Heat Wave: Nikki Heat Series, Book 1
It was always the same for her when she arrived to meet the body. After she unbuckled her seat belt, after she pulled a stick pen from the rubber band on the sun visor, after her long fingers brushed her hip to feel the comfort of her service piece, what she always did was pause. Not long. Just the length of a slow deep breath. That's all it took for her to remember the one thing she will never forget. Another body waited. She drew the breath. And when she could feel the raw edges of the hole that had been blown in her life, Detective Nikki Heat was ready. She opened the car door and went to work.
The wallop of one hundred degrees almost shoved her back in the car. New York was a furnace, and the soft pavement on West 77th gave under her feet like she was walking on wet sand. Heat could have made it easier on herself by parking closer, but this was another of her rituals: the walk up. Every crime scene was a flavor of chaos, and these two hundred feet afforded the detective her only chance to fill the clean slate with her own impressions.
Thanks to the afternoon swelter, the sidewalk was nearly empty. The neighborhood lunch rush was over, and tourists were either across the street cooling in the American Museum of Natural History or seeking refuge in Starbucks over iced drinks ending in vowels. Her disdain for the coffee drinkers dissolved into a mental note to get one herself on the way back to the precinct. Ahead she clocked a doorman at the apartment building just her side of the barrier tape that encircled the sidewalk cafe. His hat was off and he was sitting on the worn marble steps with his head between his knees. She looked up at the hunter green canopy as she passed him and read the building name: The Guilford.
Did she know the uniform flashing her the smile? She rapid-fired a slideshow of faces but stopped when she realized he was just checking her out. Detective Heat smiled back and parted her linen blazer to give him something else to fantasize about. His face rearranged itself when he saw the shield on her waistband. The young cop lifted the yellow tape for her to duck under, and when she came up she caught him giving her a sex-ray again, so she couldn't resist. "Make you a deal," she said. "I'll watch my ass, you watch the crowd."
Detective Nikki Heat entered her crime scene past the vacant hostess podium of the sidewalk cafe. All the tables at La Chaleur Belle were empty except one where Detective Raley of her squad sat with a distraught family with sunburned faces struggling to translate German into a statement. Their uneaten lunch swarmed with flies. Sparrows, avid outdoor diners themselves, perched on seat backs and made bold dives for pommes frites. At the service door Detective Ochoa looked up from his notebook and quick-nodded her while he questioned a busboy in a white apron flecked with blood. The rest of the serving staff was inside at the bar having a drink after what they had witnessed. Heat looked over to where the medical examiner knelt and couldn't blame them one bit.
"Male unknown, no wallet, no identification, preliminary age range sixty to sixty-five. Severe blunt force trauma to head, neck, and chest." Lauren Parry's gloved hand peeled back the sheet for her friend Nikki to have a look at the corpse on the sidewalk. The detective glanced and quickly looked away. "No face, so we'll comb the area for any dental; otherwise not much to ID from after that impact. Is this where he landed?"
"There." The M.E. indicated the cafe busing station a few feet away. It had caved in from the top so hard it was split in half. The violent splash of ice and blood had already baked into the sidewalk in the minutes since the fall.
"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.
"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?"