After Roach left for their assignment and as Nikki was downloading a report from the forensic accountants, the desk sergeant brought in a package that had been delivered to her, a flat box the size and weight of a hallway mirror.
“I’m not expecting anything,” said Nikki.
“Maybe it’s from an admirer,” said the sergeant. “Maybe it’s Russian caviar,” he added with a deadpan look and then left.
“Not the most sentimental crowd,” said Rook.
“Thank God.” She looked at the shipping label. “It’s from the Met Museum Store.” She got scissors from her desk, opened the box, and peeked inside. “It’s a framed something.”
Nikki drew the framed something out of the box and discovered what it was, and when she did, whatever darkness she had carried into that morning-after gave way to soft, golden sunlight, breaking across her face in the reflected glow of two girls in white play dresses lighting Chinese lanterns in the gloaming of Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose.
She stared at the print and then turned herself to Rook, who stood frowning beside her. “There should be a card somewhere. It says, ‘Guess who?’ By the way, you’d better guess me, or I’ll be massively pissed I sprung for next-day delivery.”
She looked back at the print. “It’s…just so…”
“I know, I saw it on your face yesterday in Starr’s living room. Little did I know when I called in my order it would be a get well gift…. Well, actually more like a glad-you-didn’t-get-killed-last-night gift.”
She laughed so he wouldn’t notice the small quiver that had come to her lower lip. Then Nikki turned away from him. “I’m getting a little glare right under this light,” she said, and all he saw was her back.
At noon she shouldered her bag, and when Rook stood to go with her she told him to get himself some lunch, she needed to go on this one by herself. He told her she should have some protection.
“I’m a cop, I am the protection.”
He read her determination to go solo and for once didn’t argue. On her drive to Midtown Nikki felt guilty for ditching him. Hadn’t he welcomed her to his poker table and given her that gift? Sure he bugged her sometimes on the ride-alongs, but this was different. It could have been the ordeal of her night and the aching fatigue she was carrying, but it wasn’t. Whatever the hell Nikki Heat was feeling, what the feeling needed was space.
“Sorry about the mess,” said Noah Paxton. He threw the remains of his deli tossed salad into the trash can and wiped off his blotter with a napkin. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” said Detective Heat. She didn’t care if he knew she was lying. In her experience, dropping in on witnesses unexpectedly brought unexpected results. People with their guard down were less careful and she learned more. That afternoon she wanted a couple of things out of Noah, the first being his unguarded reaction to seeing the photo array from the Guilford again.
“Are there new pictures in here?”
“No,” she said as she dealt the last one in front of him. “You’re sure you don’t recognize any of them?” Nikki made it sound casual, but asking if he was sure put pressure on. This was about cross-checking Kimberly’s reason he hadn’t identified Miric. As he had the day before, Paxton gave a slow and methodical pass over each shot and said he still didn’t recognize any of them.
She took away all the photos but two: Miric and Pochenko. “What about these. Anything?”
He shrugged and shook no. “Sorry. Who are they?”
“These two are interesting, that’s all.” Detective Heat was in the business of getting answers, not giving them, unless there was an advantage. “I also wanted to ask you about Matthew’s gambling. How did he pay for that?”
“With cash.”
“Money you gave him?”
“His money, yes.”
“And when he went in the hole to bookmakers, how did that get repaid?”
“Same way, with cash.”
“Would they come to you for it, the bookies, I mean?”
“Oh, hell no. I told Matthew, if he chose to deal with that level of person, that’s his business. I didn’t want them coming here.” He shivered for emphasis. “No thanks.” She’d back-doored him but had her answer. Kimberly’s reason the money man didn’t know the bookie checked.
Heat then asked him about Morgan Donnelly, the woman whose name Kimberly had given her. She of the intercepted love letter. Paxton verified Donnelly had worked there and was their top marketing executive. He also verified that the two had a hidden office affair that was hidden to no one and described at great length how the staff would refer to Matthew and Morgan as “Mm…” Morgan earned a few nicknames of her own, he said. “The two that won the office pool were Top Performer and Chief Asset.”
“One more piece of business and I’ll get out of your hair. I got the report this morning from the forensic accountants.” She took the file out of her bag and watched his brow fall. “They told me you were no Bernie Madoff, which is, I guess, what we needed to make sure of.”
“Makes sense.” Quite nonchalant, but the detective knew guilt when she saw it, and it was clinging to his face.
“There was one irregularity in your accounting.” She handed him the page with the spreadsheet and summary and watched him tense. “Well?”
He put the page down. “My attorney would advise me not to answer.”
“Do you feel you need an attorney to answer my question, Mr. Paxton?”
She could see her squeeze work on him. “It was my only ethical breach,” he said. “All these years, the only one.” Nikki just looked and waited. Nothing screamed louder than silence. “I hid money. I created a series of transactions to funnel a large sum to a private account. I was hiding a portion of Matthew Starr’s private funds for his son’s college education. I saw how fast it was going—to gambling and hookers—I’m just a functionary, but I was heartsick about what was happening to that family. For their own good, I hid money so Matty Junior could go to college. Matthew discovered it, same way drunks can find bottles, and raided it. Kimberly is almost as bad as he was. I think you have a good idea how she likes to spend.”
“I got that impression.”
“The wardrobe, the jewelry, the vacations, the cars, the surgeries. Plus she was hiding money. Of course, I spotted it. Much like your forensics guys—the numbers talk if you know what you’re looking for. Among other things, she had a love nest, a two-bedroom spot on Columbus. I told her to get rid of it, and when she asked why, I told her because they were broke.”
“How did she react?”
“Devastated doesn’t begin to cover it. I guess you could say she freaked.”
“And when did you tell her all this?”
He looked at the calendar under the glass on his desktop. “Ten days ago.”
Detective Heat nodded, reflecting. Ten days. A week before her husband was murdered.
EIGHT
When Detective Heat nosed the Crown Vic out of underground parking at the Starr Pointe tower, she heard the low, steady thrum that could only mean helicopters, and rolled her window down. Three of them hovered to her left about a quarter mile west, on the far side of the Time Warner building. The lower one, she knew, would be the police chopper, the two deferential ones at higher altitude would belong to TV stations. “Breaking nyoooz!” she said to her empty car.
She dialed in the tactical band on her radio and before long put together that a steam pipe had blown and geysered, further evidence that the ancient Gotham infrastructure was no match for nature’s oven. Almost a week of the big heat, and Manhattan was starting to bubble and blister like a cheese pizza.