She broke the surface and palmed the suds off her face and hair, and floated, weightless in the cooling water, and let herself wonder what it would be like with Jameson Rook. What would he be like? How would he feel and taste and move?
And then the flutter hit her again. What would she be like with him? It made her nervous. She didn’t know.
It was a mystery.
She unstopped the drain and got out.
Nikki had her air-conditioning off and walked her apartment naked and wet, not bothering to towel off in the humidity. The die-hard soap bubbles felt good on her skin, and besides, once she dried off, she’d be damp in no time in the soggy air, so why not be damp and smell like lavender?
Only two of her windows gave views to facing neighbors, and since there was no breeze to obstruct anyway, she drew the shades down on them and went to the utility closet off the kitchen. Detective Nikki Heat’s miracle time- and money-saver was to press her own clothes the night before. Nothing stopped the crooks in their tracks more than defined pleats and sharp creases. She drew the board down on its hinge and plugged in the iron.
She hadn’t overdone the alcohol that night, but what she had drunk had made her thirsty. In the fridge she found her last can of lemon-lime seltzer. It was quite ungreen of her, but she held open the refrigerator door and moved herself close to it, feeling the cool air cascade out against her naked body, chilling her skin into gooseflesh.
A small click turned her away from the open door. The red light had popped on, indicating the iron was ready. She set the can of seltzer on the counter and hurried to her closet to find something relatively clean and, above all, breathable.
Her navy linen blazer only needed a touch-up. Walking up the hall with it, though, she noticed that a button on the right sleeve was cracked and she paused to look at it, to remember if she had a match.
And then, from the kitchen, Nikki heard the seltzer can open.
SEVEN
Even as she stood frozen in her hallway, Nikki’s first thought was that she hadn’t really heard it. Too many replays of her mother’s murder had embedded that pop-top sound in her head. How many times had that snap-hiss jolted her out of nightmares or made her flinch in the break room? No, she could not have heard it.
That is what she told herself in the eternal seconds she stood there, cotton-mouthed and naked, straining to hear over the damned night noise of New York City, and her own pulse.
Her fingers hurt from digging the broken sleeve button into herself. She relaxed her grip but did not drop the blazer for fear of making noise that would give her away.
To whom?
Give it one minute, she told herself. Stay still, be a statue for a count of sixty and be done with this.
She cursed herself for her nakedness and how vulnerable it made her feel. Indulged in the bubble bath and now look. Stop that and focus, she thought. Just focus and listen to every square inch of the night.
Maybe it was a neighbor. How many times had she heard lovemaking, and coughing, and dishes stacking, come across the air space into her open windows?
The windows. They were all open.
A mere fraction through her minute, she lifted one bare foot off the runner and set it down one step closer to the kitchen. She listened.
Nothing.
Nikki chanced another slo-mo step. In the middle of it, her heart skipped when a shadow moved across the slice of floor she could see in the kitchen. She didn’t hesitate or stop to listen again. She bolted.
Racing past the kitchen door to the living room, Nikki hit the light switch, killing the one lamp that was on, and lunged for her desk. Her hand landed inside the large Tuscan bowl that lived there on the back corner. It was empty.
“Looking for this?” Pochenko filled the archway, and he was holding up her off-duty piece. The bright kitchen light behind him cast him in silhouette, but she could see that the Sig Sauer was still in its holster, as if the arrogant bastard wouldn’t be needing it, at least not yet.
Confronted by facts, the detective did what she always did, pushed fear aside and got practical. Nikki ran a checklist of options. One: She could scream. The windows were open, but he might start shooting, which, for the moment, he didn’t seem inclined to do. Two: Get a weapon. Her backup gun was in her handbag in the kitchen or the bedroom, she wasn’t sure which. Either way she would have to get past him. Three: Buy time. She needed it to improvise a weapon, to escape, or to take him out. If she had been confronting a hostage situation, she would have used conversation. Engage, humanize, slow the clock.
“How did you find me?” Good, she thought, to her ear she didn’t sound afraid.
“What, you think you’re the only ones who know how to tail somebody?”
Nikki took a small step backward to draw him into the room and away from the hall. She retraced the places she had been since she had left the precinct—Soho House, Rook’s poker game—and got a chill realizing this man had been watching her each stop.
“It’s not hard to follow someone who doesn’t know they have a tail. You should know that.”
“And how do you know that?” She took another step backward. This time he moved with her a step. “Were you a cop in Russia?”
Pochenko laughed. “Sort of. But not for police. Hey, stay there.” He took the Sig out and tossed the holster aside like litter. “I don’t want to have to shoot you.” And then he added, “Not till I’m through.”
Game changer, she said to herself, and prepared for the worst option. Nikki had drilled the handgun disarm only a million times. But always on a mat with an instructor or cop partner. Still Heat thought of herself as an athlete, in constant training, and had run it only two weeks ago. As she choreographed the moves in her head, she kept talking. “You’ve got balls coming here without your own gun.”
“I won’t need it. Today, you tricked me. Not so tonight, you’ll see.”
He reached for the light switch when he turned, and this time she took a step toward him. When the lamp came on he looked at her and said, “Daddy like.” He made a show of looking her body up and down. Ironically, Nikki had felt more violated by him that afternoon in Interrogation when she had her clothes on. Still she folded her arms over herself.
“Cover all you want. I told you I’d have it, and I will.”
Heat took stock. Pochenko was one-handing her gun, a plus since he had strength on her. He also had size, but she knew from his subway takedown that he was big but not quick. But then, he had the gun.
“Come here,” he said and took a step to her. The conversation phase was over. She hesitated and took a step toward him. Her heart thudded and she could hear her own pulse. This would all be a blink if it came off. She felt like she was on a high dive about to initiate a plunge, and the thought made her heart race more. She remembered the uniform in the Bronx who’d botched this last year and lost half his face. Nikki decided that wasn’t helping and focused herself again, visualizing her moves.
“Bitch, when I say come here, come here.” He brought the gun up level with her chest.
She moved the step closer that he wanted and that she needed, and as she did, she raised her hands in submission, quaking them slightly so their small movements would not telegraph the big one when it came. And when it came, it had to be lightning. “Just don’t shoot me, OK? Please, don’t shoo—” In one motion, she brought her left hand up and clamped it on top of the gun, wedging her thumb on the hammer while she pushed it away and slipped in and to his right. She hooked her foot between his and threw her shoulder against his arm while she wrenched the gun up and around toward him. As she yanked it to point at him she heard his finger break as it twisted in the trigger guard and he cried out.