Raging Heat

Protocols met, Roach began the recap with a tour. The shambles matched Roach’s phone description. The luxury apartment looked as if a bear had gotten into a cabin and clawed every possible hiding place for food. Bookcases, clothing armoires, and furniture had all been scraped, dumped, or slashed. Valuables — and there were plenty left behind by the burglar or burglars — had been photographed, inventoried, and filed in banker’s boxes labeled NYPD Forensics. CSU technicians were still dusting for prints and plucking fibers in the maid’s quarters when they got there.

Heat asked, “Did we flip the mattress like that?”

“Found it that way,” answered Detective Raley. And then, sensing the graveness that descended on his squad leader as she stooped to inspect the modest personal belongings scattered on the floor — a hairbrush, a small crucifix, store-brand makeup, and a shattered votive candle — he added more gently, “We found bimonthly stubs in the victim’s checkbook made out to her. The name’s Jeanne Capois.”

“Yeah, I got it on your missing persons call alert.” She rose up and went to the window. “Was this locked like this?”

Ochoa nodded. “And no sign of exit.”

“Any blood in here?”

The tech in the hairnet and sterile suit said, “No. But still checking.”

Nikki said, “What about the picture?”

“Pulled these off the floor underneath the box springs.” Ochoa held out three cellophane evidence envelopes. The first two contained group photos of friends: one at a nightclub; another from Battery Park with Lady Liberty in the background. “Must have gotten knocked off the bulletin board.”

Heat noted the small corkboard, askew on the wall, with a tropical sunset photo push-pinned into it above a trio of faded rectangles where these shots had been posted. Only one woman was common to both pictures. Black, mid-twenties, beautiful. The third shot was a solo of a black man, also mid-twenties. It had been taken on the Coney Island boardwalk, and he had his shirt off. On one of his shoulders the Haitian tattoo faced the camera.

“We’ll get this to Forensics to verify the tattoo match,” said Raley, anticipating her.

“Anybody in the building know her or see her recently?” asked Heat. Her answer came with a big Roach grin that said yes. “It’s almost like you guys know what you’re doing.”

Wilma Stallings, an elderly housekeeper from an apartment up the hall had identified Jeanne Capois when Roach knocked on doors during their routine canvass earlier in the day. She repeated to Heat and Rook that she hadn’t heard any of the commotion because, at seventy-eight, she’d become hard of hearing. QVC blasting in a back room might also have been a factor. “Such a shame. Mr. David was a wonderful man. I told the other detectives he should have just let them take what they wanted. Are you sure you won’t sit? The couple I work for is away at their place in Stowe.”

They followed her to the living room and Nikki doubled back over ground Roach had covered with her, to get her own take on the missing woman and her life. Wilma had last seen Jeanne Capois about ten the evening before. “She seemed upset. Usually that young lady had a bright smile and all the time in the world. But when I saw her in the hall she was poking that elevator button like it was video blackjack. And not so much as a hello in return.”

“Did she have anything with her,” asked Heat.

“No, just her purse.”

“Did it seem particularly full or unusually heavy?”

“What a peculiar question.…No, not that I noticed.” Of course, Heat was fishing to see if Jeanne Capois’s hurry was all about getting some unknown object out of the apartment. That is, assuming that’s what the invasion was all about.

“Did she have any visitors recently or talk about anyone bothering her?”

The old woman shook her head.

Rook asked, “Do you know how she came to this particular job?”

“Oh, yes. An agency.” Then she stared and stared. So long, in fact, Nikki wondered if she was having some sort of episode. Then she came back from the ozone and said, “Happy Hazels. Knew I’d remember it.” She grinned and held up a hand, which Rook high-fived. Then Wilma squeezed her eyes tight behind her thick glasses and slapped her knee joyfully. “I’m on a roll. Something else came to me. Those young detectives showed me a photograph.”

Nikki had snapped a shot with her iPhone of the Coney Island man, Fabian Beauvais. She held it out to Wilma and traded a quick hopeful glance with Rook. “Yes, that one. I just remembered. I have seen him before, after all. This fella brought Jeanne to the apartment one night last month. Or June. I don’t know. Mr. David was away in Florida, I know that.”

Nikki calmed herself in the face of the old housekeeper’s big connection. She handed the photo to her for closer inspection. “But you are completely sure it was he?”

“Absolutely.” She tapped an arthritic finger on her temple. “Sometimes it comes late, but it always comes right.”

“How did they act? Did they seem to know each other well?” asked Rook.