Naked Heat (6 page)

“No more calls, please.” He extended a hand and gave Rook a shake.

“JJ?” said Heat, opening her notebook to signal a sense of importance. “Why did Cassidy want you to change her locks two weeks ago?”

“Because she said she felt like someone had been coming into her apartment. Lady wasn’t sure, but she said things were just off in there. Little things moved around where she didn’t put them, stuff like that. Said it creeped her out. I thought, maybe she’s just paranoid, but, hey, it’s money in my pocket, so I rekeyed them for her.”

Nikki made a note to have Roach check for the exact date, just for the time line. “And what about the second time? Did she feel like somebody was still getting in?”

The super laughed. “Didn’t need a feeling. Some dude kicked the door in on her. Right in her face.”

Heat immediately turned to Rook, who said, “I knew she had the door fixed, because JJ was working on it when I came over to meet her for dinner. I asked her why, and she told me that she locked herself out and she had to break in. It seemed weird, but if Cassidy Towne was nothing else, she was full of surprises.”

“Hoo, tell me,” from JJ, who shook hands again with Rook.

Heat turned to Roach. “Is there an incident report on this?”

“None,” said Ochoa.

“Running a double-check now,” added Raley.

“When was this, JJ?”

He turned to his workbench, looked at some busty babe tool calendar, and pointed to a day with an orange grease pencil mark on it. Heat wrote down the date and asked, “Do you know what time of day this was?”

“Sure do. It was one in the afternoon. I was about to have my cigarette when I heard it. I’ve been trying to cut back, those things are bad for you, so I put myself on a schedule.”

“You say you heard it? You mean you actually saw it happen?”

“Saw it after it happened. I was up the sidewalk, no smoking in here, and heard the shouting and then, boom. Dude kicked that door right in.”

“And did you see who did it? Could you describe him?”

“Sure can. You know Toby Mills, right? The baseball player?”

“Sure do. You say he looked like Toby Mills?”

“No,” said JJ. “I’m saying it was Toby Mills.”

The Yankees were up a game in the Division Series, but without the services of starting pitcher Toby Mills, who was on the disabled list with a pulled hamstring he’d suffered in a heroic sprint to cover first base in Game One. Mills got the out for the win and a complete game, but also got the DL for an indefinite period and had to enjoy the rest of the ALDS as a spectator. On the drive back across the Central Park transverse to the pitcher’s town house on the Upper East Side, Heat said, “OK, Jameson Rook, A-list magazine journalist, now I have a question for you.”

“I have a feeling this isn’t going to be about the pony play, is it?”

“I’m trying to fathom why, if you were flying in close formation with Cassidy Towne for an up close magazine profile, you didn’t know about Toby Mills kicking her door down.”

“Simple. Because I wasn’t around when it happened and because she didn’t tell me.” He shifted toward her in his seat. “No—more than that. She lied to me about it by saying she did it herself. And I’ll tell you something, Nik, if you knew Cassidy, you could see her doing it. I mean she wasn’t just strong, she was . . . she was a force of nature. Things like locked doors didn’t stop her. I even wrote that little metaphor in my notes for the article.”

She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “I do take your point. And she not only lied to you, there was no police report.”

“An odd sock.”

“You don’t get to say that, all right?”

“Odd sock?”

“That’s ours. I don’t want to hear that from you again unless you’re sorting your fluff-and-fold.” The light changed at Fifth Avenue and she drove out of the park, past the rows of embassies and consulates. “What sort of problem did she have with Toby Mills or vice versa?”

“Not much that I know of currently. She used to write about his wild-child days when he first got to the Yankees, but that was history. Last week she did run an item that he had moved to his new digs in the East Side, but that’s hardly the stuff scandals are made of. Or assaults.”

“You’d be surprised, writer boy, you’d be surprised,” she said with a superior grin.

As they stood at the intercom at the front door of Toby Mills’s town house, Nikki Heat’s smile was a distant memory. “How long has it been?” she said to Rook.

“Five minutes,” he said. “Maybe six.”

“Seems like longer. Who the hell do they think they are? It was easier getting into the Milmar and you didn’t have a tie.” She mocked the voice from the little speaker: “ ‘We’re still checking.’ ”

“You know they can probably hear you.”

“Good.”

He nodded upward. “Probably see you, too.”

“Even better.” She squared herself to the security camera and held up her shield. “This is official police business, I want to see a human being.”

“Seven minutes.”

“Stop that.”

And then in a low mutter he said, “Odd sock.”

“Not helping.”

A crackle of static and then the man’s voice returned to the intercom. “I’m sorry, Officer, but we’re referring all inquiries to Ripton and Associates, Mr. Mills’s representative. Would you like that phone number?”

Nikki pressed Talk. “First of all, it’s not Officer, it’s Detective. Homicide Detective Heat of the NYPD. I need to speak directly to Toby Mills regarding an investigation. You can make that happen now, or I can come back with a warrant.” Satisfied with herself, she released the button and winked at Rook.

The tinny voice came back. “If you want to get a pen, I can give you that number.”

“OK. That’s it,” she said. “This is officially a mission for me. Let’s see about a warrant.” She pivoted from the door and stormed to the sidewalk, and Rook came along. They had almost reached Madison, where they had parked across from the Carlyle, when Rook heard his name called out.

“Jameson Rook?”

They both turned to see Cy Young contender Toby Mills on the sidewalk in front of his town house, beckoning them to come back.

Rook turned to Nikki, gloating. “Whatever I can do to help, Detective.”

Chapter Four

“
I
’m Toby,” he said when they got to the front door. Before Nikki could introduce herself, he said, “Could we take this inside? I don’t want to draw a crowd out here, if you don’t mind.”

He held the door for both of them and followed them into the foyer. The baseball star was in a white polo shirt and jeans and was barefoot. Nikki couldn’t tell if his slight limp was from being shoeless or from his sore hamstring. “Sorry about the mix-up out there. I was taking a nap and they didn’t want to wake me.” To Rook, he said, “And then I saw you and said, ‘Oh, man, I can’t send Jameson Rook away mad.’ And you’re with the police?”

“Hi. Nikki Heat.” She shook his hand and tried not to be the typical fan. “A pleasure, really.” So much for playing cool.

“Well, I thank you for that. Come on in. Let’s get comfortable and see what I’ve done now to have the police and the press pounding on my door.”

There was a spiral staircase to the left, but he led them to an elevator on the back wall of the entryway. Beside it, a man who looked like a secret service agent, in a long-sleeved white shirt and maroon patternless tie, sat at a desk watching a split screen of four security cams. Toby pushed the elevator call and, as he waited, said, “Lee, when Jess gets here, would you tell him I’m taking our guests up to the den?”

“Sure thing,” said Lee. Nikki recognized his voice from the intercom, and he registered her reaction and said, “Apologies for the confusion, Detective.”

“No problem.”

The elevator showed five floors in the town house, and they got off at the third. They were greeted with a new-carpet smell as they stepped into a circular room with halls branching off in three directions. From what Heat could tell, two of them led to what were most likely bedrooms, toward the rear of the rectangular property. Mills hooked his multimillion-dollar arm to indicate they should follow him to the near doorway, which put them in a sunny room giving out onto the street below. “Guess you could call this my man cave.”

The den was a sports trophy room, done with taste. Mounted baseball bats shared wall space with classic sports photos: Ted Williams watching one fly out of Fenway, Koufax in the 1963 Series, Lou Gehrig enjoying a Babe Ruth headlock. Atypically, it wasn’t a shrine to Toby. The only pictures of him were with other players, and none of the trophies were his, although he could have easily filled the room. Heat read this as where he came to escape the hype, not to bask in it.

Toby stepped behind a wet bar of blond wood with turf green inlay and asked if he could fix them something. “Now, all I’ve got is Colonel Fizz, but, truthfully, it’s not just because they sponsor, I like the stuff.” Heat could hear the Oklahoma in his voice and wondered what it was like to graduate high school in Broken Arrow and come to all this in fewer than ten years. “I assume you’re working; otherwise, I’d offer something more of a bump up.”

“Like what? Is there a General Fizz?” said Rook.

“See? There it is. Writer.” Toby snapped open some cans and poured drinks over ice. “I’ll start you off with the cola. It hasn’t killed anyone, not yet, anyway.”

“I’m surprised you knew me,” said Rook. “Do you read that much of my stuff?”

“To be honest, I read your Africa trip with Bono and the Portofino article about Mick Jagger on his boat. Man, I have to get myself one of them. But the political stuff, you know, Chechnya, Darfur, I can do without, no offense. But I know you mainly because we have a lot of friends in common.”

She wasn’t sure whether Toby Mills was a natural host or was stalling them, but while they talked she took in the view from the window. A few streets over, she picked out the Guggenheim. Even cropped by the rows of town houses, the distinct shape of the roof gave it away. Up the street, the treetops of Central Park were just beginning to show a hint of autumn. In two weeks, the color would bring out every amateur photographer on the eastern seaboard.

Nikki heard a man talking to Toby, but when she turned he wasn’t in the room yet. “Hey, Tobe, I got here fast as I could, buddy.” Then he stepped in, a fit-looking guy in a power suit with no tie, moving quickly to Rook. “Hi, Jess Ripton.”

“Jameson Rook.”

“I know. You guys should clear these with me first. We don’t do press without advance clearance.”

“This isn’t a press interview,” said Nikki Heat.

Ripton turned, seeing her for the first time. “You the cop?”

“Detective.” She gave him her card. “You the agent?”

Behind the counter, Toby Mills just laughed. An actual “Whoa, ho, ho.”

“I’m not an agent. I’m a strategic manager.” He smiled, but it did little to soften him or take the clang off his brass balls. “The agent works for me. The agent stays out of the way and collects the checks and we’re all happy. I handle public relations, bookings, media, endorsements, every point along the value chain.”

“Must be tough to fit all that on a card,” said Rook, earning another laugh from Toby.

Ripton sat in the corner easy chair. “So tell me what this is about.”

Nikki didn’t sit. Same as she didn’t take dictation from Chester Ludlow, she wasn’t going to honor Jess Ripton’s type-A stampede. She wanted to keep this her meeting. But now, at least, she understood the stall. Daddy’s here.

“Are you Toby’s attorney?”

“I have a degree but no. I’ll call the attorney if I think we need one. Do we need one?”

“Not my call to make,” she said with a bit of push-back in her tone. Then she thought, what the hell, and left Ripton in his chair to take a bar stool facing Mills. “Toby, I want to ask you about an incident last week at the residence of Cassidy Towne.”

The PR handler shot to his feet. “No, no, no. He’s not answering any questions like that.”

“Mr. Ripton, I am a New York City homicide detective on official business. If you’d rather have me conduct this interview at the Twentieth Precinct, I can arrange that. I can also arrange for those news trucks on 78th Street to roll four blocks north for some choice video of your client’s arrival for questioning. Now tell me, exactly what point would that be along your value chain?”

“Jess?” Toby broke the silence. “I think we should just clear the air and get this behind us.”

Nikki didn’t wait for Jess. Toby was willing, so she grabbed the moment. “An eyewitness says a few days ago you kicked in the door at that residence. Did you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I sure did.”

“And may I ask why you did that?”

“Easy. I was pissed off at that bitch for dickin’ with me.”

Jess Ripton must have bent over and picked up the face that he’d lost, because he got back in the mix, albeit with more diplomacy. “Detective, would it be all right if I told the story? Toby’s here to correct me if I miss anything and you can still ask him all your questions. I think it will go a lot smoother for all of us, and, as Tobe says, we can put this behind us. Looks like the team is going to advance to the ALCS next week, and I want him focused on getting his hammy better so he can be ready for the opener.”

“I am a baseball fan,” said Heat. “I’m a bigger fan of a direct answer.”

“Of course.” He nodded then continued as if she had never spoken. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Toby Mills isn’t found in the scandal sheets. He has a wife, a young child, and one on the way. His brand value is family friendly, and he not only has multiple top-tier endorsements, but a thriving charitable foundation.”

Nikki turned her back on the suit and faced the client. “Toby, I want to know why you kicked in the door of my murder victim.”

That got Ripton on his feet. He took the bar stool between her and Rook and drew it back so he formed the center of a semicircle around his client when he sat. “It’s a simple story, really,” said the manager. “Toby and Lisa just moved into this place two weeks ago. They wanted to be in the heart of the city he plays in instead of Westchester County. What does Cassidy Towne do? She prints the story, including the street address, right? So there it is in the
New York Ledger
, a full half page of her column. A picture of Toby. A picture of this house. And the street address for every nutjob in the world to see.

“Well, two guesses what happened. Toby has a stalker. Last week, a couple mornings after they move into their new dream home, Lisa takes her son for a walk to Central Park. The sailboat pond is, what, a block away? They’re crossing into the park, and this stalker rushes up, starts yelling his crazy talk, and scares the crap out of both of them. Her security guy intervened, but the guy got away.”

“Do you know the name of the stalker?”

“Morris Granville,” said Toby and Jess together.

“Is there a police record of this?” Heat asked.

“Yes. You can check it out. Anyway, Toby was at the stadium when Lisa calls him, crying, and he goes ballistic.”

“I tell you, I freaked.”

“Do I need to school you about stalkers? Do I need to tell you what happened to John Lennon less than a mile from where we’re sitting? So, forget the baseball star crap, Toby Mills is a man. He did what any good husband and father would do when the primal threat comes. He charged over to Cassidy Towne’s place to read her out. And what does she do, but slam the door in his face.”

“So I kicked it in.”

“And left it at that. Game over.”

“Game over,” echoed Toby.

The manager smiled and reached out to the bar to pat his client’s arm. “But we’re much calmer now.”

Jess Ripton escorted Heat and Rook out to the sidewalk and paused to chat. “Have you found her body yet?”

“Not yet,” said Nikki.

“Tell you something. In my career, I’ve had to handle my fair share of PR nightmares. I don’t envy One Police Plaza today. Although, at my fee, I could get over that, if anyone asks.” He laughed at his own joke and shook Heat’s hand. “Listen, sorry I gave you a slam at first,” he said. “It’s my protective instinct. It’s how I got my nickname.” Asshole? thought Nikki. “The Firewall,” he said with no small measure of pride. “But now that we’re on the right foot, let’s keep it that way. Anything you need, call me.”

“I’ll tell you what I would like,” she said.

“Name it.”

“Any communication this stalker had with Toby. Letters, e-mails, anything.”

Ripton nodded. “Our security boys have all that on file. You’ll have copies on your desk by the end of the day.”

“You guys have a lot of security cameras. Do you have a picture of him?”

“A couple, unfortunately. I’ll include them, too.”

He started to go back to the town house, but Rook said, “I’ve been thinking about something, Jess. I’d been working pretty closely with Cassidy on a profile I was doing of her and she never told me about Toby’s door kick.”

“Your point?”

“That was the same afternoon he pulled his hamstring,” Rook made air quotes, “ ‘in the game,’ right?”

“You’re going to have to spell it out for me, Jameson, because I’m not following.” But Ripton’s look of innocence was unconvincing.

“The math I’m doing suggests maybe he injured himself before the game. Or his stunt contributed to it later. That would have an impact on his contract, not to mention a few family-friendly endorsements, if it came out, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t know about any of that. If she chose not to be open with you, that was her choice.” He paused and gave the mirthless smile again. “What I do know is we apologized and compensated her for her damage,” said The Firewall. “And her trouble. You know how this song goes. She got a little money and a few pieces of gossip I happened to be privy to. That’s how we fill the favor bank. Trust me, Cassidy Towne was not unhappy with the results.”

Nikki smiled. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”

Nikki Heat heard the hissing and turned from her desk. Rook. Across the bull pen, steaming milk. She resumed her reading, and when she finished a no-foam latte arrived blotterside.

“I primed it,” said Rook. “By myself.”

“A skill you will, no doubt, find useful.” She called, “Hinesburg, you there?”

“Yo,” came the voice from the hall. It bugged Nikki that Detective Hinesburg spent so much time away from her desk, hanging out, and she made a mental note to discuss it with her privately.

When the roaming detective entered, Heat said, “I’m looking for that record I asked you to run on Holly Flanders.”

“Look no further. Just came in.” Hinesburg handed over a manila interoffice envelope and snapped her chewing gum. “Oh, and I screened the calls on Cassidy Towne’s answering machine. It produced no leads, although I did learn a few new curse words.”

While Nikki finished unwinding the red string from the cardboard button on the interoffice envelope, she said, “Trade ya,” and handed Detective Hinesburg the sheet she’d just been reading. “This is the incident report from a stalker assault last week.” She made an aside to Rook, “Toby’s story checks out, as advertised.”

“Are we working this?” asked Hinesburg between gum snaps.

Heat nodded. “Central Park Precinct owns it, but the victims live in the One-Nine. Let’s make it a party and join in. Don’t get in a turf contest, but stay close. I’m especially interested in any leads on the stalker.”

“Morris Granville?” Hinesburg said, scanning the sheet.

“He took a powder. Just let me know if he surfaces. I have some pics coming in later. I’ll shoot them to you.”

Detective Hinesburg took the sheet to her desk and began reading it. Heat took the file out of the interoffice and gave it a quick scan. “Yesss.”

Rook sipped his double espresso and said, “Your winning lottery numbers?”

“Better. A lead on Holly Flanders.”

“F-L-A-N-D-E-R-S, as in the Chester Ludlow ‘Flanders’?”

“Uh huh . . . ,” she said as she turned a page in the file. “A sheet, but not much of one. Twenty-two years old, a few petty this’s and misdemeanor that’s. Recreational drugs, shoplifting, a little street grifting, now graduated to low-echelon hooking.”

“And they say all the good ones are taken. She doesn’t seem like much. Here’s my theory.”

“Oh, God, I forgot. The theories.”

“Young woman, nefarious hooker over here.” He cupped his left hand and held it up. “Ageing boomer S and M demolished politico over here.” He held up his cupped right. “I think she’s the tipster who took him down and now he wants payback for her.”