Heat Rises

Two

Detective Heat wasn’t sure which she would prefer, to come into the station house and find Captain Montrose in his office so she could ask him about his visit to the rectory the night before or to find his executive chair empty and be spared the meeting for a while. As it happened, that morning, like so many others, she was the one to flick the lights on in the Homicide bull pen. The skipper’s office was locked and dark behind the glass wall that gave him a view of the squad room. Her feelings upon seeing his office empty answered her question about preference; it disappointed her. Nikki wasn’t a procrastinator, and especially when a subject was uncomfortable, her instinct was to get the noise out early and then deal.

She told herself this was all about nothing, and all that was needed was to clear the air. On its face, the captain’s stop at Our Lady of the Innocents was not inappropriate. A missing persons report for a resident of the precinct gave legitimate cause to speak to the woman who filed it. That was standard police procedure.

What was not standard was for the commander of the precinct to handle a call that usually fell to a Detective-3, or even an experienced uniform. And to conduct a search — alone — was, again, not unheard of but still unusual.

An hour before, Heat and Detective Feller had gloved up and made their own walk through the premises and found no signs of struggle, breakage, bloodstains, threat mail, or anything out of the ordinary to their eyes. The Evidence Collection Unit would be more thorough, and, as they waited for ECU to arrive, Nikki was relieved that Feller had the discretion not to say anything, even though it was all over his face. She knew what he was thinking. Montrose, taking heavy fire from his bosses and under potential investigation by Internal Affairs for allegations unknown, had deviated from standard procedure and solo snooped the home of a torture vic the night he died. When she dropped Feller off at the 86th Street subway stop all he said to her was “Good luck... Lieutenant Heat.”

Especially since she was the first one in the bull pen that morning, Nikki would have preferred to have been able to catch Montrose early and get him alone. In the break room she speed-dialed him from her cell phone while she poured milk on her cereal. “Cap, it’s Heat. 7:29,” she said to his voice mail. “Give me a callback when you can.” Short and uncluttered. He’d know she would only call if it was important.

She carried her cardboard bowl of Mini-Wheats back to her desk, and while she ate in silence. Nikki felt the weight of the month of mornings she had faced without Rook. She looked at her watch again. The hands had advanced, but that damned calendar hadn’t budged.

She wondered what he was doing at that moment. Nikki envisioned Rook sitting on an ammo crate in the shade of a Quonset hut at a remote jungle airstrip. Colombia or Mexico, by the itinerary he had sketched out before he kissed her good-bye at her apartment door. After she locked up, she raced to her bay window and waited there, watching vapor trail from the tailpipe of his waiting town car, wanting one last glimpse of him before he dissolved. She felt a glow inside at the memory of him stopping just before he got in the backseat. Rook had turned and blown a kiss up her way. Now that picture had faded to a feeling. The vision was replaced by her imagined one of Rook in rough country, swatting mosquitoes, jotting names of shadowy gun runners in his Moleskine. He was no doubt unshowered, beardy with sweat moons. She wanted him.

Heat’s phone buzzed with a text from Captain Montrose. “@1PP. In touch when I get sprung.” True to form, he was stuck downtown at headquarters for his ritual precinct commander accountability meeting. It made Nikki reflect on the downside of her impending promotion. One rung too many and your head shows over the parapet and becomes a big, fat target.

Thirty minutes later, just after 8 a.m., the Homicide bull pen was stand ing room only as Detective Nikki Heat walked her squad, plus a few extra attendees she had pulled in from Burglary and patrol, through the few details she had on the case so far. She stood in front of the big Murder Board and used magnets to slap two pictures of Father Graf at top center of the white enamel. The first, a death photo taken by CSU, was of much better quality than the cell phone snap she had taken herself. Beside it, she posted his protest march photo, cropped and enlarged to show only his face. “This is our victim, Father Gerald Graf, pastor of Our Lady of the Innocents.” She recapped the circumstances of his death and used a dry-erase marker to circle the times of his disappearance, estimated death, and discovery on the timeline she had already drawn across the board. “Copies of these photos are being duped for you. As usual, they’ll also be up on the computer server, along with other details, for access from your cells and laptops.”

Ochoa turned to Detective Rhymer, a Burglary cop on loan, who was sitting on a filing cabinet in the back. “Hey, Opie, in case you wondered, that’s the typewriter with all the blinky lights.”

Dan Rhymer, an ex-MP from the Carolinas who had stayed in New York after his army hitch, was accustomed to the needling. Even back home they had nicknamed him Opie. He put some butter on his Southern accent. “Laptop computer, huh? Goll-lly. No wonder I couldn’t toast my possum samwich on that thing.”

During the chorus of “whoa”s Nikki said, “Excuse me? Anyone mind if I talk a little about the investigation?”

“Oo, frosty,” said Detective Sharon Hinesburg. Nikki chuckled along until she added, “Trying out your new command mode for lieutenant?” The barb didn’t surprise Heat, it was the realization that her pending rise was out of the house rumor mill and in the air. Naturally, it came from Hinesburg, an only modestly gifted detective whose main talent was for annoying Heat. Someone must have once told Hinesburg her outspokenness was refreshing. Nikki thought that person had done the detective a disservice.

“What do we have on cause of death?” said Raley, snapping things back to business for Heat and falling on the grenade Hinesburg had lobbed.

“Prelim puts us in a gray area.” She made eye contact with Rales, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod that spoke volumes about camaraderie. “In fact, we can’t even officially class this as a homicide until after the autopsy. Nature of the death left open lots of doors for accidental. You’ve got potential health issues of the vic, intent of the practitioner...”

“Or killer,” said Ochoa.

“Or killer,” she agreed. “Father Graf was a missing person, which pushes the likelihood of foul play.” Involuntarily, her gaze ran to Captain Montrose’s empty office, then back to the squad. “But this is the time for us to keep open minds.”

“Was the padre a freak?” Hinesburg again, subtle as always. “I mean, what the hell is a priest doing in a kink dungeon?” Not the most delicate phrasing, but not the wrong question.

“That’s why our direction for now is going to be to work the BDSM angle,” said Heat. “I still need interviews with the housekeeper and others at the parish about the priest. Relationships, family, enemies, bad exorcisms — might as well say it — altar boys, you never know. Everything’s on the table, but what’s right in front of us is the sex torture. Soon as we get our warrant, which should be soon, Detective Raley, go screen that security tape. Let’s see when he came in there and with whom.”

“Not to mention, in what condition,” said Raley.

“Especially that. And pull stills of everyone who came and went before and after, right up to the first responders.” Her marker squeaked “Security Vid” in neat block letters on the whiteboard. When she was done underlining it, she said, “While Raley’s on that, let’s try to find out if our victim had a history in the lifestyle. Ochoa, Rhymer, Gallagher, Hinesburg — you’ll be canvassing the clubs and known Doms, masters, mistresses.”

“Yes, sir.” Hinesburg saluted, but she didn’t get any laughs. The others were already on their feet, heading to work.

Minutes later, Nikki hung up her phone and called across the bull pen. “Ochoa, change of plan.” She crossed over to his desk, where he was going over a printout of clubs in Manhattan’s infamous Dungeon Alley. “ECU called in from the rectory. The housekeeper is saying it looks to her like things have been moved around and items are missing. I’ve got the manager of Pleasure Bound and her lawyer waiting for me in Interrogation, so why don’t you head on up there and see what’s what.”

Hinesburg caught Heat’s eye. “If I ask nicely, any chance I can forgo the kink circuit and handle the rectory?”

Since Hinesburg seemed to be back-door apologizing for her snarky episode, Nikki weighed the benefit of responding in kind and siphoning off some of the tension. “You have a problem with that, Oach?”

“Let me see... ,” Ochoa held up his palms as if balancing a scale, “. . . church or sex dungeon, church or sex dungeon.” He dropped his arms. “Light a candle for me while you’re there, Sharon.”

“Thanks for that,” said Hinesburg. “And I apologize I busted you for sounding all bitchy. I didn’t realize you were dealing with... ,” she tilted her head conspiratorially at Heat and said, “. . . other issues.” When Nikki gave her a puzzled look, the detective held up the morning edition of the Ledger, folded open to “Buzz Rush,” the celebrity gossip section. “You mean you haven’t seen this?”

Heat’s eyes actually blinked at the picture. Right under a photo of Anderson Cooper at a charity function was a quarter-page candid shot of Rook and a stunning woman coming out of Le Cirque. The caption read, “Happy client? Eligible superstar journalist Jameson Rook and his lit agent Jeanne Callow are all smiles after a swank tête-à-tête at Le Cirque last night.”

Ever the sensitive one, Hinesburg said, “Thought you said Rook was off doing an article on arms dealers.” Nikki heard the words but couldn’t take her eyes off the photograph. “Coldest winter since 1906, and she’s sleeveless. When he said he was going to be chasing guns, betcha didn’t think they’d be like those.”

They needed her in Interrogation. Nikki walked there on autopilot, still reeling from the knockdown punch. She couldn’t grasp it, didn’t want to believe it. Rook was not only back but out on the town while she waited for him like some Gloucester sea captain’s wife pacing the widow’s walk, searching the horizon for a mast. No beard, no sweat moons, he was scrubbed, shaved, and had his Hugo Boss sleeve laced through the elbow of his hot gym-rat agent.

Detective Raley caught up with her at the door to the Observation Room as she was preparing to go in, and Heat shoved Rook out of her head, even though she still felt brittle from the shock. “Not so good news on the security cam,” said Raley. He was holding a banker’s box with a Chain of Evidence form taped to the side.

“I assume that’s the tape, right?”

“Tapes, yes. The tape, no. When I unlocked the cabinet, the one in the deck had run itself out and the label was dated two weeks ago.”

“Lovely,” said Heat. “And nothing from last night?”

“These tapes haven’t recorded anything for several weeks. I’ll check, but we’ll be lucky if we see anything.”

Nikki pondered briefly. “Screen what you have here anyway and pull faces. You never know, we may see Graf there and connect him with someone.”

Raley disappeared up the hall with his box of tapes. Nikki continued into Interrogation.

“You already asked my client that question,” said the old man. Simmy Paltz poked a finger bent from arthritis on the legal pad on the table in front of him. He looked to be a hundred, all skin and bones, withered and leathery. He wore a 1970s Wemlon tie in a big knot, but Nikki could have fit a hand right down to her wrist in the gap created between Simmy’s pilled collar and his rooster neck. He seemed sharp enough though, and certainly a hard-line advocate. Heat guessed one way to keep your costs down in a small business was to retain your grandfather or great uncle as counsel.

“I wanted to give her time to rethink her answer, let her memory do its work,” replied the detective. Then Nikki directed herself to Roxanne, who was still wearing the same vinyl and contempt as she had in her office at six that morning. “You’re absolutely certain you had no dealings with Father Graf?”

“Like what, in church? Don’t make me laugh.” She sat back and nodded in satisfaction to the old dude. “He wasn’t a client.”

“Did anyone else have access to the locker with your security tapes?”

“Ha,” from the lawyer. “Fat lot of good your warrant did.” His eyes looked huge to Nikki behind the smudged eyeglasses that covered half his face.

“Ms. Paltz, who had keys?”

Roxanne looked to her attorney, who gave the go-ahead nod, and she answered, “Just me. The one set.”

“And there are no other tapes, Roxanne?”

“Who is she,” said the lawyer, “the Homeland Security?”

Roxanne continued, “Truth is, that plastic bubble in the ceiling does the job of keeping everyone in line anyway. Far as the clients know, it’s on and they behave. Sort of the way when you call customer service and they say, ‘This call may be monitored.’ Their way of saying watch your mouth, asshole.”

Heat turned a page of her notepad. “I’d like the names of anyone who was there last night, say from six o’clock on. Dommes, doms, clients.”

“Bet you would,” said the lawyer. “Pleasure Bound is a discreet business protected by rights of privacy and client privilege.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Paltz, but last I heard, client privilege may protect lawyers and doctors, but not people who dress up and play doctor.” Heat turned again to the manager. “Roxanne, a death took place on your property. Are you going to cooperate, or shall we close you down while we assess the public safety and health concerns at Pleasure Bound?” Nikki was only sort of bluffing. A shutdown, if she got it, would only be brief, but her assessment of the state of the business — old paint, cheap furniture, shopworn fixtures, neglected security surveillance — told her Roxanne operated on a thin margin and that even a week without clients would put a hurt on her. She was right.

“All right. I’ll give you her name,” she said after another nod from the lawyer. “Fact is, I only have one dominatrix at present. I lost my other two a couple of months ago to the higher-end places Midtown.” Roxanne Paltz made an audible shrug with her vinyls. “I tell you, the bondage business is a struggle.” Nikki instinctively waited for Rook’s wisecrack. Same as she had so many times during his absence. What would he blurt? Knowing him, something like “That would make a catchy ad slogan.” She pictured a match turning Rook’s Le Cirque photo to ashes.

After Roxanne gave her the name and contact number of the domme, Heat asked about clients. “That’s all on her,” answered the manager. “She pays me to use the space, sort of like a hairdresser. The client bookings are her deal.”

“For the record, Roxanne, can you account for your whereabouts last night between six and eleven?” Nikki widened the time frame since she hadn’t gotten the official from Lauren Parry yet.

“Yes, I can. I was at dinner and then the movies with my husband.”

After Heat wrote down the name of the restaurant and the movie, she asked, “And your husband can vouch for this?”

Simmy Paltz nodded. “You bet I can.”

Nikki Heat looked from the old coot to Roxanne and made another note, this one mental. A reminder not to assume. Not in New York City.

Hadn’t she just learned that painful lesson from Rook?

She called Detective Ochoa to find the domme while Roxanne and her husband were still in Interrogation, so they wouldn’t have a chance to tip her off. Heat had given them some mug arrays of violent sex offenders to pore over, knowing it was busywork but the kind of busy that would keep them out of her way. Ochoa was only a few blocks from Andrea Boam’s address in Chelsea, and just fifteen minutes later he rang back to report that her roommate said Ms. Boam had been away on vacation since the weekend. Nikki asked, “Did the roommate say where?”

“Amsterdam,” said Ochoa. “The city, not the avenue.”

“Imagine that. Amsterdam. For a dominatrix.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Sounds like a busman’s holiday, if you ask me.”

“Do a follow-up with Customs to run her passport, just to make sure she went,” said Heat. “Smells like a solid alibi, though. Any luck with the priest’s picture?”

“Nada. But. Canvassing these clubs isn’t a total loss. Mostly, I’ve been interviewing submissives, and it’s doing wonders for my self-esteem.”

Heat was eager to know what was up at the rectory, but Lauren Parry texted her that the autopsy was complete on Father Graf, so she waited until she got to her car on her way to the coroner’s before she called Detective Hinesburg.

“What’s going on, Nikki?” asked Hinesburg.

“Just driving down to the OCME wondering what you discovered in the last hour and a half.” Heat didn’t do so well at keeping the irritation out of her voice, but it annoyed her to have to chase her detective down for a simple update. One of Sharon Hinesburg’s dubious qualities was that a fair amount went over her head, and if there was any sting on Heat’s comment, she didn’t seem to notice.

“What are you going to say to that writer bastard?” said Hinesburg. “Guy screws with me, he doesn’t get an encore, hear what I’m saying?”

Heat wanted to shout loud enough to make her ear bleed. Instead, she counted to three and calmly said, “Sharon? The housekeeper?”

“Right. Mrs....” Pages flipped.

“Borelli,” prompted Nikki. “What did Mrs. Borelli tell you about the missing objects?”

“Quite a bit, really. She’s something else. Treats the job like a mission. Knows every inch of this place like she was running a museum.” On the other end, Hinesburg turned more pages. “So the bottom line so far is a missing medal from a jewelry box.”

“What kind of medal?”

“A holy medal of some kind.” There was muffled talk as Hinesburg covered the mouthpiece, then came back on. “A St. Christopher medal.”

“And that’s the only thing she says is missing?” ask Heat.

“So far. We’re still doing inventory together,” Hinesburg added, making sure to sound busy. “But the other thing is, Mrs. B. says things are a little off here. Small things. Drawers with shirts and socks not stacked neatly like she does, books slightly out of alignment, a china cabinet closed but not closed all the way.”

Nikki was beginning to get the picture and it was no small thing. It was sounding like someone had done a search of the rectory for something, and it was methodical, not a tear-apart job like she saw most of the time. This was starting to feel careful. Professional, maybe. Her thoughts ran to Montrose. Would he have done a search like that?

“Sharon, keep an inventory, even though Evidence Collection is doing the same. Include a list of anything that’s moved or broken. However minor, understand?” Heat scoped the dashboard clock. “Doesn’t look like I can get up there for a while, so do a sit-down with Mrs. Borelli, if she’s up to it. Get anything about Father Graf that raises a flag. Unusual habits, arguments, visitors, you know what to ask.”

There was a pause. “Sure, sure,” came Hinesburg’s distracted reply. Heat regretted not sending Detective Ochoa like she’d planned. Lesson learned. She made a decision to stop by personally to conduct her own interview of the housekeeper.

Traffic was miserable all over the city. More people in more cars was a reliable by-product of any sort of weather, especially a bitter cold morning dipping to single digits with a swirling wind. It also made parking a challenge. The “Sorry Full” signs were out at all the NYU Med Center garages adjacent to the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner. On her cruise up First Avenue Detective Heat could see even the courtesy spots at the entrances were already taken by other cop cars. At 34th she circled back to her secret weapon, the fenced-in Bellevue Hospital lot sandwiched under the FDR. It meant a block’s walk in the arctic blast, but it was her only choice other than circling. The lot manager was too snug in his kiosk to step out when he saw her pull up. All she saw was fingers through his frosted window waving her in.

Before she got out of her car, Heat stared at her smart phone. She scrolled through e-mails again. No, she hadn’t gotten one from Rook and missed it. Once more, she told herself, only once more. Heat pushed send/receive and watched the icon swirl. When it was done all it said was that she was still in emotional limbo.

By the time Nikki ascended the short flight of steps into the OCME lobby, she had no feeling in her cheeks and her nose was a faucet. Behind the reception desk, Danielle gave Heat her usual sunny hello and buzzed her through the security door. When she entered the small squad room the NYPD maintained for visiting cops, three of the four cubicles were occupied by detectives speaking on phones. They had the thermostat cranked and Heat shed her overcoat. She looked at the parka mound on the back of one of the chairs and had opted for a hanger on the empty coat tree when her cell vibrated.

The number on the ID wasn’t familiar, but the prefix was. The call was coming from One Police Plaza. In his text, Montrose had said he was at HQ. Nikki didn’t want to get into it with him while sharing such close quarters with her brother officers but figured she would at least make contact and set up their next call. “Heat,” she said.

“Is this the famous Nikki Heat?” She didn’t know his voice, but it was all smiles and, for her taste, overblown for an opening line from a stranger.

She adopted the neutral tone she used on telemarketers. “This is Detective Heat.”

“Not for long, I hear,” said the caller. “Detective, it’s Zach Hamner, Senior Administrative Aide here in Legal. I’m calling to personally congratulate you on your lieutenant’s test.”

“Oh.” She wanted to step out into the hall, but in deference to the grieving families and her own sense of decorum, Nikki maintained a strict personal policy against using her cell phone in the public areas of that building. So Heat sat in the empty chair and hunched into the cubicle, knowing it didn’t afford much privacy. “Thank you. Sorry, but you caught me a little off guard here.”

“Not a problem. You not only scored well, Detective, but I see that your record is outstanding. We need good cops like you to rise in the department.”

She cupped her hand around the mouthpiece. “Again, Mr. Hamner — ”

“Zach.”

“ — Zach — I appreciate the kind words.”

“Like I said, not a problem. Listen, the reason for the call is that I want to make sure you drop by and say hello when you come downtown to sign for your copy of the results.”

“Um, sure,” she said and then had a thought. “That’s at Personnel. You’re not from Personnel, though, are you?”

“Oh, hell, no. I’m upstairs with the Deputy Commissioner of Legal Matters. Trust me, it all goes through my desk, anyway,” he said with an air of self-importance. “When can I expect to see you?”

“Well, I’m at the ME’s now. I’m on a case.”

“Right,” he said, “the priest.” The way he said it pinged Nikki with the strong impression Zach Hamner liked to show off his knowledge of everything. The guy with all the answers. The quintessential Essential Man. What did he want from her?

She mentally rolled through her schedule. Autopsy... Montrose, hopefully... squad meeting... the rectory... “How’s tomorrow?”

“I was hoping for today.” He paused, and when she didn’t reply to that, he continued, “I’ve got a full load tomorrow. Let’s meet early. Breakfast. You can sign docs after.” Feeling more than a little steamrolled, Heat agreed. He gave her the name of a deli on Lafayette, said he’d meet her at seven, and hung up after one more congrats.

“Any word from the world traveler?” asked Lauren Parry. She looked up at her friend from her computer in the dictation office adjacent to the autopsy room. The ME wore the regulation protective moon suit, and, as usual, it was decorated with flecks of blood and fluid. She read Nikki’s reaction and picked up her plexi-shield mask off the chair beside her. “Sit?”

“I’m good.” Heat, who had just put on the clean coveralls issued to visitors, leaned against the back wall of the narrow anteroom and stared through the glass at the tables lined up in front of her. The near one, Mat #8, held the sheeted body of Father Gerald Graf.

“Liar,” said her BFF. “If that’s what good looks like, never show me bad.”

Nikki returned her gaze to Lauren. “OK, let me amend that to say, I will be good. I guess.”

“You’re scaring me, Nikki.”

“All right, all right, then...” Heat filled Lauren in on her morning surprise: Rook’s triumphant return to Gotham to celebrate the completion of his assignment — a celebration that he had not included her in — and to add insult to injury, he still hadn’t even called to say he was back.

“Ouch.” Lauren’s brow furrowed. “What do you think that’s about? You don’t think he...” She stopped herself and shook her head.

“What?” said Nikki. “Hooked up with someone else? You can say it. Don’t you think I’ve already wondered that?” Nikki cleared away some dark thoughts. “Left long enough, you imagine all sorts of things, Laur. And then a month later you open the newspaper and see them come true.” She came off the wall and stood straight. “Enough. He’s back. We’ll sort it all out.” Her doubt was unspoken but loud. “Happy for you and Ochoa, though.”

That brought Lauren up short. And then she smiled. Of course there was no hiding her romance from Nikki. “Yeah, it’s good with me and Miguel.”

As they both walked to the door, Nikki said, “I could learn to hate you, you know.”

Two other medical examiners had customers on the first and third tables and, as Nikki entered the autopsy room, she silently repeated the mantra she had learned from Lauren on her rookie visit years ago. “Breathe through your mouth, it’ll trick your brain.” And, as always, Heat thought, almost... but not quite.

“A few hard-and-fast findings and then a few anomalies to show you,” said ME Parry as they approached Graf’s body.

“Time of death window turns out to be as thought. Eight to ten. I’d call it closer to the late end of that.”

“TOD could be nine-thirty?”

“Ish.” She curled the page around the top of her clipboard, exposing supine and prone templates of a human body on which she had made notations. “Marks and indicators. Already covered the eyeballs, the neck, here and here.” She indicated each with her pen as she shared with Heat. “Multiple abrasions and contusions. Painful but none fatal. No broken bones. All pretty much consistent with the B and D experience.”

Nikki was starting to think this may have been a session gone wild, after all, but kept her mind open.

“Three little discoveries worth testing for any significance,” said the ME. She led Heat across the room to one of the storage cabinets. She slid the glass door aside and took one of the blue cardboard evidence buckets off the shelf. Nikki remembered how, after his first visit, Rook saw one and said he’d never buy a bucket of chicken again. Lauren took a small plastic vial out of the bucket with “GRAF” on the bar code and gave it to Nikki. “See that speck?”

The detective held it up to the light. In the bottom of the container was a dark spot about the size of a bacon bit. “Found that under a fingernail,” Parry continued. “Under a microscope it looks like a piece of leather, but it doesn’t match the leather on the wrist restraints or the posture collar.” She returned it to the bucket. “Gonna lab that puppy.”

She then walked Nikki down to the dehumidifying closet where they placed victims’ clothes to dry, to preserve DNA for testing. Sheets of brown paper separated bloodstained clothes that hung there from numerous victims. At the nearest end, Heat could see Graf’s black clothing and his white Roman collar. “Funny thing about that collar. There’s a tiny bloody smear on it. Odd, considering that for all the abrasions on him, no skin was broken above his shoulders or on his hands.”

“Right,” said Nikki considering the possibilities. “That could be blood from an assailant, or killer.”

“Or dom or domme, who knows yet?” Lauren was right. It could have been from foul play but just as easily from a practitioner with a cut from the torture session who stashed the clothes and ran in panic. “We’ll also ship that down to Twenty-sixth Street for DNA testing.”

Next Lauren called in one of the orderlies, who helped her roll the priest’s body on its side, exposing his back. It was a thatch-work of whip welts and bruises, the sight of which caused Nikki to draw a deep breath through her nose, which she immediately regretted. She held it together, though, and leaned close when the ME pointed to a geometric bruise pattern on the small of his back. “One of these contusions is not like the others,” said Lauren. Her eye for those details had helped Heat on numerous cases. Most recently, by spotting the marks left by a ring worn by a Russian thug who killed a famous real estate developer. This lower-back bruise was about two inches long, rectangular, and with evenly spaced horizontal lines.

“Looks like a mark made by a small ladder,” said Heat.

“I took some stills that I’ll e-mail you with my report.” Parry nodded to the orderly, who gently returned Graf to lie faceup and then left the room.

“Sweet anomalies,” said Nikki.

“Not done yet, Detective.” Lauren picked up her clipboard again. “Now, cause of death. I’m going with asphyxia by strangulation.”

“You hesitated this morning, though,” Nikki reminded her.

“Right. The signs were there, as I told you. The obvious being the circumstances, the leather collar, eyeball hemorrhaging, and so on. But I balked because I saw other indicators that could mean acute myocardial infarction.”

Heat said, “The bluish color I saw near his fingertips and on his nose?”

“Excuse me, who’s the ME here?”

“I get the significance, though. A heart attack could eliminate homicidal intent.”

“Well, guess what? He did have a heart attack. Turns out it wasn’t fatal, he was choked before it could be, but it was a hell of a footrace to see which would kill him first.”

Heat looked at the sheeted corpse. “You did say you smelled cigarettes and alcohol.”

“And his organs proved all that. But.” She gave Nikki a look of significance and raised the sheet. “Take a look at these burns on his skin. These are electrical burns. Probably from a TENS,” said Lauren, referring to a transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulator, a portable electrical generator used in torture play.

“I’ve seen TENS,” said Nikki. “I came across them in Vice.”

“Then you also know they warn against ever using it near the chest.” She lowered the sheet to expose Graf’s torso, where the electrical burns were intense, especially near his heart. “Looks to me like someone wanted to put a big hurt on him.”

“The question,” said Nikki, “is why?”

They rode up together to the first floor. Heat said, “Got a question for you. You ever seen anything like that before?”

“TENS burns as severe as those? Not like that.” As they reached the door to the NYPD office, Lauren said, “Know who I hear had some? That actor’s kid who was always in trouble and got killed in ’04 or ’05.”

“Gene Huddleston, Jr.?” said Nikki.

“Yeah, him.”

“But he was shot to death. Some drug deal, right?”

Lauren said, “Right. It happened before I started here, but conversation was that he also had TENS burns all over. He was one wild kid. They figured it was part of his freak.”

The NYPD office was empty. Nikki got her coat off the hook, but before she left, sat down at one of the computers. She logged on to the department server and requested a digital copy of the case file for Gene Huddleston, Jr.

As Nikki made her way through the vestibule to the precinct lobby, a woman standing near the blue velvet rope that cordoned off the wall of honor roll photos and plaques took a step into her path. “Excuse me, Detective Heat?”

“That’s me.” The detective stopped but made a quick check of the woman’s rising hand. Someone had decided it was open season on cops this year, even in police stations, and Heat’s natural caution kicked in. But all the woman held was a business card. It read, “Tam Svejda, Metro Reporter, New York Ledger.”

“I was wondering if I could have a few moments to ask you a couple of questions.”

Heat returned the reporter’s smile politely but said, “Look, I’m sorry, Ms....” She looked at the card again. Nikki had seen her name in the byline but wasn’t sure how to pronounce it.

“Shfay-dah,” came the assist. “My dad’s Czech. Don’t feel bad, it stops everybody in their tracks. Go with Tam.” She gave Nikki a warm grin, revealing a perfect row of gleaming teeth. In fact, her whole look was one-off supermodel: highlighted blonde with a great cut, wide green eyes that showed intelligence and a hint of mischief, young enough to get away without much makeup — probably not yet thirty, tall and slender. It was a look you’d associate more with a TV reporter than the pencil press.

“Good. All right, Tam works,” said Nikki. “But I’m just here for a minute and then I’m on my way out of here. I’m really sorry.” She took a step toward the inner doors, but Tam moved with her. She was taking out her reporter’s notebook. A spiral Ampad, same as Heat used.

“A minute will do nicely, then I won’t keep you. Are you classifying Father Graf’s death murder or accidental?”

“Well, I can keep this short for you, Ms. Svejda,” she said with flawless pronunciation. “It’s too early in our investigation to comment on any of that yet.”

The reporter looked up from her notes. “A sensational murder — a parish priest gets tortured and killed in a bondage dungeon — and you really want me to go with just that? A stock ‘no comment?’ ”

“What you print is up to you. This is a young investigation. I promise when we have something to share, we will.” Like any good interrogator, Heat found herself gaining information even when she was the one being questioned. And what she was learning from Tam Svejda’s interest in the Graf case was that Nikki wasn’t the only one who felt something more than just another homicide was going on.

The reporter said, “Got ya,” but without missing a beat added, “Now, what can you tell me about Captain Montrose?” Heat studied her, knowing even her next “no comment” had to be carefully delivered. Tam Svejda would be writing this, not she, and Nikki didn’t want to inspire some reporter-ese about circled wagons or tight-lipped cops. At last Svejda said, “If this is uncomfortable we can go off the record. I’m just hearing a lot of not so flattering things, and if you can steer me in my investigation, you could be doing him some good.... If the rumors are untrue.”

Detective Heat chose her words. “You really don’t think I’d dignify rumors, do you? I think the most productive thing I can do is to go in there and get back to my job working Father Graf so I can get you some solid information. Fair enough, Tam?”

The reporter nodded and put her notebook away. “I must say, Detective, Jamie did you justice.” When Nikki furrowed her brow, she explained, “In your cover story, I mean. Meeting you, seeing how you handle yourself. Rook sure got you right. That’s why Jamie gets the covers and the Pulitzers.”

“Yeah, he’s good.” Jamie, thought Nikki. She called him Jamie.

“Did you see his picture in our morning edition with that piece of work, Jeanne Callow? That bad boy sure gets around, doesn’t he?”

Nikki closed her eyes a moment and wished Tam Svejda would be gone — poof! — when she opened them. But she wasn’t. “I’m running late, Tam.”

“Oh, you go ahead. And say hi to Jamie. If you talk to him, I mean.”

Heat had a distinct feeling she had more in common with Tam Svejda than a reporter’s notebook. Quite possibly it was a reporter.

When Detective Heat got back to the bull pen, Captain Montrose was slouched in his office chair with the door closed, his back to the squad, staring out his window down to West 82nd Street. He might have seen her drive into the precinct lot below him, but if he did, he made no move to greet or look for her. Nikki made a quick scan of the While You Were Outs on her blotter, saw nothing that couldn’t wait, and felt her heart race as she walked to his door. When he heard her knock on the glass, he beckoned her in without turning. Heat closed the door behind her and stood looking at the back of his head. After five eternal seconds he sat upright and swiveled in his chair to face her, as if willing himself out of some trance and down to business.

“You’ve had quite a day already, I hear,” he said.

“Action-packed, Skip.” He gestured to the visitor chair and she sat.

“Wanna trade? I spent my morning wearing the dunce cap at the Puzzle Palace,” he said, using the less-than-flattering cop slang for One Police Plaza. And then he shook his head. “Sorry. I promised I wouldn’t complain, but it’s got to come out somewhere.”

Nikki’s gaze went to the windowsill and the framed photo of him and Pauletta. That was when she realized Montrose hadn’t been staring out the window but at the picture. It had been almost a year since a drunk driver killed her in a crosswalk. The pain of his loss was borne stoically, but the toll was written on his face. Suddenly Nikki wished she hadn’t initiated this meeting. But she already had.

“You called about something?”

“Yes, about the priest, Father Graf.” She studied him, but he was passive. “I’m working the BDSM angle first.”

“Makes perfect sense.” Still just listening.

“And there are indications of a search at his rectory and an item or items missing.” She regarded him more closely, but he gave nothing back. “I have Hinesburg up there on it.”

“Hinesburg?” At last a reaction.

“I know, I know, long story. I’ll do my own follow-up to backstop her.”

“Nikki, you’re the best I’ve ever seen at this. Better than me, and that’s, well, that’s pretty damn good. Word’s around you might be getting yourself a gold bar soon, and I can’t think of anyone more deserving. I gave my recommendation, which might not be your best calling card the way things are going.”

“Thank you, Captain, that means a lot.”

“So what did you need to talk to me about?”

Heat tried to toss it aside and sound casual. “Just touching base on something, actually. When I went to the rectory this morning to confirm ID on the vic, the housekeeper said you had been there last night.”

“That’s correct.” He rocked slightly in his executive chair but held her look. Heat could see the smallest flash of steel in his eyes and felt her resolve crumbling. She knew if she uttered the question she wanted to ask, it would start something in motion she would never be able to call back. “And?” he said.

Free fall. Nikki was in absolute free fall. What was she going to say? That with all his erratic behavior, the rumors about Internal Affairs — and now pressure from the media — she wanted to make him justify himself? Heat was one question away from treating him like a suspect. She had thought through everything about this meeting except one thing: her unwillingness to spoil a relationship over rumor and appearances. “And I just wanted to ask for your take. And see if you learned anything while you were there.”

Did he know she was BS-ing? Nikki couldn’t tell. She just wanted out of there.

“No, nothing useful,” said the captain. “I want you to pursue the line you’re on, the bondage thing.” And then, signaling that he knew exactly why she was asking, he added, “You know, Nikki, it might seem unusual for me, a precinct commander, to personally respond to an MPR. But as you’ll soon learn if you get your promotion, the job becomes less about the street and more about appearances and gestures. You ignore that at your peril. So. A high-profile member of my precinct, a church pastor, goes missing, what am I going to do? Sure not going to send Hinesburg, am I?”

“Of course not.” And then she noticed him playing with the Band-Aid on his knuckle. “You’re bleeding.”

“This? It’s fine. Penny bit me this morning while I was combing out a mat in her paw.” He stood and said, “That’s the way it’s been going for me, Nikki Heat. My own dog turned on me.”

The walk back to her desk made Heat feel like she was underwater in lead shoes. She had come within a whisper of destroying a relationship with her mentor, and only his orchestration of the awkward meeting kept her from doing that. Mistakes were only human, but Nikki was all about not being the one to make mistakes. Anger filled her for allowing herself to be distracted by gossip, and she resolved to focus on getting back to doing what she did, solid police work, and to avoid getting swept up in the sharp blades of the rumor mill.

On her monitor an icon flashed, alerting her that the case file she had requested from Archives had arrived. Not so long ago a requisition like that would have taken at least a day, or a personal visit to expedite delivery. Thanks to the department’s computerization of all records, as spearheaded by Deputy Commissioner Yarborough, who’d brought the NYPD technology up to this century, Detective Heat now had the PDF of the 2004 investigation mere minutes after putting in for it.

She opened the file detailing the murder of Gene Huddleston, Jr., errant son of an Oscar-winning national treasure whose only child descended from wealth and privilege in a tragic spiral into a life of alcoholism, got kicked out of two colleges for sex scandals and drug abuse, then graduated to dealing and, finally, violent death. First she scanned for any photographs of the TENS burns Lauren Parry had mentioned, but found none on her first pass. Out of habit, she clicked on the roster page listing the investigators on the case to see if she knew any of them. Then she saw the name of the lead detective and felt a flutter in her diaphragm.

Heat slumped back in her chair and just stared at the screen.