Frozen Heat (2012) (6 page)

Her response had an effect. His face ashed and his attention went to Rook. “Is this meeting about an article? You going to write a story about this case? Because I think you pretty much covered it in the one you did a couple months ago.” There it was again. How Nikki hated that article. Favorably as it portrayed her, as one of the city’s top homicide investigators,
CRIME WAVE MEETS HEAT WAVE
, Jameson Rook’s cover profile for a major national magazine, gave Heat fifteen minutes she wanted back. Damon must have clocked the disdain in Nikki’s expression, and he lobbied her, saying, “It’s not like there’s anything new to bring to the party.”

“Actually, there is,” said Rook.

The ex-cop’s shoulders drew back, and he raised his head a little taller as he took the writer’s measure, too experienced, too wary to buy some journalist at face value. But when he saw Detective Heat’s nod of affirmation, he said, “Well, hot damn. Seriously?” He smiled to himself. “You know, they say don’t cash out, never give up hope …”

Carter Damon’s words rang hollow to Nikki because he had done exactly both. But she hadn’t come there to cast blame. Rook’s strategy to revisit history with fresh eyes held enough merit for her to play it out. So she briefed the ex-lead on the developments of the morning: the Jane Doe knife vic in her mom’s suitcase. He perked up with every detail, nodding with his full body. When she finished, he said, “You know, I remember logging that stolen luggage.” He paused while the waiter took drink orders. Nikki asked for a Pellegrino and Rook a Diet Coke. Damon pushed his unfinished Bloody Mary across the red-and-white checked tablecloth and said, “Coffee, black,” and the instant the waiter cleared earshot, he inclined his head back to stare at the ceiling and recite from memory. “Large American Tourister, late seventies vintage. Blue-gray hardside with a chrome T-bar pull handle and two wheels.” He tilted back to Rook, since he knew Nikki knew the rest. “We figured it for carrying the haul from the burglary.”

Rook asked, “Is that where you left it, as a homicide to cover an apartment burglary?”

Damon shrugged. “Only thing that made sense.” But then, when Rook peeled the elastic band from around his black Moleskine to take notes, the ex-detective bristled and said, “This isn’t for an article.” When they both shook no, he cleared his throat, no doubt relieved he wouldn’t appear in print as the cop who couldn’t bring it home. “There had been a burglary along with it.”

“When?” asked Rook. “Nikki got back to the apartment within minutes of the murder.”

“Whoever did the burglary did it before. The theft came from the back of the apartment, the master bedroom and the second bedroom-slash-home office. Could have even been done while the two ladies were in the kitchen. They had the mixer going, the TV on, busy talking and whatnot. But my money is it came down during the substantial time gap after she left for the market.”

Rook turned to Nikki, having heard this for the first time. “I took a walk.” The muscles tightened in her neck. “That’s all. It was a nice night. The weather was mild for then, and so I just walked for about a half hour.” She crossed her arms and turned profile to him, clearly shutting down that subject.

“What got stolen?”

“It’s all in the report,” said Damon. “She has a copy.”

“Broad strokes,” said Rook.

“Some jewelry and small decorative pieces, you know, antique silver and gold. Cash. And the desk and files got a good cleaning out.”

Rook asked, “How common is that? Jewelry, gold, and papers from a desk?”

“It’s different. But not unheard of. Could have been an identity thief going for socials, passports, and like that. Or just an amateur doing a quick grab to sort later.” He picked up on the skeptical glance Rook gave Nikki and said, “Hey, we’d ruled out everything else.”

“Take me through it,” said Rook.

Carter Damon said to Nikki, “You have all this.”

The ex-detective had a point. But the value of this began and ended with Rook hearing the first-person take from the official investigator, not his girlfriend and victim. “He’s new,” she said. “Humor him.”

The drinks came and they waved off ordering. Damon blew across his coffee, took a sip, and started counting on fingers. “One, we ruled out Nikki. Obviously not on premises, we have her alibi on the phone machine married to the time code on the supermarket security cam, end of that story. Two, no sexual assault.”

“But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t have been a motive, even if it never happened, right?” asked Rook.

The ex-cop made a face and bobbed his head side to side. “I don’t like it. That’s not to say you don’t get both a burglary and an assault, because you do see that. But in a tight time frame like this one—and I’m assuming it came down in the half hour she took her walk—experience tells me it’s going to be one or the other. I think Mrs. Heat spotted the burglar and that was that.”

“Three,” said Rook, waiting.

“Three. We cleared her dad. Touchy subject, but always the top of the list is husbands and, especially, ex-husbands. The Heats’ divorce had been recent but, by all accounts, amicable. And just to dot the i’s, Jeffrey Heat alibied clean. He was away on a golf vacation in Bermuda, where we had local authorities notify him of the murder.” Rook side-glanced to Nikki, who remained stoic, giving him her profile, as before. At least until Damon asked her, “So how’s your dad doing now?” and some unseen string pulled her face taut. “You in touch with him lately?”

“Can we move this along?” Heat checked her watch. “I need to be getting back to the squad.”

“Sorry. Sore subject?” She didn’t respond so he’d ticked off another finger for Rook. “Four. Her mother hadn’t reentered the dating pool yet, so there were no suitors to shake down.” Nikki made an impatient sigh and took a long pull of her mineral water. “Workplace conflicts,” he marked with his pinky finger, “none. Cynthia Heat tutored piano and everyone was very happy with her. Except, maybe, for a couple of eleven-year-olds who hated doing scales.” He went back to counting on his forefinger. “Enemies? Check the box that says ‘none apparent’: no neighbor disputes in the apartment building; no legal disputes pending.”

Nikki jumped in, questioning him for the first time. “Did you ever get any trace on that speeding blue Cherokee that had the fender bender at the end of our block that night?”

“Hm. No, I put the word out, but you know how they are. They never got back to me. It’s a crapshoot, no plates and all in a city this size.”

Then she said, “Mind if I ask when the last time was you checked Property to see if any of the stolen jewelry or antique pieces got fenced or pawned?”

“Hello. I retired three years ago.” A family at the next table turned to stare. He softened his voice and leaned forward to her. “Look, we all did our best with this. I gave it my shot. So did your old skipper.”

“Montrose?” The family looked again, and it was Nikki’s turn to tone it down. “You talking about Captain Montrose?”

“You didn’t know? Your skip reached out to me right after you joined his squad. He asked me to take him through my investigation, and he didn’t find anything, either. But he must have thought a hell of a lot of you to do that.”

“Captain Montrose was a special man,” she said simply as she absorbed this news.

“Guess you gave back.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I know all about what you did to clear his name.”

“It’s what you do.”

Damon made a side nod referring to Nikki as he spoke to Rook. “And I saw on the news how you took a nine in the chest saving this one.”

“It’s what you do,” said Rook.

“I took a bullet my rookie year in uniform.” He tapped the tips of two fingers to his right shoulder. “Getting shot was a picnic compared to the rehab, am I right?”

“Torture,” said Rook.

“Hell on a daily schedule.” Damon laughed.

“With brief moments of purgatory. I have a visiting sadist named Gitmo Joe.”

“Your therapist calls himself Gitmo Joe?”

“No, I do. Actually it’s Joe Gittman.”

“Love that,” said Damon. “Gitmo Joe. Any waterboarding?”

“Might as well be. He comes over every day and makes me wish I had some sleeper cell to throw in just to make him stop.” That made Damon laugh again, until he caught Nikki staring at him and it withered.

“Two thousand three,” she said. “The last time you checked Property for those fenced items was 2003. Seven years ago.”

“How do you know that?”

“Four years before you retired.”

“If you say so.”

“February 13, 2003, was your last Property check.”

When the waiter returned and read the tension, the silence that hung there sent him away without a word.

At last, Carter Damon leaned forward with something resembling a plea deep inside the red rims of his eyes. “Nikki … Detective … Sometimes the trail runs cold, you know that. It’s nobody’s fault. You move on.” When she didn’t reply, he continued, lowering into a hoarse rasp. “I worked your case. I. Worked. It.”

“Until you stopped working it.”

“Do I need to tell you how many people get murdered in this city?”

“And just how many of my mothers have been murdered?”

He shook his head and retrenched. His moment of vulnerability hardened into defensiveness. “Nuh-uh, no you don’t. That’s too easy. See, to you it’s one case. To me, it ended up being one case on my list. I couldn’t help that. The job swamps you.”

“Mr. Damon,” she said, shunning the respect of using his former rank. “You’re talking as if you actually did the job. Seems to me you stopped working about four years before you retired.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Funny,” she said, “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

“Hey, bitch, if you think you can solve this, then do better.”

Heat rose. “Watch me.”

Rook tossed some cash on the table and left with her.

They splurged on a cab for the twenty-block ride uptown to the precinct so Heat could work her cell phone on the way instead of losing signal underground. After Rook gave the driver the address, he said to her, “You know the doctor said I had to get some weight back on me, and may I point out you are not helping me meet my goal?”

She scrolled through her messages and said, “What are you babbling about, Rook?”

“This morning we skipped breakfast, but I suppose that’s OK because it was to have wild sex.” Rook caught a flash of eyebrows in the rearview mirror and leaned forward, framing his head in the plexi window for the cabbie. “It’s all right, she’s my cousin, but my second cousin.” Nikki slouched down in the seat, trying not to laugh, because that’s what Rook did—especially when the grim darkness reached for her—make her laugh and keep on. He turned back to her and continued, “And now what happens? We have lunch with Mr.—not Detective—Carter Damon … and don’t think I didn’t catch the nuance of the omission … and my total nutritional intake from that repast came from a diet soft drink.”

“Who says repast?” she said, finishing a voice mail and pressing call back.

“A wordsmith delirious from low blood
sucre
.”

Nikki held up her palm. “I’m calling Lauren Parry.”

“Perfect, the coroner. If I don’t eat, I’ll be seeing her soon enough.”

Rook dropped her at the precinct and held on to the cab to take him back to his loft in Tribeca so he could do some independent research and read the case file Nikki had promised to e-mail him. After she sent it off, Heat assembled her squad for a midday update around the Murder Boards beginning with the news from Lauren. “I just got word from the ME that our Jane Doe now has a preliminary time of death, which would have been the night before last, in a window of ten
P.M.
to two
A.M.
” She paused to let them keep up with their notes, then continued, “They were also able to lift some clean prints that Detective Ochoa has already circulated on the database. So far, no hits, but let’s hope. Forensics news. They found residue on her skin of a cleaning solvent generally used in labs.” Nikki used a capped marker to point to the grime smudge on the knee of the victim’s pants. “Also, early results of this dirt, as well as similar material on her shoes, contained elements linked to train environments.”

She took a moment to survey her group. “Nice to see Detective Rhymer in the big kids part of the building again.”

Detective Ochoa led the traditional chorus of “Welcome to Homicide, Opie,” using the Southern transplant’s house nickname.

“Rhymes, you’ll be partnering with Feller when he gets back from screening security video with Raley. Why don’t you get a head start running a check for missing pharmacists, lab techs, medical professionals, and so forth? Any other profession you can think of that would need to use industrial strength lab solvent, hit them, too.”

“Like, maybe, Ochoa’s dry cleaner,” said Detective Reynolds, kicking off a string of catcalls aimed at Oach.

“Ah, yes,” said Heat, “the irrepressible Detectives Malcolm and Reynolds, in the house. Going to put you two right to work checking out the rails and subways to see if she worked for any of them. So, flash her picture around the MTA offices, the Long Island Rail Road, PATH, and MetroNorth. As you can see,” said Nikki, gesturing to the overhead shot of the victim in the suitcase, “she is dressed like a manager or an executive, so start there with HR, but don’t rule out conductors or yard workers.”