Buckley turned his head away from Heat the way dogs do when they’re pretending they didn’t deliver the nearby turd to the new carpet. His lawyer stepped between them. “I’ve advised my client not to answer any further questions. If you have a case, bring it. But no more interviews unless you have lots of time to waste.”

“Thanks, Counselor. This isn’t going to be an interview.”

“No interview?”

“That’s right.” The detective waited as his lawyer and Buckley traded confused looks, then she said, “Step this way.”

Nikki led the entourage, Buckley, his lawyer, Roach, and Rook, into the autopsy room where Lauren Parry stood beside a stainless table with a sheet over it.

“Hey, what are we doing in here?” said Buckley.

“Gerald,” said the lawyer, and he pursed his lips. Then she turned to Nikki. “What are we doing in here?”

“They pay you to do that? Repeat what he says?”

“I demand to know why you dragged my client down here to this place.”

Nikki smiled. “We have a body that needs identification. I believe Mr. Buckley may be able to provide it.”

Buckley leaned toward his attorney’s ear and got as far as muttering, “I don’t wanna see any—” when Heat signaled Lauren Parry, who whipped the sheet off the table and revealed the corpse.

Vitya Pochenko’s body was still clothed as they had found him. Nikki had phoned ahead to debate the subject with her friend, who felt that naked-for-the-autopsy was an impactful display that was tough to beat. Heat managed to persuade her that the Great Lake of dried blood on his white T-shirt told a better story, and so that was the presentation the M.E. made.

The Russian lay on his back, eyes left open to make the maximum impression, the irises fully dilated, leaving only pupil, the effect exhibiting the darkest window to his soul. All color was gone from his face except for blotches of deep empurplement near one jaw, where gravity had pooled blood in the direction of his bench slump. Then there was that gruesome butterscotch and salmon burn welt covering one side of his face.

Nikki watched the color drain from Gerald Buckley’s cheeks and lips until he was only about two hardware-store paint chips from matching Pochenko.

“Detective Heat, if I may interrupt,” said Lauren, “I may have a determination on the caliber of the weapon.”

“Excuse us just one moment,” Nikki said to Buckley. He took a hopeful half step to the door, his disbelieving eyes still riveted on the body. Ochoa stepped to corral him and he stopped without contact.

Gerald Buckley stayed put, staring. His lawyer had found a chair and was sitting sideways, at a right angle to the play. Nikki snapped on a pair of gloves and joined the M.E. at her table. Lauren placed expert fingertips on Pochenko’s skull and gently rotated it to expose the bullet hole behind his ear. A small puddle of brain fluid pooled on the gleaming stainless steel under the wound, and Buckley moaned when he saw it. “I did critical measurements and ballistics comparisons after our on-site angle-of-entry reconstruction.”

“Twenty-five?” asked Nikki.

“Twenty-five.”

“Mighty small caliber to bring down such a big man.”

The medical examiner nodded. “But a small-caliber round delivered to the brain can be remarkably effective. In fact, one of the highest one-shot-stop ratings is the Winchester X25.” In the metal pan of the hanging scale, Heat could see Buckley’s reflection, craning to hear every bit as Lauren continued. “That round is fabricated like a hollow point, but the hollow is filled with a steel BB to aid expansion inside the body once the slug is delivered.”

“Whoa. When that puppy hit his brains, it must have been like taking a hammer to a plate of scrambled eggs,” said Raley. Buckley was regarding him with fearful eyes, so the detective added for good measure, “Like the front row of a Gallagher concert in there.”

“Quite,” said Lauren. “We’ll know more once we cut open his brain for the treasure hunt, but one of those slugs would be my guess.”

“But such a small gun would mean whoever did this knew they’d get a chance to work close.”

“Sure,” said Lauren. “Definitely knew what they were doing. Small-caliber mouse gun. Easy to conceal. Victim never sees it coming. Could be anytime, anywhere.”

“Pop,” said Ochoa.

Buckley yipped and flinched.

Heat crossed over to him, making sure to leave an unobstructed view of the dead Russian. The doorman was a fish on a dock. His lips opened and closed but no sound came. “Can you positively identify this man?”

Buckley belched and Nikki was afraid he’d ralph on her, but he didn’t, and it seemed to help him locate his voice. “How could somebody…get to Pochenko?”

“People involved in this case are dying, Gerald. Are you sure you don’t want to give me a name to help stop this before you join them?”

Buckley was incredulous. “He was a wild animal. He laughed when I called him Da Terminator. Nobody could kill him.”

“Somebody did. Single shot to the head. Bet you know who.” She waited a three count and said, “Who hired you to steal that art collection?”

The lawyer got to her feet. “Don’t answer that.”

“Maybe you don’t know who,” Heat said. Her tone was all the more intimidating because she was so casual. Instead of shouting or grilling him, she was washing her hands of him. “I’m thinking we’re chasing our tails. We should spring you. Bail you out on your own recognizance. Let you think things over out there. See how long you last.”

“Is that a bona fide offer, Detective?” asked the attorney.

“Ochoa? Get the keys to unlock his handcuffs.”

Behind him, Ochoa rattled a set of keys and Buckley recoiled, hunching his shoulders at the sound as if it was a bullwhip cracking.

“Isn’t that what you want, Gerald?”

The man was swaying where he stood. White saliva strings connected the roof of his mouth to his tongue.

“What…” Buckley swallowed. “What’s happened to his…?” He gestured up and down his own face to indicate the burn area on Pochenko.

“Oh, I did that,” said Nikki, sounding casual. “Burned his face with a hot iron.”

He looked to Lauren, who nodded affirmation. Then he looked at Heat and then Pochenko and back to Heat. “All right.”

“Gerald,” the lawyer said, “shut up.”

He turned to her. “You shut up.” Gerald Buckley then looked at Nikki and spoke gently, resigned. “I’ll tell you who hired me to steal that art.”

Nikki turned to Rook. “You’ll excuse us, won’t you? I need you to wait outside while Mr. Buckley and I talk.”

EIGHTEEN

On their drive back from the M.E.’s office, Nikki didn’t need to turn around to know Rook was pissed off in the backseat. She was dying to, though, because seeing his torment would have added to her wicked pleasure.

Ochoa was sitting back there with him and said, “Hey, homes, you carsick or something?”

“No,” said Rook. “Unless I caught a chill when I got sent out in the hall when Buckley was going to talk.”

Heat wanted to turn around so bad.

“Some play. You kicked me out during the last scene.”

Raley braked at the light on Seventh Avenue and said, “Hey, when a subject’s about to open up, the fewer the better. You especially don’t want a reporter there.”

Nikki leaned back on the headrest and scoped the digital temperature on the JumboTron outside Madison Square Garden. Ninety-nine degrees. “You probably know who Buckley named anyway, right, Rook?”

“Tell me and I’ll let you know.”

That brought a round of chuckles inside the Crown Vic.

Rook snorted. “When did this become a hazing?”

“It’s not a hazing,” she said. “You want to be all with the detectives, right? Do what we do and think like one.”

“Except Raley,” said Ochoa. “He doesn’t think right.”