Driving Heat by Richard Castle
“You should drop the ‘Mr. Rook’ shit. It’s not like I can’t tell you’re sleeping with him. Just so you know, I don’t care either way. I just don’t like artifice. It’s insulting.”
Rook chuckled. “Well, we’re getting to know each other pretty quickly, aren’t we?”
“Why?” he asked.
“I’m not sure you heard this, but apparently one of your colleagues—”
“Fred Lobbrecht?” he interrupted. “You think I didn’t know he was killed? Your news is four hours old.” He patted the block of his cell phone inside a cargo pocket. “What century do you think we’re living in, Captain?”
Chants and bullhorns caused them to turn and look across the square. On the far side of the iconic Stanford White–designed marble arch, several dozen protesters had assembled, shouting, “Free Mehmoud! Free Mehmoud!” and carrying picket signs bearing Arabic inscriptions. Theirs was part of the growing angry response in the wake of the NYPD’s Organized Crime Unit’s busting a ring that had been taking advantage of diplomatic ties to smuggle counterfeit currency into the US through Syria. Mehmoud Algafari, the son of a Syrian UN mission employee, had been arrested as part of the ring, and the controversy concerned whether, as the relative of a diplomat, he was protected by diplomatic immunity, or whether his arrest constituted a US kick in the teeth to Assad’s regime, using Mehmoud as a scapegoat.
“NYU undergrads organizing a feel-good march up to the UN because that diplomat’s kid, or whatever, got busted,” explained Backhouse with a shake of his head. “Like that’s going to fucking do anything.” Without seeming to have turned a page, he casually added, “Freddy Lobbrecht was murdered. Please tell me you know it wasn’t any accident.”
Heat glanced at Rook then back to the engineer. “We…see that as a possibility.”
“A possibility? My respect for you is this close to Hindenburging.” He tilted his head up to Rook, who was still standing. “Have you paid attention to anything we have discussed? Do you have any idea what they will do to keep this evidence under wraps?”
“Now you’re getting to why I needed to see you,” said Heat. She had decided to play into what she read as Backhouse’s compulsion to know better, to know more than anyone else, by subordinating herself. “Rook has been tight-lipped. He keeps his secrets. I need to ask you to enlighten me. Help me understa—” Nikki stopped because she had lost his attention, and not just a little. Her studious listener had broken eye contact and was staring over her shoulder in the same direction as Rook, whose attention had apparently been drawn there first. Heat turned to see what the hell they were so intent on. She heard it before she saw it.
It could have been a swarm of bees. But as it drew closer, Heat was reminded of the purring hum made by a Weedwacker, though no gardeners were trimming the edges of the lawns that day. And the buzzing came from somewhere above.
“Eleven o’clock,” said Rook. Backhouse stood first, then Nikki joined him, both scanning the far side of the park. A small dot resolved out of the bright western sky, gently hovering between the Judson Memorial Church steeple and the brick apartment tower on McDougal.
“How cool is that?” Backhouse, more engaged than before, stared in awe. “Never seen one of those in an urban area before.”
“Is that a drone?” asked Heat.
“Hmm, respect is rebuilding, Captain Heat,” said the engineer.
Rook made a visor of his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “I’ve seen drones in the Middle East and in the Caucasus, but they were military grade. Bigger, you know?”
“Yeah, like flying torpedoes,” agreed Backhouse, whose inner nerd was somehow even nerdier than his outer persona. “This one is hobby grade. You should definitely check them out on YouTube, they’re like flying Roombas.”
With some pride, Rook said, “I fly a hobby helicopter.”
“Do you, grampa?” Backhouse snorted a laugh. Rook’s expression lost all its joy.
“It’s moving toward us,” said Nikki.
Gradually, smoothly, the drone decreased altitude and floated gracefully, passing over the hexagonal-brick-paved plaza surrounding the fountain until, about ten yards away from them, it slowed, maintained its position, then drifted forward. Rook sang the five-note signature motive from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, eliciting an appreciative guffaw from Backhouse. The drone’s four small rotors sizzled in the air, maintaining a steady, measured course as the quadcopter progressed toward them. “It likes you,” said Rook. Indeed, Wilton Backhouse’s enthusiasm for the drone was not only contagious but magnetic. The craft settled at eye level and moved within feet of him, then hovered there.
That was when Heat’s fascination turned to alarm. Beside a camera lens she saw what looked like the muzzle of a small-caliber weapon fastened to the bottom of the drone, and it was aimed right at the whistle-blower’s forehead.
“Gun!” she called. Rook instinctively whipped his head from side to side, scanning the park for a shooter. Backhouse, still mesmerized, held his gaze on the drone. Heat broke his geeky trance with a hard shove and a leg sweep to the back of his knees. He howled in alarm as he went down. His yell was punctuated by the sharp crack of a .22 round fired from the quadcopter and the unmistakable sound of a bullet ricocheting off the wrought iron fence behind them.
They landed in a tangle. Surprised and disoriented, Backhouse began to curse and push Heat off him; meanwhile, she was trying to reach her gun, but his flailing arms were in her way. Rook, still on his feet, tried to make sense of the scene. Heat hollered, “The drone! It’s armed. It’s shooting.” Nikki gave Backhouse a push and rolled clear of him, coming up with her Sig Sauer braced, but the drone had pulled back and twenty yards to one side. Her shot would have been in line with the crowd of protesters. A miss, or even a hit that ended up as a through-and-through, could easily strike a bystander. She holstered her piece, clawed a handful of Wilton Backhouse’s tee, and pulled him with her. “Run.”
But when Heat and Rook ran right, he tried to go left, some primal instinct telling him to beat it back to his cave—in this case, his university office. “Wilton, don’t!” she called. “Too open.” He halted, assessed the clear air space between him and Thompson Street, heard the buzz of the quadcopter coming back for another pass, and followed Nikki.
“There’s cover under those trees,” said Rook, not waiting, quickly cutting a turn east, away from the fountain. The other two fell in with him, racing along the walkway, all of them stealing panicked glances back over their shoulders at the drone, which continued to follow them, locked in with unnerving menace.
“Zigzag,” said Heat. “Be a moving target.”
They wove from side to side, scrambling around an undergrad—probably an NYU music major—in a tux jacket, jeans, and Chuck Taylors, pounding out Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no. 2 on an upright he had parked in the center of the walkway. The kid was so lost in the music, he never noticed the downdraft from the aircraft rustling the dollar bills in his tip jar as it relentlessly followed its prey.
Rook had been right; the overhanging sycamore limbs challenged the drone’s navigational ability and, by the time they reached Garibaldi’s statue, the drone had slowed as it tentatively sought a lower altitude—at least for the moment.
Heat still felt too exposed. She pointed to a nearby food cart offering stainless steel for protection and a wide green-and-white umbrella for camouflage. “The vendor,” she said.
They ducked down, crouching on the far side of the cart, pulling the NY Dosas vendor down with them. “NYPD,” said Heat. The mustachioed old man nodded with the equanimity of a seasoned immigrant who takes the New York streets in stride. “Will this be long?” was all he asked in a thick accent.
Heat’s attention was on Backhouse. He was only, maybe, thirty-five, but didn’t strike her as a man who got much exercise. He was drawing audible breaths. Plus those sweat half-moons had grown from gibbous to full. “You OK, Wilton?” He didn’t answer, only shot her
In a caricature of a rural twang Rook said, “‘Funny, that plane’s dusting crops where there ain’t no crops.’” But he got only blank stares from Nikki and Backhouse.
Then the food vendor grinned. “North by Northwest.”
“My man,” said Rook. He turned to Heat. “By the way, I get to be Cary Grant. Obviously.”
Backhouse had gathered himself enough to speak. “Is it gone?”
Nikki cocked an ear to listen for the buzz. “I can’t hear over the piano.” She raised her head to chance a peek over the steaming masala potatoes and lentils. “Looks clear.”
Cautiously, they all rose and scanned the sky above the square. “Is clear,” said Rook. They began to retrace their steps warily, relieved to see no trace of the drone and to hear only the adagio of Rach 2 and the disappearing chants of the protesters as they headed uptown toward the UN, lofting placards and Syrian flags.
A gentle voice asked, “Excuse me. Is that yours?”
They turned around. The NY Dosas vendor pointed to the growing dot bearing down on them from behind. Still half a block east, the drone was coming in fast and at a low level—head level.
“This way!” hollered Rook. He seemed to know what he was doing, and Heat and Backhouse followed him, weaving again as they ran, trying to make themselves harder to draw a bead on.
Heat protested when Rook brought them to the fountain and turned north. “What are you doing? You’re taking us into the open.”
“Trust me. Just keep up.”
But the whistle-blower’s sandal snagged on an uneven paver, and he fell. As he hit the ground the drone fired again. The slug hit one of the hexagonal bricks about a yard ahead of him with a small explosion of stone chips and dust. After its flyby, the quad banked to make another run. Nikki hauled Backhouse to his feet and charged off, following Rook toward 5th Avenue, hoping he had something more than one of his theoretical notions in mind.
The whir of the four rotors grew louder. “Don’t stop to look.” Heat nudged Backhouse. “Just keep going.” He did as he was told, and soon they had joined Rook at the west leg of the marble arch. “Rook, what are you doing?”
“Oh, if I had a nickel.” Then he beckoned her closer. “Bet you didn’t know there was a secret door to get inside the arch. I saw it on PBS.”
“Thanks for the trivia lesson, but it’s locked.”
Backhouse shouted, “Here it comes!”
Heat shepherded him and Rook around to the other side of the arch’s leg as the quadcopter whizzed by. As soon as it passed, Rook returned to the door. When Nikki joined him he said, “Shoot the lock.”
“I can’t just go firing a gun in a park.”
“Why not? That thing sure can.”
“Rook, there are people around here.” She indicated a nanny parking her stroller and sitting down on a bench with a pizza box.
“Coming around again,” said Backhouse. The drone, lethal though it was, made a graceful turn just above the jets of the fountain and aligned itself to attack again. Rook took three steps back and kicked at the lock, a strong deadbolt set in a steel box. It made a sensational noise but did not give one bit. Rook cursed.
Backhouse continued his color commentary. “Thirty yards, I’d say.”
Rook dashed over to the nanny. “Pardon me, I’ll reimburse you, promise.” He snatched the pizza box from her and took out the personal-size pizza within. As the drone closed in, slowing to hover near Backhouse, who retreated until he bumped into the arch’s façade, Rook Frisbee’d the pizza right at the aircraft, grazing one side of it, causing it to shudder and veer away before recovering. As Rook celebrated inwardly, watching the thrumming copter fly off to regroup, a loud cracking sound made him turn.
Heat was kicking in the door to the arch. Well, not the door itself. There was a square louvered ventilation screen set into the thick wood, which disintegrated under three expertly placed blows from the sole of Heat’s shoe, creating a hatch for them to crawl inside. “Hey, it’s like a doggie door,” said Rook in admiration.
As Heat guided Backhouse through the opening on his hands and knees, she said to Rook, “Rule one: Never attack the strongest part of your target.” And before Rook climbed in behind him, she added, “Bet they didn’t teach you that on PBS.”
Fifteen minutes later, Heat climbed inside the police van safely parked outside the privacy gate of Washington Mews and slid in beside Rook. She hooked an elbow over the seat back and addressed Wilton Backhouse where he sat on the middle bench. “No sign of the drone anywhere, so you can relax a little.”
“Yeah, that makes me feel fucking great.” He craned his neck to look out the rear window, past the pair of unis posted beside the van, and into the park, where other officers from the Sixth canvassed the square for eyewitnesses. “What happens when the blue crew leaves for Donut Planet?”
“We’ll provide you police protection, if you want it. I suggest you want it.”
“What do you call what I just had?”
Rook said, “Hey, Wilton. You’re alive, right?”
Since Nikki wanted to finish the interview that the attack had interrupted, she worked to engage Backhouse. She knew it wouldn’t be easy. He wasn’t so much uncooperative as asocial, enough to make her wonder if the engineering professor wasn’t on the autistic spectrum somewhere—Asperger’s, possibly. “For the record, the cop-donut thing? So done. It’s Cronuts now, grampa,” she said. That elicited a hint of a smile that came and went as fast as a wince. “One eyewitness—the nanny whose pizza I replaced, which Rook owes me fifteen bucks for—says she saw the drone gain altitude and rapidly exit the park to the west.”
“That fucker was all over me.”
Rook said, “I know a thing or two about those things. I’ve been thinking about buying one.” He said that as news for Nikki to digest. She did, and rolled her eyes. “The range of the controllers on the latest versions is up to a mile.”
“But it was so precise,” said Heat. “I was thinking it must have been controlled by someone on one of these tall buildings around the park. Either the NYU law school or those apartments bordering the square.”
Rook wagged his head. “Wouldn’t be necessary. That thing was rigged with a high-def camera. That’s all the real-time visual feedback a controller would need. Draw a one-mile radius around the fountain, it could have been someone with an iPad in a parked car, a storefront on Canal Street, even at a picnic table outside Shake Shack.”
“Not making me feel any better here,” said Backhouse. “Especially after Fred. Man…” He hung his head, and his face fell behind a curtain of long hair. Just when Heat thought she had been premature with her Asperger’s diagnosis, she realized he wasn’t mourning, but texting. “Canceling a class. Not happening today.”
“Wilton,” Nikki asked, “can you tell me how Fred Lobbrecht was connected to you?”
“You already know that.” He nodded toward Rook. “He told you, so why ask?”
“Because I want to hear it from you.”
“I’ll have to backtrack.”
“I have time.”
He sighed. “I’m a gearhead, surprise, surprise,” he began, as if reciting a memorized text. “Did engineering, got my BS. Did even more engineering, got my PhD. But please do not call me Dr. Backhouse. Ever. I’m a professor at Hudson, laboring in the long shadow of NYU, teaching undateables in Comic Con souvenir wear about automobile and truck systems forensics plus a Saturday seminar on metallurgical failure analysis. Yes, it rocks. My university contract allows me to moonlight, and I have a lucrative parallel life as a forensic consultant in accident causation factor analysis (read: expert witness) in all performance-related vehicular matters, principally accident litigation.”
“So you consult for Forenetics?”
He gave her a thumbs-up. “Ding-ding. I’m a loathsome consulting expert, in and out, mail me my check. Fred Lobbrecht, ex–Collision Reconstruction Unit stat
“I’m sorry for your loss. Truly,” said Heat. After a decent interval, she moved on. “Fill me in on this whistle-blow issue.”
The professor’s eyes flared at Rook. “You said this was going to be in confidence until publication. Who else knows—besides her?”
Rook pushed back. “You tell me.”
Nikki intervened. “Mr. Backhouse, this is a police matter. Two people have been killed.”
“Two?” He reared back like a horse that just caught a whiff of smoke in the stall. “What the fuck is happening?” Then he scanned the windows of the van, looking for fresh danger.
Although Heat hadn’t intended to probe him yet for what he might know about the first murder, now that it was on the table, she followed that thread. “There was a suspicious death that may, or may not, be related to Fred Lobbrecht’s. Have you ever heard the name Lon King?” She watched him process the name blandly but saw the corners of his mouth turn up slightly. “What?”
“L-O-N K-I-N-G. It’s an anagram of Klingon. Sorry, it’s a thing I do, I can’t help it. Word scrambles.” He tapped his temple. “It’s busy in here.”
“Did you ever hear of him?”
“No.”
“Did Fred Lobbrecht ever mention him?”
“If he had, I would have heard of him; ergo, no.”
Heat decided to leave the matter for now. “I want you to tell me about the whistle-blow.”
“There was a team of us who were tasked to investigate an alleged wrongful death due to a defect in an automobile’s stability-control system. The company I consult for, Forenetics, got hired by the lawyer representing the family of the victim. Just when we started to make some progress—even doing our own autopsy on the car—the family settled out of court. End of case, end of investigation.” Backhouse sat up tall, becoming animated. “But see, it got under my skin. So I had my team keep digging. We saw two patterns. First, a little bulge on the scale of accidents reported to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration involving spontaneous vehicle rollovers. And second, a matching pattern of out-of-court settlements.”