She moved closer to the bed, reaching her hand out. There was something about the blood—
“Wait!”
The urgency in Rook’s voice made her whirl around. She looked past him, half expecting to see a bevy of uniformed officers, guns drawn, charging up the stairs toward them.
She didn’t. “God, Rook, don’t do that. What is it?”
He nodded his head toward the corner of the bed she’d been reaching for. “Should you touch that?”
A crime scene officer had the most basic task of discovering, collecting, packaging, and marking the evidence found at a scene. There wasn’t a hard-and-fast rule as to what evidence marking looked like. Case numbers, dashes, numbers, and letters were usually combined to form a system for keeping evidence organized. One person was typically responsible for the master list so as to avoid inconsistencies.
Different jurisdictions might have their own method of marking evidence, but as long as there was consistency with the process across multiple crime scenes, confusion would be eliminated. Detective Heat knew the crime scene in front of her had already been processed. Knowing this eliminated any qualms she might have had about disturbing things, even if she wasn’t officially investigating. “The body’s been removed. The scene is cleared.”
He didn’t look entirely convinced, but deferred to her, gesturing toward the bed. “Carry on.”
Her hair, its usual waves a bit mussed from their earlier romp at the hotel, draped down the left side of her head as she leaned in and grabbed hold of the sheet to pull it back. The epicenter of the bleed was darker than the surrounding area, and it wasn’t red like most people likely imagined. With this much blood—this much saturation—it was almost black.
“Where was she laying?” Heat asked Rook, noticing an oddity.
“What do you mean?”
“Did she look like she was sleeping? Head on the pillow?”
“Oh. Yes.” He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “I have a picture.”
She stared at him. “You have a pic—?”
“I knew you’d want to see—”
She gave him a look that said You’ve got to be kidding me. “You couldn’t have mentioned that before?”
“I’m mentioning it now. When we’re at the bed where her body was. Seems like the right time to me.”
Sometimes Rook made her crazy. She held out her hand. “Let’s see it.”
He pulled up the photos on his phone, selecting the one he was after before handing it to her. He stood beside her as she looked at it. Chloe Masterson’s eyes were closed. The sheet and bedspread were pulled up over her, almost to her chin, but from the shape of her figure, Heat discerned that her arms were by her sides and her legs together. “She looks peaceful. Like she’s Sleeping Beauty.”
Her gaze shifted to the bed in front of them. There was something...She felt Rook’s attention follow hers. “The bloodstain—” she began.
“It’s low,” he finished.
“She wasn’t stabbed in the heart. Or even in the abdomen.” She pulled out her phone. Lauren Parry answered after the second ring. “What’s up, Captain?”
The ME was a busy woman, so Nikki cut to the chase. “Stab wounds. If a person wasn’t stabbed in the neck, heart, or abdomen, where else would cause a quick bleed-out?”
Lauren didn’t need to think about it. The answer came as if she’d been expecting the question and had prepared her response. “The femoral artery in the groin. A wound there would cause exsanguination pretty damn quickly.” She paused, then spoke again, her voice tinged with curiosity. “Why?”
Instead of answering, Nikki asked her next question. “How well would you have to know the human body to make a fatal stab wound there? I mean, most people aren’t going to go for the groin.”
“True,” Lauren said. “You’d have to have a decent understanding of anatomy. More than your high-school biology class everyday person would.”
“Got it. Thanks, Lauren.”
Heat was about to end the call when her friend’s voice stopped her. “Oh no you don’t, Nikki Heat. You are going to tell me exactly what’s going on. Where are you, and who was stabbed in the femoral artery?”
Nikki sighed. Heavily. “I’m upstate at the brownstone Rook’s been staying at during his ‘visiting professor’ gig.”
“O-kay,” Lauren said. “Go on.”
“A student was murdered—”
“Stabbed in the femoral artery?”
Heat lowered her chin, cupping one hand at her forehead and massaging her temples. “That’s my guess.”
This time Lauren did pause before asking, “What aren’t you telling me?”
The two women had known each other a long time. Theirs had started as any professional relationship did. Polite conversation at the scene of a crime while Dr. Parry examined the body and Detective Heat examined the crime scene. But over time, polite conversation had turned to lengthy talks, first over coffee, then over drinks. Lauren was one of Nikki’s few true friends, and probably the woman she trusted most in the world. “She was found in Rook’s brownstone.”
Rook leaned in next to her, talking loudly enough so Lauren could hear. “It sounds bad, Dr. Parry, but the real story is under the surface.”
Nikki put Lauren on speaker so Rook could be part of the conversation.
“What are you talking about?” Lauren asked. “What story under the surface?”
Nikki answered. “The young woman was stabbed in his bed. He’ll be a person of interest, but he’s—”
“I’m innocent, of course,” Rook said. “Heat’s going to help me get to the bottom of what lies beneath.”
“What the—”
Heat picked up the narrative again. “The thing is, he knew her—”
“Barely,” Rook said. “I barely knew her.”
“She worked for the college newspaper and was a fan.”
“Oh boy,” Lauren said, which about summed it up. “Let me know if you need anything else, and good luck. Sounds like you’re going to need it,” she said, before signing off.
Nikki tucked her phone back into her pocket. To Rook she said, “How well do you know the human body?”
One eyebrow quirked up. “I know your body—”
“Rook, be serious.”
He put his hands up, palms facing her as if she had a gun pointed at him and he was surrendering. “Okay, okay. I did an article for First Press on a New York doctor working in the trenches of the city. I shadowed Dr. Randall Schultz for several weeks. Saw a lot of blood, a lot of GSWs, a lot of stab wounds. A lot of foreign objects in places they did not belong.”
“So if the police dig around, they’ll determine that you do, in fact, have enough of a working knowledge of the human body to have targeted the femoral artery,” she said, making sure he understood the gravity of the situation and the reason for her question.
He fell silent and considered. And then, with a heavy sigh of acknowledgment, he nodded. “Sadly, I suppose they will.”
Heat and Rook left the bloody scene in the master bedroom behind them and sat across from each other in the brownstone’s living room. Two-inch faux wood blinds covered the windows, the slats rotated horizontally to let in light from outside. Heat wouldn’t have described the house as particularly warm when she’d first entered. She might have said it was comfortable, although utilitarian. But now, after inspecting the crime scene, it felt cold and unwelcoming. She didn’t want to be wrapped up in this murder. Didn’t want her husband to be involved.
Yet here they were, unable to avoid it.
“So. Where should we start?” Rook asked. Under normal circumstances, meaning at the beginning of a normal murder investigation, he might have rubbed his hands together in anticipation of the cerebral exercise that lay ahead. Knowing he was going to be looked at—and looked at hard—as a murder suspect had deflated his ego.
She wanted to start alone. She wanted to not see Rook so she could keep the doubt at bay. But she coul
dn’t do that. They were a team. If she didn’t believe him, didn’t trust him, what was their relationship based on?
“We have to start at the beginning,” she said. Always start at the beginning. “Tell me what you know about the victim. About Chloe Masterson.” She said the victim’s name, and would repeat it as much as necessary to remind herself that a life had been lost. Chloe had been someone’s daughter. She’d had friends. She’d loved and had been loved. Nikki would never forget those things.
“I can do that,” he said. He ticked the points off on his fingers as he relayed them to her. “She was a senior at the university. She wrote for the Journal and won an award last year for excellence in journalism. She spent a lot of time at the paper. She seemed very passionate about her work.”
“That’s it?” she asked after he stopped.
“I’ve only been here a week and a half, and she wasn’t in any of my classes.”
“If she wasn’t in any of your classes, then how do you know anything about her?”
His face lit up. “She reminded me of me. Everything was about the story. You know how committed and singled-minded I get when I’m in the thick of a story?”
Heat had firsthand experience with that side of Rook. When they’d first met—when he’d shadowed her for an exposé on the NYPD—that commitment and single-mindedness had turned into an in-depth piece about her. She’d wanted to ditch him every chance she got, but that, it turned out, was impossible, and he’d been instrumental in solving the murder of Matthew Star. She never would have guessed that they’d end up married. “I do know,” Heat said.
“She was the same way.”
“Okay, but again, how do you know that?”
“Because one of the first things I did once I was settled into the brownstone was go visit my old stomping grounds.”
“The paper,” she said, remembering. He’d called her that night, barely able to contain his excitement.
“The paper,” he confirmed. “For a minute, it actually felt like I was in The Time Machine. H. G. Wells’s book actually coined the term ‘time machine,’ did you know that? Of course, my experience is nothing like the actual protagonist of the book, who is known only as the Time Traveller. He went forward in time to AD 802,701 and witnessed the end of the world. Going to the past to experience something again, now that is exciting. I’d definitely go back to the first time I saw you, for example. You were in the bull pen, standing in front of the murder board. You had your hair up, but a few strands had fallen and framed your face. God, you were—are—the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Took you a while to warm up to me, but my charm eventually wore you down,” he said with a grin.
She was irritated by his flippancy, even though she understood it. At the moment, it was his coping mechanism. If he could joke, or pull them back to a better time and place, they could get through this. But she had to stay focused. “As much as I want to go down memory lane with you, we need to stay focused. This is serious.”
His smile vanished in an instant. “Right. Where were we? Oh yes, the paper. On one hand, it was like taking a time machine to the past, but on the other, it was a reminder of how things have changed. The newsroom is the same. Frantic phone calls, copy being sent last second for edits, the buzz of worker bees all working towards a common goal—original, truthful, and relevant content.
“Jennifer, Ray, and I went to the Journal offices. We ran into Chloe. The others went off to hold their office hours. Chloe gave me a tour. They have an entire area dedicated to online content and social media. None of that existed when I was on staff. Printed dailies are dying. The Journal has gone to print three times a week. The rest is online.”
“A sign of the times,” Nikki said. “Who is Jennifer?”
“Jennifer Daily. Awesome name for a journalist, right?”
“Right,” she said, although it was just another name to her. “Did Chloe say or do anything unusual?”
“I didn’t know her, so I couldn’t say. She seemed fine to me. Normal. Except...” He paused, looking up at the ceiling.
Heat leaned forward expectantly. Rook was a people-watcher. An observer. Just like her years on the police force had trained her to look at the details, and to see things and make connections that weren’t obvious, Rook’s years in journalism had trained him to read people and situations. “Except what?” she prompted.
“She showed me the different areas of the building and introduced me to some people. When we got to the editor in chief’s office—also a senior—he asked to speak to Chloe for a minute. I stepped out and Michael Warton—”
“The editor in chief?” Nikki asked.
“Precisely. He closed his office door so their conversation would be private. I walked around the room, chatting up a few of the students, you know. Getting a lay of the land.”
And enjoying every second of it, she thought.
“When I looked back at the office, I could see the two of them—Michael and Chloe—through the window. From my standpoint, their conversation looked heated.”
“As in they were arguing?”
Rook shook his head, considering. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly. I mean, yes, it looked like there was some back and forth, but I got the impression it stemmed from Michael saying something that Chloe didn’t want to hear.”
Already, Heat knew they needed to talk to this Michael fellow, editor in chief of the Journal, but she pushed Rook to see if he remembered anything else. “Like what?”
“Who knows? Could have been anything. The editor in chief is the big cheese. The big kahuna. The boss man. He could have killed an article, assigned a story Chloe didn’t want to do, cut an inch from Chloe’s copy, or told her the coffee she’d made earlier tasted like mud. No way to know, but when Chloe rejoined me, she was definitely agitated.”
“But she didn’t say anything about what had her worked up?”
He shook his head. “Not a word.”
Heat stood and started toward the front door. “Seems like we ought to pay a visit to the Journal.”
He scooted ahead of her and held the door open. “You read my mind, Detective Heat. After you.”
Nikki wanted to get a feel for the college town of Cambria, so she drove to the university, with Rook giving her step-by-step directions from the passenger seat. Halfway to the college, she’d decided that Manhattan was far easier to navigate. In the city, numbered streets ran on a grid plan parallel to the Hudson. They were labeled either east or west, with 5th Avenue being the dividing line. Avenues, on the other hand, ran south–north. Tell someone you would see them at West 30th Street at 11th, and you’d know you were meeting at the High Line. There was not even the slightest bit of confusion.
Cambria had decided to go another route with streets named after trees, flowers, some numbers, and Avenues A, B, and C—its own mini version of Manhattan’s Alphabet City. Some were named after people. Still others were centered on the university: College Street, University Avenue, and Dormitory Road were just three examples. Nikki scratched her head as she tried to make sense of it. “How does anyone remember where to go or how to get anywhere?” she mused as they waited at a red light.
“You get used to it,” Rook said.
She doubted that. “After ten years, maybe. Beam me back to Manhattan, Scotty,” she said.
Rook laughed. They were fellow sci-fi nerds, complete with a few different cosplay outfits. You never knew when you might need one, Rook liked to say. Star Trek, Star Wars, Firefly, Guardians of the Galaxy. Whatever the occasion, they were prepared.
“I’m afraid we’re stuck on this planet. But you will prevail. Now, carry on,” he said, thrusting his arm forward like a knight with a lance as the traffic light turned green.
She hit the gas pedal. “Yes sir, Captain Tightpants.”
“Ohh, role reversal. I like it when you call me Captain. Do it again.”
“Captain Tightpants,” she said again, this time flicking her eyebrows up and snaking her tongue ou
t between her lips.
He let his eyes roll back. “Oh my lord, you are my angel. Let’s turn around right now.”
“No can do,” Nikki said. “You’re going to have to put a pin in that...idea.”
He shook his head, looking forlorn, but it was all just for show. He knew they had a job to do. They’d have playtime again later.
They parked in one of the visitor parking lots and followed the main path into the heart of the university. Amidst the curves of the path and the surrounding fall foliage, Nikki felt a bit like Dorothy Gale following the Yellow Brick Road. Without the Munchkins—or the literal yellow bricks.
Rook knew the way, so Nikki followed, taking in the campus as they walked. The buildings looked to be of varying ages. Some appeared to be original to the early twentieth-century founding, while others looked more mid-century with their modern sensibility. It created a discord in the feel of the campus, as if it didn’t know which era to cling to. As they walked farther, she understood which way the university wanted the identity of their buildings to go. A mundane mid-century building was completely cordoned off. Scaffolding clung to its sides. From what she could tell, the nondescript beige facade was going to undergo a transformation. One entire section of the building’s outer layer had been removed, revealing the framing beneath. The structure itself wasn’t bad, per se. It just wasn’t particularly interesting or inspiring.
“That,” Rook said, noticing where her attention was directed, “used to be the English building. I took many a class there. How well I remember. British lit with Dr. Brindle.” He chuckled, stopping dead in his tracks and throwing up a theatrical arm. “‘He who repeats a tale after a man / Is bound to say, as nearly as he can, / Each single word, if he remembers it, / However rudely spoken or unfit, / Or else the tale he tells will be untrue, / The things pretended and the phrases new.’”
Crashing Heat Page 7
