Nikki reflected and unfortunately had to agree.
As they headed uptown, Rook balanced a huge box of two dozen cupcakes on his lap. Heat brought the car to a gentle stop at a red light so his gift to the precinct break room wouldn’t turn into a box of crumbs. “So, Officer Rook,” she asked, “I haven’t heard you tell me to slap Morgan Donnelly in jail. What gives?”
“Oh, she’s got to be off the list.”
“Because?”
“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. Boytox. 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?”