Heat Rises

Nine

When Heat came out from her shower the next morning and found Rook on his computer at her dining room table, she came up behind his chair and placed a hand on each of his shoulders. “There’s something not fair about a world where you get paid all that money for a job you do in your underwear.” At her touch Nikki felt the tension melt from his muscles. He dropped his hands off the keyboard, bringing them around behind her, gently gripping the back of her thighs. Then he rocked his head backward, resting it between her breasts, and peered up at her.

“I could lose the underwear if it would make you happy,” he said.

“That would make me very happy, but I just got a text that I’ve got a drug dealer coming in to be interviewed.” She bent to kiss his forehead. “Plus I have my oral boards today. Last hurdle before the lieutenant promotion.”

“I could help you with that. The orals.” She just stared at him, and he turned to her with a face of innocence. “What?”

“Tell me, Rook, is there a single word in the dictionary a guy can’t turn into something salacious?”

“Quatrain. Big points at Scrabble. Zip when it comes to double entendre, and I have tried. Oh, how I’ve tried.” Then he said, “With all that’s happened, couldn’t you get a postponement?”

“I could.” It was all on her face. Nikki was not going to let down. “But I won’t.” She gestured to his MacBook. “I thought you finished your arms smugglers piece. Is that your next bodice ripper, Miss St. Clair?”

“Nothing so lofty.”

“What is it?”

“Rather not say just yet.” He closed the lid and stood to face her. “Bad luck.” Then Rook drew her to him and they kissed. He was tender and gentle, comforting. “You doing OK this morning?”

“No, but I’ll get through.”

“There’s French Roast on.” Rook made a move toward the kitchen, but she clung to him and held him in place.

“Thank you for last night. You were... a friend.”

“Anytime, anywhere, Nikki Heat.” And they kissed again.

She dressed while he poured her coffee and squeezed them both some juice. Nikki reappeared looking puzzled and holding up her cell phone. “Want to hear something odd? I just checked my office voice mail. One of the messages was from the travel agent I referred Captain Montrose to. She said she can’t believe the news, especially since she just talked to him yesterday. He booked an island cruise.”

“Yesterday?” When she affirmed, he clapped his hands once and said, “John le Carré!” He read her bewilderment and added, “You know John le Carré, right? Spy Who Came in from the Cold, Constant Gardener... Oh, and A Perfect Spy — transcendent, best ever! But... John le Carré’s first novel was Call for the Dead. This secret agent is found. Suicide, they say. But that theory unravels because he left a wake-up call the night before. See the logic? Who leaves a wake-up call if he plans to kill himself?”

“Right,” she said. “And who books a cruise? Especially Montrose.” She frowned. “Now? And alone?” She had started to mull the oddness of that when he interrupted.

“I’ll be dressed in two seconds.”

“For what?”

“To come with you,” said Rook. “We have to get to work. This suicide theory is full of holes. Oo, sorry. Poor choice of words, forgive me, but I’m getting fired up.”

“Well, take a breath. We went over this. Your ride-along days are over. I can’t have you tagging along now. There’s too much going on.”

“I won’t be in the way.” Her stare forced him to admit, “Much.”

“Not happening. Besides, it’s too complicated now. I’m under a lot of attention and it might appear unprofessional.”

“Why? Lieutenants have boyfriends, too.”

“Maybe, but not working cases with them.” She watched his jaw flex. “Why is this such a big push for you?”

“Because of yesterday. I want to keep an eye on you.”

She moved close and held him. “Rook, that is so very...”

“. . . Sweet?”

“I’ll go with stupid.”

The seal was off the door to the glass office, and the two Men in Black from Internal Affairs were waiting for Heat when she entered it. “You can close that,” said Lovell, the angular one with the sharp, pterodactyl features, who was seated behind the desk. His partner, DeLongpre, had perched on the bookcase, strategically in Lovell’s eye line and slightly behind the guest chair so they could trade signals. Nikki noticed the hefty one had carelessly shoved the framed photos of Montrose’s wife aside to make room on the shelf for his ass.

“We have some questions for you about your commander,” began Lovell when she took her seat.

“You mean there’s something you don’t know? You spent enough time working him over.”

Lovell smiled patiently. “Just because we’re IA doesn’t make us the enemy, Detective Heat, you ought to know that.”

Then DeLongpre said, “So let’s dial down the snark factor,” making himself sound exactly like the enemy. Or the bad cop to Lovell’s good one.

“How can I help you?” she said.

They asked general questions at first: how long they knew each other, her view of his performance, how she would characterize his leadership over the years. Heat was truthful but guarded. These guys were in the business of looking for spiders in the basement, and Nikki didn’t want to further sully the captain’s rep. Actually, she was glad for the opportunity to put it out that Montrose had been such an exemplary boss and, not insignificantly, a fine human being. But all that goodwill Nikki thought she was building ended up leveraged against her.

Lovell said, “Sounds like you had a great relationship.”

“We did.”

“Then what happened?” He tilted his head back and scrutinized her over his hooked Triassic Period nose. When she didn’t reply, he said, “Come on, he lost it. What was it about, and when?”

Nikki had conducted enough interrogations of her own to know when she was getting channeled. “I don’t know if I feel comfortable with those exact words.”

“Then choose your own,” said Lovell.

DeLongpre added, “Because goodness knows we want you to feel comfortable.”

“I don’t know if I would say he lost it,” she said. “It was more like a slow change. A little more tense, that’s all. I cut him slack because of his wife getting killed.” She didn’t know which was stronger, her instinct to protect his memory or her mistrust of these two.

Lovell said, “Is that why you said to your squad yesterday... ,” he read from his notepad, “ ‘Cap’s been off the charts lately, but this has me shaking my head’?”

Who gave them that? Heat wondered. Although she had an idea. “That’s out of context. I think I said it when he was MIA.”

Lovell held the pad up and repeated, “ ‘Cap’s been off the charts lately...’ Sounds like plenty of context to me. I hear you two really tore it up in this office yesterday morning. Shouting, desk pounding... Well?”

“He was feeling pressure. The CompStat push, you know. Target numbers.”

“Yeah, he told us about that, too. But why was he up your skirt?” said DeLongpre. Heat knew that was calculated to press a button, so she ignored it. But she had to answer. So she tossed them a bone.

“We had some disagreements about the case I’m working on.” She was prepared to say little and leave it general. But they had other ideas.

“The priest, right? And you thought he was involved somehow in the killing, is that what set him off?”

Heat was stunned. As she grappled for a reply, DeLongpre jumped in. “He conducted a solo search of the rectory, correct? You found that suspicious.”

Then Lovell hit her with “And he screwed with your case, blocking viable avenues of your investigation.”

“Especially hinky, since the phone records established Montrose had a relationship with the vic,” said his partner.

These guys were thorough. “If you know all these things, what do you want from me?”

“More.” Lovell unfolded all six-two of himself from the chair and came around to sit on the front of the desk. He smoothed his skinny black tie and looked down at her from his perch. “We want to know what else you’re holding.”

“You expect me to dish dirt on my old skip?”

“We expect you to assist the department in its investigation, Detective.”

DeLongpre said, “He was into something, let’s hear what you’ve got.”

She looked from MIB to MIB. They had positioned themselves so that following their conversation felt like watching a tennis match. “I don’t have anything. No more than you already mentioned.” Which was mostly true. The rest was unfounded and circumstantial, like the captain’s finger cut.

In a singsong, DeLongpre said, “Bull... shit...”

She didn’t turn his way but spoke her remarks calmly to Lovell. “I deal in facts. You want to spitball, call Detective Hinesburg in again. I’m going to apply myself to finding out who killed my commander.”

“Find out who killed him?” When Lovell raised his eyebrows, the lines in his vast forehead formed an inverted V. “Nobody killed him but him.”

“You don’t have proof of that.”

“You just gave it,” he said. The Internal Affairs man got off the desk and walked the room, ticking off each point on a finger. “Straight-shooting, tough-but-fair captain’s wife dies a year ago and he goes around the bend. He starts to slip. Can’t handle the pressure of the command, and the pack wolves at HQ descend on him, making him even more erratic. Maybe it’s temptation, maybe it’s anger at the system, he gets himself involved in something — we don’t know what yet, but we’ll damn sure find out — and when you... his protégée... called him on it and handed him his ass yesterday, he felt the walls closing in.” Lovell snapped his fingers once. “He leaves your meeting and eats his gun.”

Nikki shot to her feet. “Hold on, you’re putting this on me?”

Lovell smiled, and deep vertical creases appeared on his cheeks. “Give me something that says it isn’t.”

“Till then,” said DeLongpre, “live with it.”

Heat was aware of someone standing over her and broke off her glazed stare following her floating screen saver. It was Ochoa. “Ran a check on the doc who wrote the weird prescription for Father Graf. Dude’s bogus. Address is a mail drop. Nobody heard of him.”

Nikki shook off the heavy residue of her IA meeting. “Is he licensed to practice in New York?”

“Was,” said the detective. “A little bit tough, though. Seeing how he died at a nursing home in Florida ten years ago.”

Her phone rang. Hinesburg was calling from outside Interrogation to tell her the drug dealer had arrived.

“I have never seen this man before in my life,” said Alejandro Martinez. He slid the mug shot of Sergio Torres across the table to Heat. She noticed how delicate his hands were. Immaculately manicured, too.

“Are you positive?” she asked. “His rap sheet includes drug busts up in Washington Heights and the Bronx. Would have been about the time you got out of O-Town.”

“I assure you, Detective, since I left the penitentiary I have not engaged in any narcotics sales or consorted with any criminals. That would be a violation of my parole.” He chuckled. “Ossining has a lot of fine qualities, but I don’t plan to return.” Nikki took in this dapper man, sounding so refined, positively Continental — and wondered how much blood had gotten under those clear lacquered nails before he was finally busted. Watching him sit there, looking all soap opera patrón at sixty-two, with his distinguished gray temples and his Dries Van Noten suit complete with pocket square, who would ever suspect the scores of lives he had ruined and bodies he had disposed of in empty oil drums and lime pits?

“Life’s been good for you since then, it appears,” she said. “Expensive clothes, jewelry... I like the wristband.”

Martinez pulled back the monogrammed cuff on his right wrist and extended his arm across the divide so Nikki could appreciate the pounded silver bracelet studded with gemstones. “Nice,” she said. “What are these, emeralds?”

“Yes. Like it? It’s from Colombia. I saw it on a business trip and couldn’t resist.”

“Did you buy that recently?” Heat wasn’t jewelry shopping. She was laying groundwork.

“No, as I’m sure you know, the terms of my parole do not permit international travel.”

“But you sure could afford a piece or two like that. Mr. Martinez, you seem to have plenty of money.”

“My experience in Sing Sing brought me to reflect humbly on money and its use. In my own individual way, I try to use whatever wealth I have managed to save as a tool for good.”

“Does that include your drug money? I’m thinking specifically about a few hundred thou you scored back in 2003 in Atlantic City.”

The man was unruffled. “I’m sure I am not aware of what you’re talking about.”

Nikki reached over to the chair beside her and moved the open cookie tins of cash onto the table. “Does this refresh your memory?” For the first time since she came in the room, Heat saw the veneer crack. Not much, but his eyes flicked side to side. “No? Let me help you. This cash has been traced back to a deal brokered in your hotel suite at one of the casinos. The buyer was undercover DEA. He went in with a wire and this cash and was supposed to come out with a duffel of cocaine. Instead, he turned up in a Pennsylvania landfill three weeks later.”

The twinkle of rogue charm left his eyes as they hardened. But still he said nothing. “Let’s try some more show-and-tell.” Nikki handed over a picture of Father Graf.

“I don’t know this one, either.” He was lying. Cool as he was, Martinez showed the classic stress tells... the blinks, the dry mouth.

“Look again, I think you do.”

He gave the most cursory glance and slid it back. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Do you have any idea how this money ended up in his possession?”

“I would refer you to my prior answer. I don’t know him.”

Nikki told the ex-con about the priest’s murder and asked him where he was that night. He pondered, fixing his eyes to the ceiling and swabbing a chalky tongue over his laminates.

“As I recall, I was out to dinner. Yes, at La Grenouille and then back to my apartment for the remainder of the night. I’d rented Quantum of Solace on Blu-ray. You could be a Bond Girl yourself, Detective.”

Heat ignored the comment but made a note of his alibi. She collected the tins of cash to go. Then she sat them back down and opened her pad again. “And where were you yesterday between eleven A.M. and two P.M.?”

“Do you plan to convict me of every murder in New York City?”

“No, Mr. Martinez. I’ll be satisfied with just two.”

After Nikki returned the DEA cash to Property, she went back to the bull pen to check messages before she left for her orals. At the entrance, she stopped and stared in disbelief. Internal Affairs had boxed and cleared everything in Captain Montrose’s office. It sat completely empty.

Late that afternoon at One Police Plaza, they called Heat’s name. She put down the magazine she couldn’t concentrate on and stepped into the examination room.

It was just as Nikki had pictured it when she had visualized the orals in her mental preparation. Heat had learned from others who had taken the boards what to expect, and there was the scene before her. She stepped into a fluorescent-lit, windowless classroom where five examiners — a mix of active duty captains and administrators — sat behind a long table facing a lone chair. Hers. When Nikki said hello and took her seat, the dynamic suddenly reminded her of the ballet school judges scene in Flashdance. If only she could get through this by busting a move.

“Good afternoon, Detective,” began the administrator from Personnel who was moderating. Ripples of test anxiety stirred in Nikki. “Each member here will be asking you open-ended questions relevant to the duties of lieutenant in the NYPD. You may answer in any way you choose. Each of us will score your answers, then we’ll combine results to determine the disposition of your candidacy. Do you understand today’s procedure?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

And then it began.

“What do you see as your weakness?” asked the woman from Community Relations. A trapdoor if there ever was one. If you say you don’t have one, points off for being cocky. Name a flaw that inhibits your ability to do the job, you might as well get up and leave the room then.

“My weakness,” began Nikki, “is that I care so much about the job that I invest in it at the expense of my personal life. That’s largely because I don’t see this so much as a job but a career — or actually, a mission. Being a member of this department is my life. To serve the victims, plus my fellow officers and detectives...” The simple process of diving in and speaking from her heart calmed the stage fright inside her. The satisfied looks from the panel told her she was off on the right foot, too, and that didn’t hurt her ability to keep her head.

Focused and relaxed as she had now become, the questions that came at her during the next half hour felt more like honest conversation than a make-break test. Nikki deftly fielded inquiries about everything from how she would specifically go about evaluating those under her, to her feelings about workplace diversity, to means to deal with sexual harassment, to command judgments such as when, and when not, to deploy vehicle pursuits.

As the session came near its end, one of the judges, a commander from Staten Island who from his body language she read as the sole doubter up there, said, “I see here that you killed someone the other day.”

“I believe two suspects, sir. Only one has been confirmed.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

Nikki paused before answering, knowing this was another tricky one. “Regretful. I value life, and that was... and always would be... a last resort. But if the play is dealt, I have to respond.”

“Do you feel it was a fair fight?”

“Respectfully, Captain? If someone is looking for a fair fight, he’d better not draw on me.”

The members shared nods and satisfied looks and passed their score sheets to the moderator. He looked them over and said, “We will, of course, have to calculate these, but I feel confident in saying you have done exceptionally well, Detective Heat. Combining this with your outstanding score on the written, I have a feeling good news is coming, and soon.”

“Thank you.”

The Personnel administrator said, “If I’m not getting ahead of the horse here, have you given any thought to commanding your own precinct?”

“Not really.”

He grinned. “I would.”

Promptly at nine the next morning, Detective Heat announced herself to the receptionist in the lobby of the Terence Cardinal Cooke Building in Sutton Place. To Nikki, the archdiocese headquarters was an odd place to be while tapering off a mild hangover and feeling blissfully sore following her night with Rook. He had insisted on a major celebration after her oral boards, and party they did. A pocket of warmth grew inside her as she reflected on how fortunate she was to have a man like him in her life, who always sought ways to escape to brightness amid the dark. Her face broadened into a dopey smirk, recalling how she had made Rook laugh by screaming “quatrain!” at a critical moment in bed.

An administrative aide in a brown three-piece suit, who introduced himself as Roland Jackson, was waiting on the nineteenth floor when the elevator opened onto the chancery offices. “Monsignor is expecting you.” He carried an armload of fat manila pocket files in one arm and gestured with the other for her to precede him through the nearest door. “Detective Heat is here,” he said as they stepped in.

They had caught the monsignor hurrying to put on his black suit jacket for the meeting. He was still flexing his elbow to adjust one sleeve as he came around to shake her hand, which he did with both of his. “Hi, Pete Lynch.”

“Thanks for making the time, Monsignor.” Nikki returned his warm smile. Thirsty as she was, Heat declined the coffee or tea offer, and the three of them took seats in the modest conversation grouping to the side of the monsignor’s desk. “I understand this is in regard to Gerry Graf,” Monsignor Lynch said. His countenance darkened. “It’s a staggering loss. When something like that happens anywhere, it’s deeply felt, but more so among our fraternity. You must know that. I hear you lost one of your own, too. He’s in our prayers, as well.”

She thanked him and then steered the conversation back to Father Graf. “As the man who administers the day-to-day affairs of the archdiocese, I wanted to get a sense from you of him as a pastor. Were you aware of any problems with him?”

“Such as?”

“Well, for instance, any financial irregularities in parish accounting? Conflicts with parishioners or anyone here? Inappropriate behavior... of any kind?”

“You can say it, Detective, you mean sexual?”

“I do.” Nikki found herself studying the monsignor, then staring.

“None I am aware of.” He broke off eye contact and removed his wire-framed glasses to rub the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Roland has the parish books there. Anything untoward?”

“No, nothing of the sort.” Mr. Jackson patted the files on his lap. “His books always balanced, he was loved by the parish, and he was not involved in any personal scandals.”

“What about the situation with the priest you removed, the one who they say molested those boys on the field trip?”

The monsignor’s forehead gained a mild sheen, and a glance flicked between the two men. “Father Shea,” prompted Roland Jackson without necessity.

“These behaviors are the scourge of our holy church now. As you mentioned, we removed that priest immediately, and he is in a counseling program isolated from any parish, especially children.” Then Monsignor Lynch added, “He will probably face criminal charges — and should.”

Nikki said, “I hear one of the parents threatened Father Graf, accusing him of complicity.”

“You mean Mr. Hays.” He replaced his glasses. “Can you begin to imagine the pain a parent endures when his innocent child is molested?”

“Unimaginable,” she said. “I wanted to find out if you were privy to any specific threats against Father Graf made by Mr. Hays.”

Jackson shuffled his deck of pocket files and found a printout of an e-mail. “About a month and a half ago, Father Gerry received this.” He handed the page to Nikki. It was a full page, single-spaced rant laden with expletives and accusations. The last lines read, “You ever hear of a Tikrit Tune-up? I have, padre. You suffer until you pray to die and then you suffer some more. Lots more. The best part is when you call out to God for mercy and He looks down and spits upon your withered douche bag of a soul.”

“Monsignor Lynch,” said Heat, “this is not only direct and specific, but it’s very much like the way he was killed. Didn’t you take this seriously?”

“Of course, Detective, no threat would be dismissed out of hand. However, Mr. Hays was understandably agitated. Also, Father Graf wasn’t the only one he sent notes like this to, so we had no cause to focus on him alone.”

Roland Jackson backed him up. “Father Shea got one, of course, very similar.”

“Even I got one,” said the monsignor.

“Why didn’t you report this to the police?” she asked.

“We were hoping to handle this as an internal matter.”

Heat said, “And how has all that been working out for you fellas?”

Monsignor Lynch registered a weary sense of defeat. “Your point has been well made many times, Detective Heat, believe me. And, given the benefit of hindsight, well...” He lowered his eyes and then brought them back to her. “Do you have any idea what it is like to love an organization so much that it is like your family? But like any family, it has flaws that pain you, but you endure nonetheless because you trust in its greatness?”

“I think I have an idea,” she said.

The cold blast when she came out the revolving door onto First Avenue numbed Nikki’s face, and the wind was so strong that Heat had to shelter against the dark gray marble wall of the vestibule so she could make out Deputy Commissioner Yarborough over the scratchiness on her cell phone. “Is this a bad time, Nikki?”

“No, I’m just out here pounding the pavement.”

“Well, if what I hear is true, you won’t be doing that much longer. You’re the talk of the building this morning after your oral boards. I have a feeling you’re going to have bigger responsibilities than wearing down your Nine Wests in the cold.”

A fire truck rolled by with full siren and horn. Nikki plugged one ear and turned to the wall. When it had passed, she said, “That’s awesome. I have to admit, it felt like it went OK.”

Phyllis Yarborough laughed. “Love the understatement. Let me tell you how I read it. I think you’re not only going to get your gold bar, but with the sudden command void in your precinct, there’s talk they may fast-track you to a captaincy so you can assume Montrose’s job. Nothing’s firm, but this is your heads-up to hang loose on your calendar. You may get the call anytime, think you can do that?” In the brief pause when Nikki’s heart fluttered, the deputy commissioner said, “Don’t worry, Nikki. We both know you’re up for the task.”

The Waterfront Ale House, the closest eats near the OCME, was at the start of lunch rush so Nikki Heat and Lauren Parry grabbed one of the high tops in the bar rather than wait for a table. For a saloon the food was surprisingly good and always adventurous. Both ordered from the chalkboard. Nikki had the porter onion soup, her friend broke out and said she’d try the elk burger.

After Heat filled her in on her exam results and the recent call from Phyllis Yarborough, Lauren congratulated her, but seemed muted. She said that in spite of the good news, she was worried about Nikki after her ordeal in Central Park. The detective glanced out the window to Second and The Discourager parked in his blue-and-white and reassured Lauren she felt secure enough. “And after lunch I’ll be in the safest place in Manhattan. The Montroses didn’t leave any relatives, so I’m going to 1PP to see what I can do to assist with the memorial service.”

Their food arrived. The ME bisected her elk burger and asked, “No relatives? No kids?”

“The dog was their kid.”

“What kind of dog?”

“Long-haired mini dachshund, just like yours.” Heat pulled a strand of melty cheese from her spoon and could see the wheels turning in her friend. “Dr. Parry, before you get any ideas about Lola getting a big sister, the captain’s neighbor has Penny and wants to keep her.”

“Penny... ,” said Lauren. “Tell me she isn’t sweet.”

“A prancing bundle of cuteness.” Heat grew reflective. “It’s one more thing that weakens the suicide theory. Cap doted on Penny. No matter what else was going on, no way he would just abandon her.”

“Good luck trying to derail where this train is heading with that,” said the ME. “This has momentum. A suicide disposition is all but signed and sealed.”

Nikki studied her friend. “Is it me, or do I hear reservations?”

“I am a skeptic by profession. That’s science.”

“But...”

Lauren Parry set down the crescent of remaining burger and dabbed her mouth. “I don’t like the bullet trajectory. It’s in the realm, but for my taste it tracks forward and to the left too much. Plus it was a chin shot.” They both knew that most shooters minimized a nonfatal miss factor by sticking the barrel in their mouths, hence the cop slang “eating your gun.” She must have sensed Nikki’s thought process and added, “Yes, there was residue on his hand.”

Heat pushed her soup aside and stared out the window, lost in thought.

She should have known something was off by the look on the lieuten ant’s face when she showed him her list. “I see... right. Just a moment, please.” The department’s funeral director went to a desk in the back of the small office suite and punched a number on his phone without sitting. While Nikki waited, she studied the Honor Roll of the Fallen — heroes remembered forever on tall brass plaques that lined the walls of the reception area. Framed pictures traced the history of memorial ceremonies for New York’s Finest from sepia to black-and-white to Kodachrome to digital. She reviewed her list, which included suggested speakers, Emerald Society bagpipes, and a request for a helicopter flyover, since that was one of Captain Montrose’s early units before he made detective.

Lieutenant Prescott returned. “Would you like to have a seat?”

“Is there a problem?”

Prescott’s face grew solemn. “Detective Heat, I appreciate your volunteering to assist us with the service for Captain Montrose, but our planning doesn’t go to anything as, well... elaborate... in this particular case.”

“Is it the helicopter? I’ve seen it done, but that’s only an idea.”

“Frankly,” he said with sympathy in his eyes, “none of it fits our planning.” When she frowned, he added, “Well, perhaps a speaker. You, if you like.”

Someone came in, and when she turned, Zach Hamner was there in shirtsleeves and tie. “You should have called me, Heat, I could have saved you a trip.”

“Why are you part of this?” she asked but directed it to Prescott.

“I phoned him,” explained the lieutenant. “In interpretive cases like this one, we consult with the commissioner of legal matters.”

“I don’t understand ‘interpretive,’ ” said Nikki.

“Simple as this,” said The Hammer. “A ruling needs to be made as to whether a Full Honors service is appropriate for a death that’s not line of duty. Budget watchdogs like to sue if the city spends frivolously.”

“Frivolously?!”

Hamner waved both hands in front of him. “Calm down, not my term, OK? But the people who sue use it, and worse. However, the fact remains, a Full Honors memorial for a suicide, not to mention for a cop whose suspicious activity may implicate him in a murder... ?” He shook his head.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” she said. “We’re talking about a veteran, decorated precinct commander. They haven’t ruled it suicide yet. And where do you get this business of suspicious activity implicating him in a murder?”

“Why, from you. Yes, I got a prelim from your IA meet this morning.”

Heat was floored. Her own words were being abused. “This is unacceptable. No Full Honors? What are you planning, Zach, a cardboard box and a shopping cart?”

Prescott stepped in to quell the storm. “We have a nice service level that includes a suburban mortuary near his home and an escorted ride with several motorcycles to the plot near his late wife.”

“And this is the last word?”

Zach said, “It is unless someone else foots the bill.”

“This is an affront.”

“This is what happens when you take the coward’s way out.”

“Mr. Hamner... ,” cautioned the lieutenant, but Nikki wouldn’t be stopped.

“That’s it,” said Heat. “I know how to deal with this. I’m going public.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Hamner. “If you go to the press, do you realize the damage that would do?”

“I can only hope so,” she said and then left.

Back in the bull pen, Nikki was still fuming. She had unloaded over the phone to Rook on her way uptown to the precinct and thought she had calmed down, but announcing the slap against Montrose to the squad only rekindled her anger. The words of the monsignor from that morning about having faith in a family despite its flaws did little to quell her upset.

So Nikki Heat did what she always did under those circumstances: immersed herself in work. “I want Lawrence Hays the minute he gets back in New York,” she said to Detective Raley. “He made a specific threat against Graf in writing and I want him, now.” She gave him copies of the e-mail threat to distribute to the squad.

Raley read the e-mail. “Whoa.... On it.”

Detective Ochoa said, “I may have something to make you feel a little better. I couldn’t let go of why Father Graf’s housekeeper, Mrs. Borelli, is being be so cagey about our mystery guest.” He pointed to the unidentified man in the Pleasure Bound surveillance still. “So I ran her last name through priors.”

“Great idea,” said Sharon Hinesburg, whose responsibility it was to ID him, and who hadn’t thought of it.

“Anyhoo,” continued Ochoa as if Hinesburg hadn’t spoken, “I got a hit on a Paul Borelli in Bensonhurst. Nothing big, a few busts for weed and disorderly conduct.” He handed her the mug shot. It was a match for the man on the board.

“Her son?”

“Nephew.”

“Still enough to embarrass his aunt. Pay him a visit.” Nikki posted the mug shot on the Murder Board next to the surveillance photo. “Oh, and nice one.”

“Yeah,” said Detective Hinesburg. “Nice one.”

When Nikki came home to her apartment and opened her front door, it banged into something after a few inches and stopped. “Oof,” said Rook on the other side. “Hang on a sec.” Then he pulled it open wide. He was holding a screwdriver and standing beside a stepstool.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I have a surprise for you.” He pointed above the door, to where he had mounted a wireless lipstick camera. “Huh? What do you think?”

“Rook, a NannyCam?”

“Correction: NikkiCam. After the fingerprint team left, I thought you needed some extra security, so I went over to the spy store on Christopher Street. I could spend hours in there. Mainly because I can see myself on every monitor.” He struck a pose in the hall mirror. “I really am ruggedly handsome, aren’t I?”

She stepped past him and looked up at the camera. “Not a bad installation.”

“Oo, this is starting to sound like one of those porn videos where I’m the casual laborer.” Rook smiled. “As you know, nothing casual about how I work.”

“No, quite diligent. You’re on my list for employee of the month.” She kissed him and went to the counter to drop the stack of mail she had brought up along with the evening newspaper.

“What’s your pref for dinner? Take out or go out?” When she didn’t answer, he turned. Nikki’s face had gone pale. “What?” Rook got up and stood beside her at the counter where she had unfolded the front page of the New York Ledger. When he saw the headline, he looked at Nikki but didn’t dare interrupt her. Heat was too engrossed, too stunned by what she was reading.