“It’s a Jitterbug,” she said, and held up her bright red phone. “Shall I
call 911?”
“Yes, please.” Heat tried to sound casual even as she lurched the wheel and mashed
the brake. A gnarled forefinger tapped the large, senior-friendly keypad. “Say
‘Officer needs assistance.’ ” While Heat threaded through the uptown rush,
keeping pace with the cab, her passenger repeated Nikki’s parceled-out messages to
the emergency operator, asking her to radio for patrol cars to get ahead of them so
they could wedge the suspect in a vise. “You did great.” As the woman snapped her
Jitterbug closed, Heat threw a protective arm out across her. “Hang on, hang on.”
Just beyond Bellevue Hospital, Salena Kaye bailed from her taxi and ran into the
ambulance driveway. Heat checked her mirrors, pulled a hard right to the curb, and
stopped. “You OK?”
The old lady nodded. “Hot dog.”
Detective Heat flew out of the car, sprinting after her suspect.
Nikki eyeballed the row of FDNY ambulances parked at the trauma entrance, looking
inside and between them all as she ran, but she couldn’t spot Kaye. She jogged
deeper into the passageway, slowing to check behind some laundry bins. Then she
caught it. A figure going over the wall at the dead end of the lot.
Kaye had taken one of the spine boards stacked beside the ambulances to cover the
razor wire. Heat used it, too, pausing at the top to get bearings on the suspect
before her drop to the sidewalk. She landed with knees bent to absorb the impact,
and tore off up the service road that ran between NYU Medical Center and the FDR.
Ahead stretched a straight line of sidewalk. And a runaway killer.
Salena Kaye had skills. She ran in a random zigzag pattern that made it futile for
Heat to shoot from that distance. But her dekes and dodges also slowed her forward
progress. Nikki kicked up the sprint until her lungs were seared.
By 30th Street, just past the big white tent housing remains from the 9/11 attack,
Heat knew she had her. Close enough to risk a shot, she drew. “Salena Kaye, freeze
or I’ll shoot.” The suspect stopped, raised both hands, and turned to face her.
But then a pair of orderlies from the medical examiner’s office stepped out of the
rear courtyard for a smoke break. “Get back!” Heat shouted. The man and woman
froze, blocking her shot. Kaye sprinted off through traffic, into a parking garage
across the street.
Gun out and pointed up at the car park’s ceiling of green steel girders, Nikki Heat
tiptoed through the shadows, scanning every square inch, listening intently over the
thrum of FDR traffic above for any sound that would give away Salena’s hiding
place. The detective squatted to scout under the cars, with nothing to show for it
but a sooty palm. Then she rose up and stood stock still. Just to listen.
She never heard the blow coming. Salena Kaye pounced on top of her, dropping from
the steel I-beams of the ceiling, taking her by surprise.