Heat Rises

Eleven

When Nikki rested a hand on the back of the executive chair in front of her for steadiness, it rocked on its swivel hinge and the result was only to increase her sense of disorientation. She had entered with confident strides to assume her promotion and all that came with it, but in the mere crossing of a threshold she found herself cast adrift. Veering into a sickening emotional slide, Heat went spinning like one of the cars she had passed on the way there: tractionless, grappling for control, hurtling for the inevitable crash.

Detective DeLongpre wanted her shield. Nikki willed herself to reclaim her center and straighten herself up. Then she complied. His IA partner, Lovell, stood on her other flank with his hand out. Heat didn’t even look at him. She withdrew her Sig from its holster and handed it over, grip first, but with her eyes locked on Zach Hamner’s. “What’s this about, Zach?”

“It’s about you being suspended from duty while you are under official reprimand. Clear enough?”

Implications crashed over Nikki all at once and she felt her knees weaken. “A reprimand... ? What for?”

“For starters, going to the media. You have a problem, you talk to us. You don’t go outside the family.”

“I didn’t talk to the media.”

“Bullshit. Yesterday you get all up in my ass about Montrose’s funeral, and when you don’t get your way, you threaten to go public. And then, this.” He held up a copy of the Ledger that was marked up with comments in red ink. “This is the commissioner’s copy.”

“I was upset. I lost it.” Nikki lowered her voice to convey the rationality he didn’t witness the previous day. “But it was an empty threat. I never should have said it.”

“The time to think was back then. You dragged this department down, you disgraced yourself, and you blew a once-in-a-career opportunity. You think you’re going to get promoted now? You’ll be lucky if you come out of this with a job chalking tires. How the hell are you going to be trusted to lead if you can’t be trusted?” He let that sink in and said, “Look, these are the bigs. Ambition is not a dirty word. But never, ever, at the expense of this department, Heat. Because one thing that is not tolerated here is disloyalty. You betrayed us.”

“I didn’t do it.”

“Someone sure did. Do you have any idea the problems you have caused us?”

Nikki thought carefully. Pointing to Rook wouldn’t be much help and would only make the leak appear more orchestrated. Even Tam Svejda assumed Heat was utilizing Rook as a back channel. The Hammer would go there before she finished her sentence. So she repeated the truth. “It wasn’t I.”

“You stick to that, Heat. See how much it comforts you while you sit at home.” Zach stood to go.

“But I’m on a case.”

“Not anymore.” And then The Hammer left the room with the two men from Internal Affairs.

Nikki was in such a daze, so lost in her own mind, that she meandered through the snowfall right past The Discourager’s blue-and-white. Harvey called out to her from his driver’s window, using the title she technically no longer bore. She turned back, wobbling on unsteady feet, feeling like she couldn’t pass a field sobriety test, and got in. “Shit’s really coming down,” he said. It took Heat a second to realize he was describing the storm. “Even you couldn’t see through it.” He hit the wipers. They scraped heavy, wet clumps to the sides that stuck, but the windshield filled, becoming clotted again before the next pass. The weather was becoming just like her life. It just kept coming down. Nikki wanted to be out in it. She wanted to wander in the snow and disappear.

“Where to?” he said. “Back to your squad?”

His innocent question slapped her with the New Reality. Nikki Heat did not have a squad. She turned her face away, making a project of smearing the condensation from her passenger window so he wouldn’t see the tears pooling. “Home,” she said. “For now.”

Rook raced to meet her, skidding on his socks as soon as she opened her door. “You are not going to believe what I just learned.” If he had waited, maybe taken a breath, he would have sensed it, seen the damage, downshifted and cocked his head and asked what was up. Instead, she got his back, retreating to the laptop on her dining table, shooting power fists in the air and roaring, “Yesss!” Nikki drifted into her apartment behind him, not hearing or even feeling her own footfalls. The sensation was as if she were floating or, dare she say — suspended.

Nose deep in his MacBook Pro, Rook crackled with energy. “It’s been eating at me. I remembered hearing something about Lancer Standard — Lancer Standard: Mercenaries to the Stars.” He turned to her to laugh, but Heat startled him by slamming down the lid of his laptop.

“Why’d you do it?” she said.

He searched her, frowning. “. . . Nik?”

“You can quit the act. Tam Svejda told me.”

He looked puzzled. “Tam? You talked to Tam? About what?”

She moved to the counter and came back brandishing the copy of the Ledger. “This. The article that just got me suspended because they think I leaked it.”

“Oh, my God,” Rook shot to his feet, “they suspended you?” He took a step to her.

“Don’t!” She put up both palms to stay him and he stopped. “Just... keep away from me.”

His mind was racing, so it took him a few seconds to piece things together, and by then, she was striding to the kitchen. He hurried to follow, catching up to her as she opened the fridge. “You really think I had something to do with this?”

“I didn’t have to think it. I was told. By your bouncing Czech.” She still had the newspaper in her hand and tossed it at him. By reflex, he caught it.

“Tam? Tam told you I sourced this?” Rook realized he still had the offending Ledger in his hands and tossed it into the other room. “No way.”

“Great. Now you’re calling me a liar?” said Heat.

“No, no, I believe you. I just don’t understand why she would say that.” He felt it all spinning out of control and said, “Nikki, listen to me. I did not leak this to her.”

“Yuh, right. Like you’re going to admit it now.”

“How can you think it was me?”

Heat reached past the Sancerre and pulled out a Pellegrino. This was a time for a clear head. “For one, I’ve been looking at that prose you said was so... what did you call it?... tabloidy? Well, I smell a few Rook-isms in there. Calling the funeral issue a ‘problem that cannot be buried’... What else? Oh. ‘NYPD black and blue’?”

“Come on, I...” He stopped himself and looked like he’d tasted something foul.

“So those are your words.” She ditched the water and got out the wine.

“Sort of. But I never shared. It sounds like synchronicity.”

“It sounds like bull. Tam says you e-mailed notes to her.”

“Nope. Did not.”

Nikki pointed to his laptop over on the dining table. “What was that secret typing you’ve been doing?”

“All right, full disclosure. Yes, I have been writing up some notes for an article I plan to write on this Montrose thing.”

“You what?!”

“See? That’s why I didn’t tell you. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it after the cover piece I did on you.”

“Rook, this is even more devious. You were hiding it from me because you knew damn well I’d be against it?”

“No.... Yes. But I was going to tell you. Eventually.”

“You’re digging deeper the more you talk.”

“Look, I am an investigative journalist and this is a legitimate story.”

“That Tam Svejda says you slipped to her.”

“No.”

“What else did you slip her?”

“Oh. Oh ho! Now I’m seeing what’s happening here,” he said. “This is the green monster rearing its head.”

Nikki slammed the bottle down on the counter with a loud crack. “Do not minimize what I am going through by tagging me with some cheap label.”

“I’m sorry, that was out of line.”

“Damn right it was. Now it’s my turn.” The pent-up emotion from her week of agony spilled over. “Get your stuff and get the hell out of here.”

“Nikki, I...”

“Now.”

He hesitated and said, “I thought you trusted me.”

But she was already storming down the hallway with the bottle in her hand. The last thing Rook heard from Heat was the locking of her bedroom door.

The next morning, even though she knew she had no reason to, Nikki got up at her usual early time, showered, and dressed for work. While she was in the shower, Raley and Ochoa left her a message of between-the-lines support. They knew about the suspension like everyone by now and had left what they called a Roach-mail. “Hey, uh, Detective, or... whatever I should call you now,” said Ochoa.

Raley was on the other line and said, “Hey, partner, how about a little sensitivity? Hi, it’s Roach calling. Do they let you get calls in the penalty box? Anyway your dirty coffee mug is still in the sink down here at the precinct.”

“That’s right,” said Ochoa, “and if you think we’re going to wash it for you, dream on. So if you want the mug, well, you know what to do.... See ya?”

She thought about calling back, but instead Nikki sat on the cushion of her window seat while she watched a sanitation crew remove the overnight snow from her street. It gave her something to do. As she idled there, Nikki wondered if she should roll some cell phone video, in case she got a chance to upload the latest viral of a parked car getting its fender peeled away by a city snowplow.

That would help her get her job back, all right. Leak video of a municipal embarrassment.

Her solitude was anything but peaceful. Zach Hamner’s accusations insisted on visiting her perch in the bay window. He had called her disloyal. She dismissed that but then wondered, had she been? Nikki had done nothing deceitful, but the objective part of her — the part that was all about middle-of-the-night gut checks and self-reproach — wanted to pick at the wound. So she did. Heat asked herself, had she caused harm to others by her relationship with Rook? She hoped not. And then there was ambition. The Hammer had also scolded her about that, and she worried herself over whether her sense of entitlement to the new rank had emboldened her to threaten Zach to go public over the funeral.

What ate at her most was the trust issue. He’d said you can’t lead if you can’t be trusted. Nikki wasn’t bothered by what that cockroach thought of her. But what gnawed at Heat was her own perception. Did she trust herself to lead?

Her phone jarred her back to the present. The caller ID was from 1PP. Nikki went for the green button so quickly, the phone slipped out of her hand, but she caught it before it hit the floor. “Hello? You there?”

“Nikki Heat, it’s Phyllis Yarborough. Hope you don’t mind me calling your personal number.”

“About the only way to reach me today.” Heat tried to make it light without putting any stink on it. Like she was taking it all in stride.

“I hear that,” said the deputy commissioner. “May I tell you flat out, this sucks?”

Nikki laughed, and even though the call didn’t sound like it was going to be the reprieve she had hoped for, she was glad for it. “You won’t get much argument out of me.”

“I just want you to know, if you weren’t aware of it, the decision was not unanimous. There was one dissenting vote, and you’re talking to her.”

“Oh... I didn’t know that. But thank you. That means a lot.”

“Have to say, I’m not a fan of The Hammer anyway, and this time he did not disappoint. He called the meeting, he fanned the flames, he pressed for the sanction, he was obsessed.” Yarborough paused. Nikki figured it was her turn.

“I do have to admit I understand Zach taking it as an affront, the way I lit into him about the captain’s funeral.”

“Oh, boo-hoo, he needs to grow a pair. I’ll tell you something, Nikki, I not only don’t believe you leaked this, I believe this is pure politics. Zach and his network of man weasels were fine when I was interested in grooming you for my team at RTCC, but there was a definite sea change after Captain Montrose died.” She quieted her tone and added, “I am sorry about that, by the way, I know it’s a loss for you.”

“Thanks.” Nikki’s curiosity was piqued. “Why do you suppose the change?”

“Because if my candidate — that would be you, my dear — gets fast-tracked to replace Montrose that weakens their power. Look who they put in there. Floyd the Barber. They don’t want a precinct commander, they want a puppet.”

“I appreciate you standing up for me.”

“Considering the result, I don’t think I did you any favors.”

Nikki said, “I think working the street is safer than 1PP.”

“That’s politics, it’s an ugly game.”

“And one I don’t care to play, thanks,” said Heat. “Not why I swore my oath.”

“Actually, that’s why I called,” said the deputy commissioner. “Since backstabbing isn’t your favorite sport, I wanted to let you know that I’ll keep my eyes open for you. I can’t promise there won’t be any more surprises, but maybe I can head them off, or at least I can warn you.”

“Wow, that’s very generous.”

“You deserve it. So what’s up for you? Daytime dramas? Scrapbooking?” When Nikki’s pause was the answer, Yarborough continued, “Of course not. You’re Nikki Heat. Listen, do what you have to do. But if you need anything, anything at all, please call me.”

“I will,” said Heat. “And Phyllis? Thanks.”

About an hour later, impatient with exile in her apartment, unable to escape needling thoughts through daytime TV, Nikki bundled up. Even the process of getting ready was a confrontation with her unhappy situation: By reflex, she reached for her holster — empty — muttered a quiet curse, and, for the first time Heat could recall in ages, had to step out her door unarmed.

The best way to cover ground in Manhattan during a snow event is to go under it. As was her habit, Nikki picked up a 6 train at Park Avenue South and rode it down to Bleecker for a transfer to the uptown B. Waiting on the platform, she performed the straphanger’s rite of leaning over the edge of the track every sixty seconds, scouting up the dark tunnel for the gleam of an oncoming headlight reflected on the tracks. It didn’t make the trains come any faster, but it was something to do other than look for scurrying rats in the grime below.

Nikki did her headlight check, she did her rat check, and she also did a platform check. There had been no cruiser parked downstairs that morning — no Discourager to give a two-finger salute or bring coffee to. They had pulled her protection when they pulled her shield. Heat didn’t clock any threat and got on her car for the ride uptown to the Twentieth, and was able to relax a bit.

But her inner demons got on with her and muscled into the next seat. Always a clear thinker who could slow things down and navigate the wildest distractions under fire, Nikki couldn’t shake her thoughts free of how her whole life had been upended in a blink. What the hell was going on? She prided herself on being skeptical, not paranoid, but Heat seriously believed she was being railroaded. But why? And by whom?

It pained her that a few hundred words in an also-ran newspaper could get her kicked out. That damned article.

And Rook.

Her sharpest agony. She had invested in this guy. Waited for this guy. Felt something for this guy that went beyond the bedroom... or wherever else they took each other. Nikki did not give herself easily to a man, and this betrayal by Rook was why. Heat reflected on her answer at the oral boards about her greatest flaw and admitted her reply was a mask. Yes, her identification with her job was total. But her greatest flaw wasn’t overinvestment in her career. It was her reticence to be vulnerable. Unarmed as she was — literally — she had been emotionally so with Rook.

That was the gut shot that had blown clean through her soul.

What the hell was she doing back there in the bull pen? The others weren’t asking her that. Nikki Heat was asking herself.

When she had put on her coat and picked her way along the unshoveled sidewalk heading from her apartment to the subway, Nikki had decided that she needed some things from her desk. Not knowing how long this suspension would last — or whether it would be permanent — there were materials she required and wanted at home. By the time she came up the steps from the B train under the American Museum of Natural History and trudged toward Columbus Avenue, she had convinced herself that entering her squad room was all about dignity. And that dirty coffee mug Roach had alerted her to.

The truth behind her visit was that the detective in Heat craved information. And what Nikki learned only served to deepen her suspicions about her reversal.

Right off the bat Roach drew her aside to a quiet corner. “WTF?” said Ochoa.

“Yeah, why’d you have to go and get yourself suspended?” added Raley. “Your timing sucks.”

“Not so much that we care about you,” said his partner, “but the Graf investigation’s upside-down in the ditch with four wheels clawing sky.”

“Do I even need to ask why?” Nikki knew from her meeting the day before.

“Because of the Iron Man,” said Ochoa. Heat had a mental bet that would be the handle they’d give Captain Irons. She also bet they weren’t the first. “He’s pulling all resources into the dead homeless guy, even though it’s gonna end up accidental OD.”

“For all intents, this case is dead.” Raley side nodded to the Father Graf Murder Board, which had been carelessly erased and hung there, suspended on the easel with only the ghostly streaks of Nikki’s colored markers to hint at its prior purpose.

“It almost seems convenient,” she said.

Ochoa chuckled. “Know how we’re always pimping Rook over his wild-ass conspiracy theories?” Heat nodded even as she masked her pain at hearing his name. “Nothing compared to what Rales and I have been thinking.”

“Any answers?” asked Heat.

Raley said, “Only one. On your time off, let us know what you need.”

“On your ‘time off,’ ” repeated Ochoa, complete with air quotes.

The only satisfaction she could draw from this disheartening news about the shelving of the Graf case was that Sharon Hinesburg was ordered by Captain Irons to go undercover as a homeless woman and had to spend the night in the Riverside Park pedestrian tunnel. “Let it snow,” Nikki said.

On a whim — yes, a whim, she told herself — Heat logged onto her computer so she could print out a PDF of the Huddleston homicide file, the 2004 case then-Detective Montrose had run. Disbelief.

Her password didn’t work.

Access denied.

Nikki phoned the IT department help desk. After a brief hold, the technician came back on and apologized. He said that due to her renewed classification, she was currently unauthorized to use the NYPD server.

After she set the phone back on its cradle, Heat realized how wrong she had been. She had mistakenly thought it wasn’t possible to feel more shaken and alone. Stepping out into West 82nd Street, Nikki turned to face the icy wind rushing crosstown off the Hudson. But she knew that no matter how long she stood there, it could never dish out enough cold to numb her. She turned her back against the bluster and plodded toward the subway to go home.

“Lady-lady!” was the last thing Heat heard before the collision. She whirled in the direction of the shout a split second before the delivery guy and his bicycle smacked into her, knocking her down onto Columbus Avenue. They landed in a tangle — arms, legs, and a bike — surrounded by ruptured cardboard take-out cartons, broccoli in oyster sauce, smashed wontons, and a duck leg. “My order’s ruined,” he said.

Still down, with handlebars against her cheek, Nikki turned up from the gutter and said, “You were going the wrong way in that lane.”

His response was, “Hey, up yours, lady.” He jerked his bike off Nikki and raced away, leaving her and his lost order down in the crosswalk at the side of the avenue. For a split second as Heat watched the patch of filthy snow and sand under her face redden with her blood, she actually wondered if whoever killed Montrose had also sent the crazy delivery guy on the bike. Such was the rabbit hole of conspiracy thinking. When you actually stop and look around and wonder, who in the world can you trust?

When Rook opened the door, his expression was a mix of shock and vigilance. First he reacted to her face with its tributaries of dried blood fanning like tentacles from the spot in her scalp where Nikki held a wadded handkerchief. Then, out of experience, he checked the hall to make sure she wasn’t on the run and being followed. “Nikki, jeez, what happened?”

She strode past him through his foyer and into the kitchen. He locked the door and joined her. Nikki held up a hand. “Shut up and don’t say anything.”

His mouth opened and then closed.

“I’m a great cop. I was on track to blow past lieutenant and make captain. I was going to be running the precinct. And, as a cop, one thing I understand is motive. And when I look for your motive in leaking that article?... I get nothing. It makes no logical sense. Why would you give your notes on a story that’s your exclusive to somebody else? For sex? Please. I can tell, Tam’s way too needy to be good in bed.” He started to speak and she said, “Shut up. With no motive, I just don’t know why the hell you would have done that. So I’m making the choice to believe you.

“I not only want to, I have to. Because whatever’s happening on this case, it’s kicked up to a new level and there’s nobody I can trust except for you.

“Everything’s caving in. I’m locked out and the murder investigation I have been moving heaven and earth to conduct is now in the Dumpster because the bumbling pencil jockey they replaced Captain Montrose with is basically Inspector Clouseau. Say nothing.

“Now... as I lay there minutes ago in the southbound lane of Columbus, mowed down by a wrong-way and rather unapologetic delivery bicyclist, shivering, bleeding, and taking stock of the new low my life had achieved, I thought, Nikki Heat, are you just going to lie there? And, tempting as it may be to while away my forced hiatus at Starbucks playing Angry Birds, waiting for 1PP to call and say sorry, that is not an option. I am too stubborn and too personally invested to let this case die. But — minor technicality — I am no longer an active member of the NYPD. No gun, no badge, no access to records, no squad. Oh, and people are trying to kill me. So what do I need? I need help. To press this investigation forward I need a partner. I need someone with experience, with balls, someone with top investigative skills who knows how to stay out of my way and isn’t afraid to put in some sick hours. Which is why I am here in your kitchen bleeding on your custom slate flooring. OK, you can talk now. What do you say?”

Rook didn’t reply. Instead, he turned her gently to look over the kitchen counter into his great room. And she beheld the Murder Board Rook had reconstructed in his loft. Not everything was there — for instance, no photographs — but the main elements were in place: the timeline, the names of victims and suspects, leads to track down. It needed a big update, but the foundation was all right there.

Heat turned back to Rook and said, “Well? Are you interested or not?”