“Great idea,” said Sharon Hinesburg, whose responsibility it was to ID him, and who hadn’t thought of it.
“Anyhoo,” continued Ochoa as if Hinesburg hadn’t spoken, “I got a hit on a Paul Borelli in Bensonhurst. Nothing big, a few busts for weed and disorderly conduct.” He handed her the mug shot. It was a match for the man on the board.
“Her son?”
“Nephew.”
“Still enough to embarrass his aunt. Pay him a visit.” Nikki posted the mug shot on the Murder Board next to the surveillance photo. “Oh, and nice one.”
“Yeah,” said Detective Hinesburg. “Nice one.”
When Nikki came home to her apartment and opened her front door, it banged into something after a few inches and stopped. “Oof,” said Rook on the other side. “Hang on a sec.” Then he pulled it open wide. He was holding a screwdriver and standing beside a stepstool.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I have a surprise for you.” He pointed above the door, to where he had mounted a wireless lipstick camera. “Huh? What do you think?”
“Rook, a NannyCam?”
“Correction: NikkiCam. After the fingerprint team left, I thought you needed some extra security, so I went over to the spy store on Christopher Street. I could spend hours in there. Mainly because I can see myself on every monitor.” He struck a pose in the hall mirror. “I really am ruggedly handsome, aren’t I?”
She stepped past him and looked up at the camera. “Not a bad installation.”
“Oo, this is starting to sound like one of those porn videos where I’m the casual laborer.” Rook smiled. “As you know, nothing casual about how I work.”
“No, quite diligent. You’re on my list for employee of the month.” She kissed him and went to the counter to drop the stack of mail she had brought up along with the evening newspaper.
“What’s your pref for dinner? Take out or go out?” When she didn’t answer, he turned. Nikki’s face had gone pale. “What?” Rook got up and stood beside her at the counter where she had unfolded the front page of the New York Ledger. When he saw the headline, he looked at Nikki but didn’t dare interrupt her. Heat was too engrossed, too stunned by what she was reading.
Ten
By Tam Svejda, Senior METRO Reporter
Just how bad can it get for the NYPD’s 20th Precinct? Yesterday this paper reported bickering and disarray within the station’s Homicide Squad over what has been characterized as “a rudderless, wheel-spinning” probe into the shocking sex dungeon strangulation of a local priest. First it was the good father, now it seems it’s his investigation that’s choking.
Frustrated detectives were openly questioning the leadership of longtime precinct commander, Captain Charles Montrose. According to those familiar with the situation, the captain had recently become more of a part-time visitor than a full-time commander at his Upper West Side cop shop, spending increasingly more hours outside his office, and closing himself off from staff the few hours he was present.
Sources agreeing to speak on condition of anonymity confirm the captain’s absences were only one element that failed to get the investigation into Father Gerry Graf’s murder out of the starting blocks. Montrose’s disputed choices hamstrung detectives (led by magazine cover-cop Nikki Heat, whose dazzling rate of case clearance made her a rising star among hero-hungry commishes downtown). For instance, he banned Detective Heat and her ace squad from following promising leads, instead ordering them to pursue a grand tour of Dungeon Alley, even though it was a road that continually proved colorful yet fruitless.
Members of the 20th also recently witnessed an in-house throw down between Heat and Capt. Montrose over the stalled case, complete with desk pounding and finger pointing. “It was NYPD black and blue,” said one insider who asked not to be identified.
The latest installment in this melodrama was written in blood. Yesterday police responded to a gunshot victim in a parked car. The man was none other than Captain Charles Montrose. Pronounced dead at the scene, he was killed by a single bullet wound to the brain from his own gun. The incident occurred at the curb of Our Lady of the Innocents — poetically, ironically, but not so coincidentally — the very parish of the murdered priest. Buried Anger The controversy surrounding a commander under fire, and now a probable suicide, has spilled out of the brick and concrete bunker on W. 82nd that houses the Two-Oh and rattled some windows a few miles south at One Police Plaza. NYPD toppers have reportedly balked at a Full Honors memorial service for the dead captain, leaving some in the ranks of The Finest angered by the lack of wisdom — and compassion — in a decision to dishonor a long career tarnished at its end, but preceded by decades of bravery, spotless service, and sacrifice.
Angry cops recognize the obvious. The climate of upheaval is not solving any cases. One source summarized it this way. “Whoever killed Father Graf is still out there. In an election year I sure wouldn’t want to have to explain to the citizens of New York City why killers roam free while the brass picks fights over the size of a fallen veteran’s funeral.” Evidence points to one thing that’s certain. The NYPD has one problem that cannot be buried.
Nikki started to pace. “This is not good, this is not going to help.”
Rook said, “Last I checked the Ledger wasn’t so much about helping anything except newspaper sales. Seems fine to me. OK, her writing’s a little on the tabloidy side, but that’s not so much a flaw as an editorial policy.”
She mulled the tone Rook had used for “her writing.” Nikki’s antenna was already up about Tam Svejda, but she had refused to play the role of current girlfriend jealous of the ex. So then, Heat asked herself, why was she obsessing?
“I don’t see the problem,” continued Rook. “Yellow prose aside, it hits the mark, doesn’t it?”
“That is the problem. She never names sources but clearly someone in the precinct is feeding her.” And then she stopped pacing and nibbled her lower lip. “They’re going to think it’s me, you know.”
“Who is?”
“1PP. The timing of this couldn’t be worse after I lost it with Zach Hamner and threatened to go public.”
“Did you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then don’t worry.”
“I guess,” she said. And then read the article again.
Heat’s money was on Sharon Hinesburg as the leak. When Nikki got there the next morning for the start of shift, bull pen chatter was all about the Ledger piece, and when she scanned the faces of her squad, the only one she could picture blabbing to the media was the only detective who wasn’t in on the conversation... because she was over at her desk on a personal call.
One thing was clear under the volcano cloud of negativity. Nobody in that building had mixed feelings about Montrose’s funeral. Roach had already opened an account at a local bank for donations, and everyone said they’d kick in. “Fuck ’em,” said Ochoa. “If downtown won’t give Skip a send-off, we will.”
Nikki called the squad to the Murder Board to change the channel from gossip to work. “Detective Ochoa, where are we on Mrs. Borelli’s nephew?”
“Paid a visit to Paulie Borelli yesterday in Bensonhurst, where he’s a part-time chef at Legendary Luigi’s Pizza.”
“Luigi’s Original?” asked Rhymer.
“No, Legendary. Luigi’s Original is actually a copy.”