“Bullshit.”

“It’s tough to put a crew together for a big job like that on short notice, Gerald. Doc says he came up short and asked you to be his fourth on the job. Which, I guess is why you had to call in and tell Henry you couldn’t make your shift. I love the irony. You had to call in and say you couldn’t work so you could come in and pull a job. Do you appreciate irony, Gerald?”

“Why are you tearing my place up? What are you looking for?”

“Anything that can make your life difficult,” Heat said. Raley appeared in the doorway, held up a handgun, and continued his search. “That might do. Hope that’s got a permit, or this could be a troublesome visit.”

“Bitch.”

“You know it,” she said with a smile. He turned his head away and just sat there. “So much to talk about.”

Ochoa spoke from the living room. “Detective Heat?” Raley came in to take her place with the prisoner as Nikki excused herself.

Buckley looked at Rook and said, “What are you staring at?”

“A man in deep doo-doo.”

Ochoa stood at the far end of the couch, where the liquor cabinet door was open. He pointed inside and said, “I found this stashed in here behind the peppermint schnapps and gin bottles.” With his gloved hand, he held up a camera. An expensive, high-quality digital SLR.

“Check it out.” He turned the camera body upside down so she could read the tiny rectangular inventory label with the bar code and serial number on the bottom. And the print above the code read, “Property of Sotheby’s.”

FIFTEEN

Jameson Rook stood in the precinct Observation Room staring in at Interrogation, where Gerald Buckley waited, fully involved in picking his nose. The door opened and closed behind Rook. Nikki Heat glided up to his elbow and looked through the window with him. “Charming,” she said.

“Know what’s worse? I can’t look away.” Indeed, Rook kept watching as he said, “Don’t they know people are watching them on the other side of that mirror? And the guy’s got to want it, manacled like that.”

“Are you quite done?”

“Yes.”

“Sotheby’s confirms the serial number as Barbara Deerfield’s camera. The memory chip is full of shots she took of Starr’s art collection.”

“Taken that morning?” he asked. “The shots will be time stamped.”

“Ooo, scary good. Somebody’s catching on.” He took a small bow and she continued. “Yes, from the morning of. Raley’s copying all the photos to his hard drive.”

“Raley, the new king of all media.”

“I believe that would be czar.”

“So that means Buckley was either there when she was killed, or he got her camera from Pochenko after.” He turned to her. “Or am I offending your methodical ways with my reckless speculation?”

“No, actually, I’m right there with you this time, writer boy. Either way, that camera connects Buckley and Pochenko.” She moved toward the door to Interrogation. “Let’s see if I can get him to say how.”

She was just reaching for the door when Ochoa came in from the hall. “His lawyer just got here.”

“You know, I thought I heard the garbage truck.”

“You may have a little time. Somehow her briefcase got lost when she was coming through security.”

“Ochoa, you dog.”

“Woof.”

Buckley sat upright when Detective Heat came in, a sign he knew this wasn’t the foreplay interview he’d had in that very room earlier. He tried to wear a look of defiance, but his concentration on her, trying to get a reading of how deep this shit was, told Nikki he could be had at some point. Maybe not in this meeting, but he’d fall. Once she saw that look, they all toppled, eventually.

“The bitch is back,” she said and then eased into her chair. Nikki was in a hurry. The lawyer would be there too soon, she knew that. But she had to play the poker game. Buckley’s tell gave him away; she wasn’t about to level the playing field by letting her impatience show. So she sat back with her arms crossed like she had all the time in the world. He did his nervous mouth lick. Soon as she saw the dry tongue squeegee across the gums, she began.

“Would you be offended if I said you don’t strike me as the art thief type? I could see you doing a lot of things, dealing drugs, stealing a car, dine-and-dash. But masterminding a multimillion-dollar art heist? Sorry, I’m just not seeing it.” The detective sat up and leaned toward him. “You put out the call for Doc the Biker to get a crew up for the burglary, but somebody had to call you first, and I want to know who that was.”

“Where’s my lawyer?”

“Gerald. You ever watch those infomercials where they say special limited time offer, so act now? With the shit storm you’re facing, we’re in that zone now, you and I.” His eyes were flicking but he wasn’t budging yet. She pressed him from another angle. “Of course, you don’t see a lot of those infomercials. Mostly, they’re on late at night and that’s your usual door shift.”

He shrugged. “You know that, everybody knows that.”

“But it leads me to wonder. As we went over the surveillance video from the Guilford the day of Matthew Starr’s murder, we saw you were there in the early afternoon.”

“So, I work there.”

“That’s what I thought when I saw you on video the other day. But recent events have me looking at your presence in a whole new light.”

“Hey, I did not kill Mr. Starr.”

“I’ll make a note of that.” She flashed a smile and dropped it. “I’m wondering about something else, and you’re just the guy to ask. You didn’t by any chance help anybody into the building during your off-the-clock visit, did you? I know there’s a locked access door on the roof. Is it possible you opened it up for somebody when you were hanging around at about 12:39 P.M.?”

There were two light knocks on the door. Damn, Ochoa signaling the attorney.

“Gerald? Limited time offer.”

A woman’s muffled rant seeped through from the Ob Room. “Sounds like my lawyer,” said Buckley.

Sounds like a dental drill, thought Nikki. “Well? Did you let someone in from the roof?”

There was an air suck as the door opened. Ochoa came in with a brittle woman in a mud-colored suit. She reminded Nikki of someone who would hold up the grocery line insisting on a price check for parsley. The woman said, “This is not appropriate.”

Nikki ignored her and pressed on. “Where did you get the camera?”

“Don’t answer that.”

“I’m not.”

With the attorney as room monitor, Heat shifted to a new tack. She stopped looking for answers and started planting seeds. “Did Pochenko give it to you as a gift in exchange for the favor?”

“My client has nothing to say.”

“Or did you rip the camera off from him? Pochenko’s not the kind of guy you rip off, Gerald.”

“Detective, this interview is over.”

Nikki smiled and stood up. “There’ll be others.” And she stepped out.

Shortly after Roach clocked out for the day, Nikki heard Rook amble up behind her chair and watch her computer slide show of the pictures from Barbara Deerfield’s camera. The photography was not the best. Straight-on flat shots of every painting snapped in pairs, one in natural light followed by a twin but using flash.

“Clearly these were for internal reference only. You wouldn’t put them in a brochure or on the Web site,” she said.

“So these were like her notes from the meeting with Matthew Starr.”

“Right. And Lauren, my, what did you call her—my ghoul friend—called and confirmed her time of death as sometime around noon that same day.” Nikki continued to click through each of the shots.

Rook must have read her mood, because instead of a victory gloat, he watched silently for a while. But only a while, before he said, “Are you free tonight?”

She continued to click the mouse, maintaining a cadence, enjoying her private art show, or looking for clues, or both. “I’m going to be working tonight.”