Richard Castle - Raging Heat

If true, that eliminated the potential domestic-worker connection she was wondering about between him and Fabian Beauvais. But the mention of his shipping line triggered something new to explore. “Where do your cruise lines go, may I ask?”

“Sure. Caribbean, mostly. We experimented in some high-end, smaller vessels to do some of the European rivers and exclusive Mediterranean ports, but the real business is the Gulf and the Caribbean.”

“Jamaica?”

“Absolutely.”

“Puerto Rico? Aruba? Turks and Caicos?”

“Yes, yes, and yes. Nevis and St. Kitts, also.”

“Haiti?”

He scoffed. “Not a lot of vacationers eager to put in there. Why?”

Nikki pursued another line. “Have you had any burglaries, trespassers, or anything like that at Cosmo?”

“Nope. College kids had a zombie party on the beach. Some sort of Thriller flash mob, it’s called. They knocked down some of my dune fencing and chewed some lawn with their dance, but that’s about it.”

“Any problem with stalkers?”

He shook no.

“Getting any strange phone calls?” Same no. “Take your time, Commissioner. Any hang ups with nobody there, weird voice mails? Think about it.”

He gave it a ponder and wagged his head.

“No unknown cars hanging around? Loiterers?”

“I have protection for that sort of thing.”

“You mean a gun?”

“Oh, sure I have a gun — registered, of course. But that’s not what I mean. My protection is Topper. My German shepherd.”

Heat decided it was time to try out the name. “Are you acquainted with a Fabian Beauvais?”

“I assume that’s a person and not a wine or perfume,” he said with a chuckle and a nod to Rook.

“Fabian Beauvais,” she repeated, not joking.

He blew out some air and closed his eyes. “Nope,” he said when he opened them. “Detective, I came here to help you, and now I don’t think it’s unreasonable of me to ask you tell me why. Please.” He didn’t make it sound anything like a question. She would have preferred to hold off until she made some more blind inquiries, but rather than lose him, she doled out the headline version, parsed for holdbacks, which was standard.

“We are looking into the death of a Haitian illegal named Fabian Beauvais, which we deem suspicious.” Nikki studied him for reaction and got that same unselfconscious eye contact from when he’d first walked in. “In his personal effects we found the address and phone number of your home in the Hamptons.”

“That’s just weird. I never heard of this guy.” Heat mentally noted the repetition. Could be a tell. Maybe not.

“How’d he die?”

“The medical examiner hasn’t given a final ruling yet.” In her periphery, Rook’s head turned to her, reacting to the holdback. “In the meantime, we’re just doing our job, covering bases. Last thing.” She unfolded hard copy sketches of the two goons from the SRO stairwell. “Do you recognize these men?” As he held them for examination, she added, “And it could be from anywhere. New York City, the Hamptons, around your cruise line, maybe passengers, maybe workers.”

When he said no, she handed him a mug photo. “That is Fabian Beauvais.”

He laid it on top of the sketches and gave a shrug. “I’m not being much help, am I?” he said as he handed the pictures back.

“You did just fine,” she said, rising. “Would it be all right if we contacted Human Resources for your shipping line to see if they know any of these three?” He eyed the printouts and said that would be fine.

“One more question before you go. Do you own an airplane or a helicopter?”

“That’s an odd thing to ask.”

“In the job description, I’m afraid,” she said, sloughing it off. “Well, do you?”

“I have a seaplane at my place in Vancouver.”

“And a helicopter?”

“A Bell JetRanger. Sounds elitist, I know, but I couldn’t perform my Port Authority responsibilities without it — which, if you don’t know, are pro bono .”

“But you do have income from your shipping business.”

“I am drawing from other resources at the moment. I had to place Gilbert Maritime into a blind trust this summer when I received my appointment to Port Authority. It’s all about avoiding conflict of interest. The Authority receives decades of my expertise; I receive, well, nothing.”

“Still, a JetRanger makes that commute from the Hamptons a snap,” said Rook, reloading Heat’s topic.

“Did you use your copter yesterday morning?” she asked.

“Yes, I did. I was flown from Southampton to a speaking engagement in Fort Lee for a Port Authority readiness seminar concerning the George Washington Bridge. Same drill I just mentioned. Why?”

“What time was that?”

“Let’s see…early. The pilot got me there at seven-thirty for the seven forty-five meeting.”

“And how long were you there?”

“Until four in the afternoon.” A time span that would have alibied Gilbert from being anywhere near the Upper West Side when Beauvais fell. “Why so interested in my comings and goings to Fort Lee?”

“Like I said, just in the job description. Thank you for your cooperation, Commissioner Gilbert. Most appreciated.”

“Happy to make the acquaintance of the famous Nikki Heat.” He gave her a double handshake and enveloped her hand warmly. She escorted Gilbert as far as the lobby then doubled back to him before he got outside to his waiting black Suburban. “Oh, one more question: Does the word ‘conscience’ mean anything to you?”

He laughed heartily. “Lady, I’m a politician. Are you serious?”

On her way back to the bull pen, Rook met her with a briefcase. “The commish left this in the conference room.”

Heat hustled through the lobby and saw he was still out there, engaged in a sidewalk phone call. When she came through the door, he had his back to her and was speaking sharply, nothing like the affable charmer she’d just interviewed. “I don’t care if he’s in a goddamned meeting. You get me Fred Lohman — now.” Then he spotted Nikki in his periphery, flashed a winning grin, rolled his eyes, and said of himself, “What an idiot.” He took the briefcase mumbling something about getting distracted.

On her way back inside, Heat wondered why Keith Gilbert so urgently needed to speak with one of Manhattan’s top criminal attorneys. As he slid into the rear passenger seat of his gleaming SUV, the Port Authority commissioner caught her eye and held it briefly. In that unguarded moment she saw something foreign on him.

Strain.

Then he pulled the door closed and left.

“Roach on your desk,” said Rook as Heat returned to the bull pen. She pushed aside her mail and picked up the landline.

“You two better not be messing this up.”

Her detectives chuckled on the other end. “Oh, did we have an assignment or something?” said Ochoa.

“Here’s the thirty-second drill,” added his partner. “Doorman got overpowered from behind by multiple assailants in the middle of the night and locked up in the mail room.”

“He’s OK; he’s the one who called it in,” added Ochoa from their speakerphone.

“They forced the tenth-floor apartment door with a crowbar. Which was also used on the victim, Shelton David, eighty-six-year-old male, Dead On Scene, blunt force bleed-out is the ME’s prelim. He was in his pajamas and had a Louisville Slugger beside him on the floor. Probably heard the noise and grabbed it to defend himself.”

Heat nudged aside the burnished mental image of her mother’s pool of blood on her kitchen floor and asked, “Any eyewits?”

“None yet. We’ve got some unis canvassing the building and, of course, we’re already scoping for cams that might have picked up something.” Ochoa’s sure-footed rundown made her feel proud of these guys for seizing the moment. “CSU is here now, dusting and tweezing.”