Heat Gauge

Chapter Six

Vasily Sidorov lived in a run-down apartment block in the middle of Coney Island. Nikki parked the Crown Vic across the street and killed the engine, peering through the misted window up at the bland edifice of the silent building. It was the same stoney grey as the boiling sky behind it. Even the old snow clinging to the lampposts was grey, like dirty soap suds. This was the part of New York the tourists avoided. Nikki's gut squirmed uneasily at the sight.

The pair of them had to dodge discarded McDonald's bags as they dashed across the slushy tarmac and took shelter from the rain under a faded awning. Nikki looked up the fire escape, judging the possibility of Sidorov doing a runner down it. She could have called for back-up, but something about the rusted, broken railings convinced her that Natasha's ex-husband wouldn't be stupid enough to try scale it. Nikki made a mental note to alert fire safety.

The door wasn't manned. Nikki used her index finger to depress the worn intercom button for Sidorov's room and waited, hugging herself to keep warm. Rook stood close behind, casting the occasional glance up the empty street. Finally, after another three buzzes, a crackly voice came over the speaker.

“Yes, what is it?” The Russian accent was strong and thick.

“Vasily Sidorov?” Nikki asked.

“That is I,” the man replied, his voice sounding wary.

“My name is Nikki Heat. I'm a homicide detective with the NYPD. I'm here to ask you a few questions about your ex-wife Natasha Herskovitz.”

“Homicide?”

“Yes.”

Silence. Then the door buzzed open.

“Come on,” Nikki said, dragging Rook in by the sleeve.

“Man sounds a bit like the Count,” he commented as Nikki craned her neck to read the 'Out of Order' sign on the elevator and turned towards the dark stairwell in the corner of the lobby.

“Vell, do not vorry, Jamie. I vill protect you,” she teased.

Nikki took the stairs two at a time to the third floor, barely breathing hard when she stepped into the corridor. Mouldy wallpaper peeled off the walls like old skin, and the carpet was so threadbare that her boots clunked on the wood beneath. A board creaked underfoot as she stepped forwards to make room for Rook, who was labouring from the climb and clutching his chest. Nikki rolled her eyes.

Vasily Sidorov's door was at the very end of the narrow hallway, beside a filthy window that filtered in little sunshine.

“This place is a health hazard,” Rook muttered.

“Nobody said mobsters lived in luxury,” Nikki replied, reaching up to rap sharply at the door. “NYPD,” she called.

“Uh … yes. I said they did, actually,” Rook objected, extending his finger to prod at something crusted onto the windowsill.

“Jamie, don't touch,” Nikki warned him. He retracted the hand. “NYPD, open up!” Nikki shouted, pounding on the door again. Someone moved inside. There was the sound of heavy boots on a hard floor, a rustling of paper, then the door handle squeaked and turned.

A bloodshot, baggy eye framed by pronounced crow lines appeared in the crack afforded by the safety chain. Nikki held up her badge to make it visible. “Mr. Sidorov?” she asked. The eye moved up an inch and back down in an affirmative nod, looking suspicious. “I have a few questions for you. Would you mind letting us in?”

The eye remained fixated on her for a few seconds longer, then the door snapped shut and the chain scraped. Nikki stepped back to appear less threatening and whispered for Rook to keep his hands in front of him. She crossed her own in front of her thighs and hitched a smile onto her face.