“I am about to activate the PA’s Emergency Management Office,” Gilbert continued. “Our highly trained personnel continue to inspect all assets for readiness and function. Maritime and air terminals are stepping up precautions. Construction at the new World Trade Center is battening down. Also, with an anticipated landfall early next week, I am ordering that, this weekend, critical staff — and that includes Operations and PAPD — will all be working.” The room started yelling out questions all at once. He didn’t call on anyone. Instead, he delivered his sound bite.
“One more comment to more directly address the reporter’s question. Twenty-one years ago, an event called The Perfect Storm lashed the north Atlantic. Now, we see that disparate components could similarly be gathering, poised to fall into place and create a perfectly larger catastrophe. You know I’m a sailor. I am. A sailor who’s weathered all kinds of seas. Anyone who’s sailed with me knows one thing. I know how to keep my eye on what’s important. And to know a real storm from a passing squall.”
During his dramatic pause, Nikki shook her head and muttered, “Politicians.”
Just as she had two days before, Heat pushed the call buzzer outside the security gate at Cosmo, Keith Gilbert’s mansion on Beckett’s Neck in Southampton. Moments after, a voice she recognized asked, “Help you?”
“Danny, hi, this is Detective Heat from the NYPD. We met on Tuesday?”
“…Yeah?” he replied through the tinny speaker. From his detached tone she couldn’t tell if that meant “So what?” or “Yes, I recall.”
“Would you open, please? I have a search warrant.”
When he came out, Danny ogled the document like it was radioactive. His gaze lifted from it to Nikki and then over to Detective Sergeant Aguinaldo whose unmarked SUV was parked parallel to Heat’s Taurus. “This is kind of above my pay grade. Mind if I call Mr. G?”
Nikki thought about it. “Sure, OK. But do it here, though.” She didn’t want Danny out of her sight behind a heavy gate so he could potentially interfere with the search. He nodded blandly and flipped open his cell, walking a few yards to the side for privacy.
“I don’t think there’s going to be a problem with this guy,” said Aguinaldo in a low voice. “I mean that paper’s all you need to go in. If there’s an issue, I’ll just call for someone to watch him out here while we execute your warrant.” Heat appreciated the other detective’s calm take. Instead of exerting small-town bullying — of which Heat had seen her share over the years — Inez Aguinaldo had a cool, professional air. That sort of thing was beyond training. It was how she came wired from the factory.
“There’s a dog, too.”
“We do dogs,” Aguinaldo said with a smile. “Listen, early for lunch, but I brought two panini from Sean’s Place on Hampton Road.”
“Thank you, very thoughtful.”
“I’ve got your choice. Grilled ham and Havarti or grilled ham and Havarti.”
“What do you recommend?”
“I’d go with the first one.”
Just then Heat’s cell phone buzzed. She flashed Aguinaldo the caller ID. “Gilbert’s lawyer. This should be interesting.”
“I hear you have a warrant,” breathed the voice on her phone. Frederic Lohman always sounded like he should be wearing a nasal cannula for supplemental oxygen.
“I do, Mr. Lohman. Your client has a Ruger .38 Special registered as premises-only to his Southampton address through the Suffolk County sheriff. He volunteered the information that he had the weapon on his self-initiated visit to my precinct. I have the paper. I’m getting the gun.”
“That’s a mighty big piece of property there, isn’t it?” Just when Nikki was about to jam him for hindering, he surprised her. “Which is why we are going to tell you exactly where to find it. Notice I said ‘we’?” He coughed without bothering to cover his mouthpiece and said, “I have conferred with Commissioner Gilbert, and my client has directed his caretaker to escort you directly to the weapon in the interest of full cooperation.”
Slightly aback, Heat didn’t want to say thank you, but she did. “You’re welcome. Wipe your feet first.” He chuckled, then added, “Remember this gesture, Detective.” And then he hung up.
The detectives did wipe their feet. It just seemed the thing to do when entering a twenty-million-dollar home. What struck Nikki first was the silence. In the high-ceilinged broadness of the entry and main living room, there was no echo. The absolute cushion of the rugs absorbed all sound inside, and the double-insulated glass kept the outside out. Even the soft rolling of the Atlantic waves foaming on the adjacent beach were dampened — unless, of course the motorized patio windows fanned open. In season, of course.