Driving Heat (38 page)

He held up his container. “Continuing today’s international salad motif with organic quinoa.”

“I have never seen you order quinoa.”

“Never knew how to pronounce it. Now that I do, turns out it’s delicious.”

After a few bites to cushion the dent, Nikki called the DA’s office to request whatever paper she needed to get past the HIPAA regs so she could get a full accounting of the incident in
Lon King’s waiting room. As with the thread that had started with Nathan Levy’s visit to the ER, Heat wasn’t sure of the importance of Barsotti’s information. But the
purpose of investigating wasn’t to decide instantly which data were important. You had to collect it all first before you knew. Sometimes it meant nothing. Sometimes it meant nothing for
years. Heat thought of those twin lions outside the library, Patience and Fortitude. She didn’t need to conquer all things; just this one case would be nice.

“Sorry, Captain Heat,” said the assistant DA.

“What do you mean, sorry?” Nikki set down her fork and pushed her food away. “It’s my understanding this isn’t even something that has to get judicial approval. I
thought I could just file a written request with my justification and scope, and we’re good to go.”

“That’s correct. The sticking point is in what you just said. The scope is too broad. Looking into a patient, we can do. Like this Timothy Maloney.”

“I don’t need to know about him, I already know he was there. I want the names of the others in that room.”

“You’re coming full circle, Captain. The others in that room can’t be confirmed as patients—ipso facto, too broad.”

“Here’s an ipso facto: This is why people hate lawyers.” Heat hung up and felt ashamed and oh so good at the same time.

The call had soured Nikki’s appetite, and she was marking her initials on
the takeout carton before she put it in the fridge
when Detective Rhymer skidded into the break room. “’Scuse me, Captain?”

“Hey, Opie, what’s up?” Rhymer didn’t have much of a face for poker and she could read his excitement. Nikki shoved the refrigerator door closed and strode to join him
even before he had answered.

“Raley and Ochoa on the line in the squad room. You’ll want to take this.”

The detectives had conferenced together, and Heat got a double hello when she picked up. “Hey, an actual Roach call. You weren’t kidding when you said you’d make it by
lunchtime.”

“Yeah, and damn glad we came up here in person, like you suggested,” said Raley. “Let’s walk you through in order.”

Ochoa picked up the ball. “We found the wrecker service here in Peekskill, Dunne Towing. The owner was very cooperative, called in the kid who drives the overnight hook.”

“Name is Dooley,” added Raley.

“Dooley worked the haul-out of Nathan Levy’s BMW on Cold Spring Turnpike. Guess where?”

“Around the hairpin turn from the fatal,” said Raley. Heat felt her pulse accelerate, and when she looked at Opie, he was working his head up and down, knowing, yep, this was
something. “You still there?”

“Yes, I’m just…That’s big,” Heat said.

“Not done yet. Miguel?”

“Dooley reports the damage to the M3 was also solo.”

Raley clarified, “Not car to car.”

“Skidded into a small runoff ditch paralleling the shoulder. Bent both front wheels and smacked the spoiler into the gravel siding. The car was undriveable, so Dooley flatbedded it back to
his repair garage. But Levy was compulsive about the car and wouldn’t let the locals touch it. So he arranged to have them transpo his vehicle to that body shop Aguinaldo found the paperwork
for in the Bronx.”

Nikki processed the implications. “This is bizarre.”

“Understatement,” said Detective Ochoa.

“I mean, you and I both know a fatal accident lights up all sorts of police follow-up,” she went on. “How is it that this wasn’t reported by the hauler, Mr.
Dooley?”

“OK, now we’re getting to it. He did report it.”

“That makes no sense. The State Police said it was a solo event. How can he say he reported it? Is he credible? Do you believe him?”

“Oh, he’s high-cred,” said Ochoa.

“Extremely,” his partner added. “You see, this is why we’re glad you sent us up, first-person. He showed us the paperwork.”

Detective Ochoa said, “I’m holding a copy of it now. You ready? It was signed off by a state trooper.”

“Holy—” Heat grabbed a pencil out of a cup on Rhymer’s desk. “I want to talk to that trooper.”

“That won’t be possible,” said Raley. “According to this report, the state trooper who led the accident investigation was their top collision expert at the time: Fred
Lobbrecht.”

O
pie couldn’t stop shaking his head. “Isn’t this just too weird?”

“Although when you think about it,” said Rook as he dragged his chair with the whimpering caster over to Heat and the rest of the squad in the bull pen, “isn’t ‘too
weird’ really just another way to say ‘too cool?’”

“Definite freak factor,” agreed Detective Ochoa, who was still patched in on the speakerphone from Peekskill. Raley, also on the line, grunted his agreement.

Heat was equally intrigued by the news, but her mind was busy wrapping itself around its implications, and she wanted to get the homicide detectives there with her. “Can we generally agree
that Roach has rocked our world and settle into making something of this now? Hopefully leading to finding a killer or killers?”

“Oh sure, if that’s your thing.” Randall Feller put his work boots up on an empty chair and snuck a sly smile. “Guess we could do that.”

Rook raised a forefinger. “May I kick things off by noting that this certainly sheds new light on the emotional turmoil Fred Lobbrecht was grappling with. Obviously he had pangs of
conscience about whatever unethical crap he pulled at that accident scene.”

“Try
illegal
,” added Detective Aguinaldo.

“That, too. But my point is, it sure explains why I got pushed into mediation with Lon King to help this guy into a headspace where he could spill his story to me. Even off the record.
Lobbrecht’s bowels must have been a Vitamix.”

Rhymer, who had done the initial bank search on Lobbrecht, leafed through his pages of notes. “And what about our conclusion about the whole lump sum of cash ex-trooper Lobbrecht got right
after the accident to pay off his mortgage? What if it was a bribe from Levy, and not the payoff from Tangier Swift, like we’ve assumed?”

Heat sucked one of his cheeks, ruminating. “If you’re right, Ope, that nails him as the source of the windfall, but it then removes a link to Swift’s involvement. At least on
that score.”

“I hate that,” said Feller.

“Don’t,” cautioned Nikki. “Remember—”

“‘Follow your evidence, not your bias.’” After Randall had recited Heat’s maxim for her, he added, “I know all that. I just felt like we had the
sucker.”

“And we may still. We just need to be open to all the possibilities. Do I need to mention this is a case with a lot of moving parts?” She turned her attention back to Rhymer.
“I wonder if Nathan Levy had the kind of money to pay off Fred Lobbrecht’s house. Run his financials. Visit his bank or stockbroker, if he had one. Check for fat withdrawals. Obviously,
anything that coincides with the accident date a month and a half ago and Lobbrecht’s big deposit.”

“Something’s a little funky for me the more I chew on it.” Feller crossed one leg over the other and picked at a dangling strand of elastic from his sock. He left it alone and
said, “This fistfight between Lobbrecht and Levy. Didn’t Wilton Backhouse tell you it came after Levy talked smack to Lobbrecht at their whistle-blower powwow in Rhinebeck?”

“They called it their Splinter Summit,” affirmed Heat. “Professor Backhouse’s account was that Levy accused Lobbrecht of being on the take from Swift, and Lobbrecht
punched him.”

Randall went back to tugging the errant string on his ankle. “That’s the part that doesn’t jibe. If Lobbrecht saved Levy’s ass—and got a jumbo gratuity for it from
Levy—why would Levy accuse him of taking money from Swift? Unless Levy was cranked because Lobbrecht was shaking him down for more.”

Rook wagged his head. “Judging from my sessions with Lobbrecht at Lon King’s, Fred Lobbrecht didn’t seem like a shakedown kind of guy.”

Over the speakerphone, Raley said, “Well, maybe Fred was double-dipping, squeezing Nathan Levy and taking money from Tangier Swift to be his inside man at the same time.”

“And nice guys extort, too,” added Ochoa. “If a cop’s going to take a bribe to cover up a fatal accident, all bets are off for me.”

“I’m still trying to hardwire a connection to Tangier Swift in all this,” said Rhymer.

“And the congressman,” added Detective Aguinaldo. “Kent Duer is a war hero who checks out clean. So far, Captain, his only transgression seems to be a display of throwback
notions about women when you saw him at The Greenwich.”

Nikki was right there with them all. Additionally, she was groping at a loose end of her own: Rook’s kidnapping and how that fit in. It was a phenomenon of contradiction she had
experienced in many cases over the years. The closer they got to an answer, the further it took them from other elements of the case.

Rook said, “As long as we’re kicking things around, is anybody else seeing the obvious? That Lobbrecht got a job with the same company Levy worked for?”

“Before we found out Lobbrecht worked the accident, I never got bumped by it,” said Heat. “I assumed it was a natural progression. Work for the state troopers on the CRU and
then, when you go private, consult for a collision forensics firm. DAs become defense litigators, politicians become lobbyists, quarterbacks move to the broadcast booth. It seemed
normal.”

“Right, to me, too,” said Rook. “We all just sort of bought it. But now, there may be more to it. Like the job itself was a payoff, too.”

By instinct—and habit—Nikki paced in front of the Murder Board. “OK, moving forward. Here’s what we’ll do.” Not letting her zeal diminish the enthusiasm of
her squad co-leaders on the phone, she halted and took a figurative step to the side. “Miguel, Sean. How do you want to deploy the rest of your squad?”

For a half breath, they were taken aback, but Ochoa jumped right in. “I’m feeling like the hot lead is Lobbrecht. What about you, homes?”

“Totally agree with Miguel,” said Raley. “Randall, you have prior contact with management at the forensic company Lobbrecht consulted for, right?”

“Affirm. Company’s called Forenetics.”

“Get his employment recs from HR. Look for basics: salary, whether he got a bonus for signing that might account for the sudden cash, any grievances against him, especially beefs on the
job with Levy.”

Ochoa picked up without missing the cadence. “We also want to do a thorough vet of Lobbrecht before Forenetics, when he was a statie. If this guy was a dirty cop, I want the paper trail to
prove it. Detective Aguinaldo, you reach out to New York State Police. Go for his job file, any IA paper, you get the idea.”

“I do,” said Inez.

Raley added, “Plus get hard copies of his accident report. Not just the MV-104s, but maps, statements, evidence pictures, the whole jacket.”

Detective Feller leaned close to the speakerphone. “What are you two going to do? Besides bark orders at us while you walk hand in hand through apple orchards up there?”

Detective Raley laughed. “Jealousy’s an ugly thing, Randall.”

“Which explains your face,” said Ochoa. As they all chuckled at that, Nikki enjoyed it most because it sounded like Roach was being Roach again. Then Miguel continued,
“We’re going to have Mr. Dooley from Dunne Towing take us to the accident scene for an eyes-on.”

“Then a stop at the hospital on the way back to talk to the ER nurse and doc who treated Levy,” said Raley.

Heat moved closer to the phone. “I’m going to have another chat with Wilton Backhouse about all of the above. Meanwhile, nice work, guys. Don’t forget to stop and smell the
apples.” She hung up before they could say anything.

No voice mail this time. The engineering professor answered her call on
the second ring. “Hi, it’s Nikki Heat.” She
kept her tone light and casual. Nikki had some bad news to give him about finding Nathan Levy dead in his pickup, but since Backhouse had proven so jittery, she wanted to ask him first what he had
known about one colleague’s apparent acceptance of a bribe to hide another colleague’s probable involvement in a fatal auto crash. Things like that had a tendency to derail even the
most grounded interview subjects.

However, it was a more strident Wilton Backhouse who greeted her. Or, to be accurate, did not greet her, but jumped right to his own hot topic instead. “I’m only taking this call
because I want to know why the fuck your boyfriend is dragging his feet on my whistle-blowing article.”

“Whoa, Wilton. First off, hello. Let’s not get off on this foot, OK? Whatever issue you have with Rook about his article is separate from why I’m calling you.” Even as
she said it, Nikki stood and waved a signal arm through the glass into the bull pen. Rook was immersed in his laptop screen at his rear desk, but caught her in his peripheral vision and hurried
in.