Heat Wave

  “Too happy.”

  Heat nodded. “Agreed.”

  “But,” said Rook, “you’ll still check her alibi and whether Paxton cut her a fat good-bye check.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And we have a surprise mystery guest to check out, the Nordic Nanny.”

  “You’re learning.”

  “Oh, yeah, learning a lot. Those were very revealing questions.” She watched him, knowing something was coming. “Especially when you finished asking about the case and started getting personal.”

  “…Yeah? She had an interesting story and I wanted to hear it.”

  “Huh. You sure didn’t look like it.” Rook waited until he saw the color come to her cheeks, and then he just stared straight ahead out the windshield with that stupid grin again. All he said was, “Green.”

  “Hey, man, it’s the thought that counts,” said Raley. Rook, Roach, and a number of detectives and uniforms were crowded in the precinct break room, around the open Fire and Icing box Rook had lovingly cradled on the drive. The assortment of buttercream icings, whipped creams, and ganache had melted and run together into what would charitably be described as cupcake roadkill.

  “No, it’s not,” from Ochoa. “Man promised cupcakes, I don’t want thought, I want a cupcake.”

  “I tell you these were perfect when they left the bakery,” said Rook, but the room was emptying around his good deed. “It’s the heat, it’s melting everything.”

  “Leave ’em outside a little longer. I’ll come back with a straw,” said Ochoa. He and Raley moved on to the bull pen. When they arrived, Detective Heat was updating the whiteboard.

  “Filling up,” said Raley. It was always a mixed feeling at this point on an open homicide, when the satisfaction of seeing the board becoming populated with data was offset by the most salient fact: Nothing up there had brought a solve. But they all knew it was a process, and every bit they posted was a step closer to clearing the case.

  “So,” Nikki said to her squad, “Morgan Donnelly’s alibi checks with the Tribeca Film commish.” As Rook entered the room eating a cupcake out of a paper cup with a spoon, she added, “For the sake of her cupcakes, I hope the heat wave breaks by April. Roach, you saw Kimberly Starr’s cosmetic surgeon?”

  “Yeah, and I’m thinking of getting something ugly removed that’s been bothering me for the past two years.” Raley paused and added, “Ochoa.”

  “See, Detective Heat?” said his partner. “I give and I give, and this is what I put up with all day.” Then Ochoa went to his notes. “The widow’s alibi checks. She had a last-minute booking for a ‘consultation,’ and showed up at one-fifteen. That squares with her departure from the ice cream parlor on Amsterdam at one.”

  Heat said, “Over to the East Side in fifteen minutes? She got there in a hurry.”

  “Ain’t no mountain high enough,” said Rook.

  “All right,” continued Nikki, “Mrs. Starr managed to tell us the truth about cheating on both her husband and Barry Gable with Dr. Boy-tox. But that’s just her whereabouts. Check phone records from her or the doc for any calls to Miric or Pochenko just to button it all down.”

  “Right,” said Roach in unison and they laughed.

  “See? I can’t stay mad at you,” said Ochoa.

  That evening, darkness was trying to push through the soggy air outside the precinct on West 82nd when Nikki Heat stepped out carrying the Met Store box containing her John Singer Sargent print. Rook was standing at the curb. “I’ve got a car service coming. Why don’t you let me give you a lift?”

  “That’s all right, I’m fine. And thanks again for this, you shouldn’t have.” She started off toward Columbus, on her way to the subway near the planetarium. “But you’ll notice I’m keeping it. Night.”

  She got to the corner and Rook was beside her. “If you insist on proving how macho you are by walking, at least let me carry that.”

  “Good night, Mr. Rook.”

  “Wait.” She stopped but didn’t mask her impatience. “Come on, Pochenko’s still at large. You should have an escort.”

  “You? Who’ll protect you? Not I.”

  “Jeez, a cop who uses proper grammar as a weapon. I’m rendered helpless.”

  “Look, if you have any doubt I can take care of myself, I’ll be more than happy to give you a demonstration. Is your health insurance current?”

  “All right, what if this is just my flimsy excuse to see your apartment? What would you say to that?”

  Nikki looked across the street and back at him. She smiled and said, “I’ll bring in some pictures tomorrow,” and crossed with the light, leaving him there on the corner.

  A half hour later, Nikki came up the steps from the R train onto the sidewalk at East 23rd and saw the neighborhood plunge into darkness as Manhattan finally threw in the towel and collapsed into a citywide blackout. At first a strange silence fell as hundreds of window air conditioners up and down the street ground to a stop. It was as if the city were holding its breath. There was some ambient light from headlights on Park Avenue South. But the streetlights and traffic lights were out, and soon came the angry horns as New York drivers competed for asphalt and right of way.

  Her arms and shoulders were aching when she turned onto her block. She set the Sargent print down on the sidewalk and leaned it carefully against a neighbor’s wrought iron gate while she opened her shoulder bag. The farther she got from the avenue, the darker it had become. Heat fished for her mini-Maglite and adjusted the tiny beam so she wouldn’t take a header on uneven pavement or some dog crap.

  The eerie silence began to give way to voices. They floated in the darkness from above as apartment windows were thrust open and she could hear over and over again the same words from different buildings: “blackout,” and “flashlight,” and “batteries.” She startled at a nearby cough and shined her light on an old man walking his pug.

  “You’re blinding me with that damn thing,” he said as he passed, and she pointed the beam down at the ground.

  “Be safe,” she said but got no response. Nikki picked up her box in both hands and moved on toward her building with the mini-Mag wedged between her palm and the carton, shining light a few feet ahead of each step. She was two doors from her building when a foot scraped on a pebble behind her and she stopped. Listened. Listened hard. But heard no footsteps.

  Some idiot hollered, “Awooooo!” from the rooftop across the street and dropped some flaming paper that spun a bright orange swirl until it burned itself out halfway down to the sidewalk. These were healthy reminders that this would be a good time to get off the street.

  At her front steps, Nikki set down the box again and bent to get her keys. Behind her came quickening footsteps and then a hand touched her back. She whirled and threw a high, backward circle kick that grazed Rook, and by the time she heard his “Hey!” it was too late to do anything but gain her balance and hope he didn’t hit his head on the way down.

  “Rook?” she said.

  “Down here.” Nikki shined her light in the direction of his voice and spotlighted him sitting up in the sidewalk planter with his back against a tree trunk, holding his jaw.

  She bent down to him. “Are you all right? What the hell were you doing?”

  “I couldn’t see you, I bumped into you.”

  “But why are you here?”

  “I just wanted to make sure—”

  “—that you ignored what I said and followed me.”

  “Always the savvy detective.” He put one of his hands against the tree and the other on the sidewalk. “You might want to turn away. I am about to struggle. Pay no attention to the groaning” She didn’t turn away but put a hand under his arm to help him up.

  “Did I break anything?” she asked and shined the flashlight on his face. His jaw was red and chafed from her foot. “Do this,” she said and shined the light on herself as she worked her jaw open and closed. She put the light on him and he followed her instructions. “
How’s that?”

  “The humane thing may be just to put me down. You got a bullet on you?”

  “You’re fine. You’re lucky I only grazed you.”

  “You’re lucky I signed that waiver against lawsuits when I started my ride-along.”

  She smiled in the dark. “I guess we’re both lucky.” Nikki figured he must have heard the smile in her voice because he drew closer to her, until there was only the slightest gap separating them. They stood there like that, not quite touching but sensing each other’s closeness in the dark of the hot summer night. Nikki started to sway, and then leaned ever so slightly toward him. She felt her breast brush softly against his upper arm.

  Then the bright light hit them.

  “Detective Heat?” said the voice from the patrol car.

  She took one step back from Rook and shielded her eyes against the spotlight. “I am.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Fine. He’s…,” she looked at Rook, who wasn’t appreciating her pause while she struggled to define him, “with me.”

  Nikki knew the score. As they lowered the beam out of her eyes, she pictured the meeting in Captain Montrose’s office after she’d left and the call that went out. It was one thing to rib each other and play their game of Too Cool to Care, but the precinct was family, and if you were one of their own and you were threatened, you could bet your badge they’d have your back. The gesture would have been so much more welcome if she hadn’t had Jameson Rook on her hip. “Thank you, but you know, this isn’t necessary. Really.”

  “No sweat, we’ll be here all night. You want us to show you upstairs?”

  “No,” Nikki said a little more urgently than she’d intended. She continued more softly, “Thank you. I’ve got a,” she looked at Rook, who smiled until she said, “flashlight.”

  Rook lowered his voice. “Nice. Think I’ll tell James Taylor I have his new song. ‘You’ve Got a Flashlight.’”

  “Oh, don’t be so—You know James Taylor?”

  “Heat?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Got any ice up there in that apartment?”

  Nikki gave it a moment while he rubbed his sore jaw. “Let’s go up and find out.”

  NINE

  Nikki Heat’s apartment building was not the Guilford. It was not only a fraction of the size, there was no doorman. Rook looped his fingers in the brass handle and held open the front door as she entered the small vestibule. Her keys clacked against the glass of the inner door, and once Nikki unlocked it, she waved to the blue-and-white still double-parked out front. “We’re in,” she said. “Thank you.”

  The cops left on the spotlight for them, and thanks to its spill the lobby was dim but not totally dark. “Chair, see?” Nikki shined her light at it briefly. “Stay close.” A row of shiny metal-plated mailboxes caught the reflection beside them. She twisted the beam a little wider, and although it was not as intense, it gave them a better sense of the area, revealing the long, narrow lobby, which was a small-scale match for the footprint of the building. A single elevator sat ahead to the left, and on its right, separated by a table holding some UPS deliveries and unclaimed newspapers, was an open passageway to the staircase.

  “Hang onto this.” She gave him the box and crossed over to the elevator.

  “Unless that thing’s steam powered, I don’t think it’s going to be working,” said Rook.

  “Ya think?” She shined the light up at the deco brass dial indicating which of the five floors the car was on. The arrow pointed to the 1. Heat rapped the heel of her flashlight on the elevator door and a series of loud bongs resonated. She called out, “Anybody in there?” and put her ear to the metal. “Nothing,” she said to Rook. Then she dragged the lobby chair to the elevator door and stood on it. “For this to work, you have to do this up top, at the header.” Clenching the tiny flashlight in her teeth to free her hands, she used them to pry the doors open a few inches at the center. Nikki angled her head forward and inserted the light into the partition. Satisfied, she released the doors and stepped down, reporting, “All clear.”

  “Always a cop,” said Rook.

  “Mm, not always.”

  She learned just how dark it could get when they started climbing the stairs, which were wall-bound and did not get any of the police spotlight bleeding into the lobby. Nikki led with her Maglite; Rook surprised her with a beam of light of his own. At the second floor landing she said, “What the hell is that?”

  “iPhone ap. Cool, huh?” The screen of his cell phone radiated a bright flame from a virtual Bic lighter. “These are all the rage at concerts now.”

  “Did Mick tell you that?”

  “No, Mick didn’t tell me that.” They resumed their climb and he added, “It was Bono.”

  It was an easy climb to her third-floor apartment, but the stifling air of the staircase had them both palming sweat off their faces. Inside her foyer she flicked the light switch out of habit and chided herself for being so on autopilot. “Do you have service on that thing?”

  “Yep, showing all bars.”

  “Miracle of miracles,” she said and flipped open her own phone to speed-dial Captain Montrose. She had to try twice to get a connection, and while it rang, she led Rook into the kitchen and lit up the freezer. “Ice down that jaw, while I—Hello, Captain, thought I’d check in.”

  Detective Heat knew the city would be on a tactical alert and wanted to see if she should come to the station or go to a staging area. Montrose confirmed that Emergency Management had called the T.A. and that leaves and days off were temporarily suspended. “I might need you to cover a shift, but so far anyway, the city is behaving. Guess we’ve got this down from the 2003,” he said. “Considering the twenty-four hours you’ve just had, your best use for me would be to get some rest and be fresh tomorrow in case this drags on.”

  “Uh, Captain, I was surprised to see I’ve got a little company out front.”

  “Oh, right. Put in a call to the Thirteenth Precinct. They’re treating you right, I hope.”

  “Swell, very solid. But here’s the thing. With this T.A. on, is this the best use of resources?”

  “If you mean covering my best investigator to make sure she doesn’t get her sleep disturbed, I can’t think of a better use. Raley and Ochoa insisted on doing it themselves, but I put a stop to that. Now, that would be a waste of resources.”

  God, she thought. That would be just what she needed, having Roach show up and catch her out there brushing buttons in the dark with Rook. As it was, she wasn’t keen on the idea of those uniforms knowing what time Rook was leaving, even if it would be soon. “It’s sweet, Cap, but I’m a big girl, I’m home safe, the door’s locked, the windows are closed, I’m armed, and I think our city will be better off if you kick that car loose.”

  “All right,” he said. “But you double-lock that door. No strange men in that apartment tonight, you hear?”

  She watched Rook leaning against the butcher block holding a dish towel of ice cubes to his face and said, “No worries, Captain. And Cap? Thank you.” She pressed End and said, “They don’t need me tonight.”

  “So your obvious attempt to cut my visit short didn’t pan out.”

  “Shut up and let me look at that.” She stepped over to him and he lowered the towel so she could examine his sore jaw. “Not swelling, that’s good. An inch closer to my foot, you’d have been drinking soup through a straw for the next two months.”

  “Hold on, that was your foot you hit me with?”

  She shrugged and said, “Yeah?” then rested her fingertips on his jaw. “Work it again.” Rook moved it back and forth. “That hurt?”

  “Only my pride.”

  She smiled and held her fingers there on him, caressing his cheek. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly, and he looked at her in a way that made her heart flutter. Nikki stepped away before the magnet pull gained real force, suddenly worried that deep down she might be some sort of freak who got turned on a
t crime scenes. First on Matthew Starr’s balcony and now here in her own kitchen. Not the worst thing, to be a bit of a freak, she thought, but crime scenes? That was sure the common denominator. Well, that and, um, Rook.

  He shook the ice out of the towel and into the sink, and while he was occupied, her mind raced to figure out just what the hell she was thinking, asking him up there. Maybe she was loading too much meaning into this visit, projecting. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, right? And sometimes coming up for ice was just coming up for ice. Her breath was still high in her chest, though, from being close to him. And that look. No, she said to herself, and made her decision. The best course was not to force this. He had his ice, she’d kept her promise, yes, the smart thing would be to stop this now and send him on his way. “Would you like to stay for a beer?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he said with a grave tone. “Is your iron unplugged? Oh wait, there’s no electricity so I don’t have to worry about my face getting pressed.”

  “Funny man. Guess what? I don’t need no stinking iron. I’ve got a Bagel Biter over there and you don’t want to know what I can do with that.”

  He took a moment and said, “I’m good with beer.”

  There was only one Sam Adams in the fridge so they split it. Rook said he was fine with sharing hits off the bottle, but Nikki got them glasses, and while she got them down, she wondered what had made her ask him to stay. She felt a naughty thrill and smiled about how blackouts and hot nights brought on a certain lawlessness. Maybe she did need guarding—from herself.

  Rook and his virtual lighter disappeared into the living room with their beers while she scrounged a kitchen drawer for some candles. When she came into the living room, Rook was standing at the wall adjusting the John Singer Sargent print. “This look level to you?”

  “Oh…”

  “I know it’s kind of forward. We know about my boundary issues, right? You can hang it somewhere else, or not, I just thought I’d swap it for your Wyeth poster so you could get the effect.”