brought out her crass sarcasm. “Oh, so you’ve got him tried and convicted already. Why don’t we just hook him up to Old Sparky and fry him for the Lindbergh kidnapping?”
This time, Heat rose and turned to face the hard-ass squarely. “He’s not going anywhere, Helen. Not until I place him in a lineup for my eyewitness.”
“That’s fine.” Miksit plunked her giant briefcase on the table and took a seat. “We’ll just wait out your little process so we can bail him.”
Heat sat back down. “I want to talk to him first.”
“You already did. Thank you for your interest.” The lawyer reclined in her seat with a smug grin that made Heat hate all lawyers. For now, this one would do.
Heat told Raley and Ochoa to set up a lineup to include Eric Vreeland, PI for Sampson Stallings, then went to her office to put in a call that begged to be made.
“Will Mr. Swift know what this call is about, Captain?” asked the assistant.
“You writing this down?”
“Go ahead.”
“Tell Mr. Swift I just arrested his private investigator for breaking into the home of a homicide victim and I want to know why he sent him there.” There was a gap of dead air and Nikki thought she heard a click. “Hello, did you get that?” Heat assumed she’d been hung up on, but then there was a sudden rush of street bustle followed by the voice of Tangier Swift.
“Nikki Heat, you should work for me in sales. You sure know how to get your foot in a door.”
“So does Eric Vreeland,” she said, neither flattered nor charmed. “And since he does work for you, we need to talk again. And soon.”