“I get it,” Michael said. “But this is a college paper and she wouldn’t give me any information. I can’t work with that.”
No, what he can’t work with is having someone challenging him, Nikki thought.
Michael turned, ready to leave them to their own devices, but he stopped, facing them once more. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he started.
Rook barked out a laugh. “Which is a surefire way to make sure we do, in fact, take it the wrong way.”
“I’m just wondering. Why you?”
Rook’s good humor was slowly evaporating. “Why me what?”
“Why did she pick you to share her story with?”
That was the very same question Nikki had.
“First, she didn’t share anything with me,” Rook said, repeating himself. “And second, if she wanted to, it is most likely because I have a reputation in the field in which she strove to succeed.”
And he didn’t try to keep her under his thumb like it seemed Michael wanted to. But to Michael, Nikki said, “Pulitzer Prize.”
Michael pressed on. “But she never even mentioned a story to you?”
Rook shot him a frustrated look. “As I already said, she told me she wanted to talk. She did not elaborate.”
The sharpness of his tone was out of character for Rook. He was pissed off at his integrity being questioned.
“I’m a journalist, Mr. Rook. And there was a dead girl in your house. She said people in high places would be implicated. Were you one of those people?”
“If I am, it’s news to me,” Rook said. He wasn’t falling for whatever trap Michael was laying. Nikki just hoped the local police didn’t go in the same direction with their investigation. Too often, cops tried to make the facts fit the hypothesis they had rather than letting those same facts lead them to the truth.
Michael gave that infernal shrug again. Clearly he was not enamored with Rook’s journalistic fame. “My job is to ask questions.”
Rook met Michael’s gaze head-on, his jaw tightening with aggravation. “Then my answer bears repeating, as well.” He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word. “Chloe...Masterson...never...mentioned...her...story...to...me.”
Michael nodded, but Nikki could read between the lines. The wheels of his brain were turning. For whatever reason, he didn’t believe Rook.
The two men squared off in a vaguely challenging manner. “If you say so,” Michael said.
From the corner of her eye, Nikki saw Rook’s hands clench into fists. “I do say so.”
Heat put her hand on Rook’s arm to bring him down from the ledge he was on. To Michael, she said, “I assume the police have checked her desk area?”
He nodded. “They didn’t find anything, as far as I know. If Chloe had her research or article with her, whoever killed her would have taken it.”
Nikki was impressed. Michael had hit the nail on the head. “I agree,” she said. “If it had anything to do with her death, it’s long gone.”
The hotel exceeded Nikki’s expectations. Rook never did anything halfway, his choice of accommodations included. He’d anticipated being here a while, what with his university housing now a crime scene, so he’d gotten himself a suite. The king-size bed was almost as comfortable as the one they shared in the loft, this one all the better at the moment because Rook was next to her.
Nikki found that she could compartmentalize. The Rook she loved and trusted was by her side. When she thought about it logically, there was no way in hell that he could have killed Chloe. He was compassionate. He stood up for those with no voice. He was Jameson Rook, not a killer. She had left the doubts trying to invade her mind at the door and now she rolled onto her side. She propped her head on one hand, dancing her fingers across Rook’s chest with the other.
“Are you toying with me, Heat? Round two?”
“I’m buttering you up. There’s a difference.”
“Do tell. For what am I being buttered?”
“I need a murder board.”
He didn’t miss a beat with his response. Rook was like that. He was quick on his feet, and even quicker with his mind. “I’m one step ahead of you.”
Before she could ask him what he meant, there was a rapid knock on the door. “Speak of the devil,” he said. He quickly rolled out of bed, slipped on his boxers and a gray T-shirt, grabbed a twenty-dollar bill, and was answering the hotel door all before she’d started and finished yawning. The person he was having a conversation with spoke too quietly to hear, but Rook’s voice carried. “This way,” he said as he reappeared into her line of sight. Right behind him was a bellhop. He averted his eyes, never even glancing her way as he wheeled in a whiteboard. It was almost identical to the ones the department used at the precinct.
After Rook slipped the twenty into the bellhop’s hand, the young man smiled broadly. “Let me know if you need anything else, sir. I’m glad to help.”
Once he was gone, Nikki bolted to a sitting position, holding the sheet to her chest with one hand, brushing her tangled hair away from her face with the other. “Jameson Rook,” she said. “You didn’t!”
“But I did.”
She was constantly amazed by him. “It’s as if you can read my mind sometimes.”
“I know your every need,” he replied suggestively, climbing back into bed next to her.
As he started to slide his arm around her, she scooted to the edge of the bed. The blue button-down shirt Rook had worn earlier lay discarded on the chair next to the bed. She reached for it, slipped it on, quickly buttoned it, and stood up. “I don’t know about that, but you certainly hit the nail on the head this time.”
“You’re starting now?” he said, but then he nodded, more to himself than to her. “Of course you are. I would expect nothing less.”
Nikki had already uncapped a black Expo marker. With neat print and in large letters, she wrote CHLOE MASTERSON across the top of the board. She turned to Rook, ready to begin organizing what they knew, but then raised her eyebrows instead. She had long ago learned to read people. The way they held their mouths; what they did with their hands; where their eyes shifted to. Rook wore a lazy smile. His gaze was on her, sliding down to her legs then up again. Instantly, she knew what was on his mind. He’d been serious about the “round two” he’d proposed. She’d put on his shirt, and nothing but his shirt. Raising her arm to write on the whiteboard had given him a pretty good view of what was missing underneath. “Jameson Rook,” she said, saying his full name for the second time in less than ten minutes. The first had been in amazement. This time it was scolding. “Pace yourself, big boy. It’s time to get serious.”
“I’m perfectly serious,” he said. He ran his hand down his face, wiping away the smile to prove it. “What do we know so far? Chloe Masterson was a senior. She had something to show me, although I have no idea what that something is. Michael Warton, editor in chief of the Journal, says he also has no idea what Chloe was working on.”
Nikki listened as Rook spoke, then turned and started writing notes on the left side of the whiteboard. “Did you believe him?”
Rook thought about this, stroking his chin. “I don’t know. Did you?”
“Why would he lie?” she asked. She didn’t expect Rook to give her an answer. He didn’t know anything more than she did. It was simply a question that needed answering. A question that allowed them to speculate. To hypothesize.
“We don’t know if he’s lying,” Rook said.
“But what if he is? What could Chloe have been working on that Michael would want to keep close to the vest?”
They fell silent for a minute, both considering this question...and the possible answers. Rook spoke first. “What if the story was about him?”
“He looked like a straight-arrow kid to me,” she said. They often took turns playing devil’s advocate. It was how their collaboration worked. They bounced ideas off one another, each making the other think about something that hadn’t occurred to them before. No bias in jo
urnalism and no bias in police work, Rook often said.
“Looks can be deceiving. That’s at the core of every murder investigation, isn’t it? The murderer is hiding, often in plain sight. They can be the best friend. Mom or Dad. A coworker. The murderer can be anyone. They’re always lurking behind an innocent facade. Michael Warton might very well have killed Chloe Masterson—if she’d discovered something that he wanted to keep buried.”
“So we dig into Michael Warton,” she said, circling his name on the board. “What else?” She thought about meeting Chloe at the awards ceremony a few weeks before. “What did she say to you when we first met her?”
His brows pulled together as he thought. “She said she had an article that I might find interesting.”
Nikki drew a vertical line under Chloe’s name and wrote: What was she researching? “Her notes are missing. I think we were on the mark earlier. If she had them on her when the killer got to her, they’re long gone.”
“But if she didn’t have them on her, they’re somewhere. If the story was as hot as she seemed to think, she probably hid them away somewhere.”
Nikki added the heading CHLOE’S NOTES to the board. Without access to the crime scene photos, the forensics, the ME’s report, and all the other details she’d have if she were privy to that information here in Cambria, her hands were tied. There was only so much she could do. There was only one logical next step. “It’s time to visit the police station,” she said.
Nikki Heat’s entire career had been at the Twentieth Precinct. The jurisdiction ran from 59th to 86th Streets with the precinct building on 82nd and Columbus. As the first female captain of the Two-Oh, Heat had had to establish herself as strong and capable, willing and able to delegate. She’d had some good role models—men who represented the shield in the best possible way. Men who had been committed and honest and had always fought the good fight.
But if she was being honest with herself, it was the not-so-great role models she’d actually learned the most from. Those were the men who had caught a lucky break and landed in the position because they’d been in the right place at the right time. They hadn’t earned it. They were the ones with questionable ethics; the ones with less than stellar intellect; the ones who hadn’t made it long in the position. Over the years, Heat had been on the receiving end of their leadership. She’d observed and catalogued and knew exactly what not to do as a leader. She would never belittle her team. She would always speak with respect. At the same time, she would never let one of her detectives get away with anything that went against her core belief system. She wouldn’t let them disrespect the dead. She wouldn’t tolerate racism or sexism or any other negative-ism.
It had taken her a while to adjust to delegation and to removing herself from the crime scene. Zach Hamner, the senior administrative aide to the NYPD’s deputy commissioner for legal matters, had been instrumental in her ascension to captain of the Two-Oh. He’d sung her praises at One Police Plaza. She hadn’t known at the time that his support, at least in his eyes, meant she was beholden to him. She’d realized too late that she’d made a deal with a Machiavellian devil. The Hammer, as he was not-so-affectionately known, had helped her win a position that he proceeded to take great pleasure in disrupting. In short, he often made her life at the precinct hell.
All that being said, Heat had learned how to play the game from The Hammer. She listened to him, but then usually did the exact opposite of what he recommended. He was out for himself, while she was about helping others.
She often heard The Hammer’s voice in her head: Do you have anything remotely resembling a lead? Does your team have a clue about what they’re doing? You’re clearly out of your league, Heat. But in the current moment, she heard him saying, You’ll kiss ass, Heat, because that’s what is required of you at the moment.
It was not in Heat’s DNA to brownnose, which made what she was about to do put a bad taste in her mouth. But she had no choice. She’d dropped Rook off at Murchison Hall, where he had a class to teach, and had driven her car the short distance to the local police station—ready to kiss some small-town law enforcement booty.
As Heat approached the desk sergeant, she dialed down her tough-as-nails homicide detective attitude. Being from Manhattan wouldn’t do her any favors in an upstate municipality. She knew from experience that they’d dismiss her as a know-it-all city cop who had nothing but disdain for them. It wasn’t true. The simple fact was that she had more experience than they did, particularly when it came to murder.
She smiled at the woman sitting behind the bulletproof barrier that separated her from everyone on the other side. She looked to be in her late twenties. Her chestnut hair was wound up in a severe bun, pulled completely away from her face. Female recruits in the academy were not allowed to wear makeup. From the evident blemishes and short eyelashes, it looked like the officer continued with that expectation into her career. The gray color of her department-issued uniform and its plum-colored tie only served to emphasize her sallow skin tone, but her clothes were crisply pressed and she looked neat and professional. Nikki admired that. It wasn’t easy being a woman in law enforcement, which meant you had to go the extra mile to not “be a girl.” No tears. No emotion. Nothing that jeopardized how others saw you.
“Can I help you?” the sergeant asked, her eyes scanning Nikki up and down. Heat knew the drill. It took a police officer about five seconds to make a judgment about the person standing in front of them. As a homicide detective, she actively worked against that tendency. She needed to have an open mind so she didn’t color her investigations with preconceived notions and biases. The officer in front of her, however, didn’t have the experience or the need to stay neutral.
Heat’s initial instinct was to press her badge against the glass to gain the upper hand against the younger woman, but she resisted. You catch more flies with honey, Rook always said. Cliché, but true. Heat read the placard with the officer’s name printed on it and applied that advice, brightening her smile and making her voice overly pleasant. “Good morning, Officer Breckenstein. My name is Nikki Heat. I’m on the job in Manhattan. Twentieth Precinct.” She paused, waiting for acknowledgment. None was forthcoming, so she continued. “I was wondering if you could tell me who’s in charge of the Chloe Masterson investigation?” She added a lilt to the last word, heightening her amiability.
There was a beat before the officer answered, “You’re a little outside your jurisdiction.”
Her voice had a huskiness to it. An additional challenge for Officer Breckenstein, since it held a sensual undertone. “I am,” Heat said. “I came up to visit my husband.”
The sergeant gave a knowing nod. “You’re married to Jameson Rook, then.” It was a statement, not a question. She was confident and didn’t need Nikki to confirm what she’d surmised.
“How do you know that?” Nikki asked.
Another smile. “It’s a small town, ma’am. You’re police, you’re here and asking about the investigation, and we heard about the professor getting a visitor at his hotel. I assume that visitor is you.”
“It is,” Nikki confirmed.
“What can I help you with, Detective?”
Despite the fact that she was mildly impressed with the young officer, Heat grimaced inwardly. This wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d hoped. She thought about what tack to take, quickly deciding on the straight-arrow approach and deciding against giving her rank. She didn’t want to give the officer a reason to resent her. “I’m sure you know about the murder...”
Officer Breckenstein started to roll her eyes, catching herself and schooling her expression. “Yes, I do know about the murder. It’s a rare occurrence in Cambria.”
Unlike in Manhattan, where people were animals and murder was ingrained into the fabric of the city, was her implication. “Right. Of course.” Heat drew in a breath and started again. “Can you tell me who’s leading the investigation?”
Now the officer’s eyes narrowed suspiciously
. “Why do you need to know?”
Heat’s voice started to lose some of the friendliness she’d tried to maintain. “The victim was discovered by my husband at his temporary housing. I’d like to see what’s happening in the investigation.” Obviously, she added in her head.
Officer Breckenstein paused to consider, irritating Heat even more. The woman had no cause to withhold the name of the lead detective, and there was such a thing as professional courtesy, something Breckenstein didn’t seem to understand. But finally, after a solid thirty seconds, she picked up the phone and punched in an extension. “There’s a detective here from the Two-Oh in Manhattan, sir. She’s asking to see you.”
Whoever was on the other end of the call said something to Officer Breckenstein, who then eyed Nikki through the glass. “Detective, yes. Nikki Heat. The wife of—”
“Yes, sir. Right away,” Breckenstein said after being cut off, and she hung up the phone.
Heat saw Breckenstein’s hand slip down beneath the desk. There was a buzz, followed by a click, which meant the officer had pressed a button to let Heat into the inner sanctum of the Cambria Police Department. Heat didn’t waste any time. She slipped through the door, moving quickly in case the investigating officer called Breckenstein back with a change of heart.
The interior of the station was nothing like the Two-Oh. Where the building on West 82nd Street had a slightly grungy city feel to it, the walls of Cambria’s single-story offices were painted a bright white and had only a fraction of the desks Heat’s department had. And she ran Homicide at the Twentieth. Each precinct also ran Vice, Special Victims, and Robbery divisions, among other things, which meant the workforce at each of the seventy-seven Manhattan precincts was at least ten times larger than the one here. There probably wasn’t a Raley or an Ochoa. Or a Feller, Aguinaldo, Rhymer, or Hinesburg. There might not have been anyone particularly qualified to investigate Chloe Masterson’s murder, which would mean Rook was in trouble.
Crashing Heat Page 9
