Minutes later, back in the news director’s office, George Putnam came around his
desk and closed his door. “Coolio told you this?” Heat nodded. He flopped into his
executive swivel and rocked back with an exhale, deep in painful thought. Then he
came forward, resting rolled-up shirtsleeves on his desk and presenting his block of
a freckled face to them. “It’s true. Max and I had an affair. It started years ago
when I began coaching her for her new role.”
“As your mistress?” asked Rook.
“As the best damned consumer advocate in TV,” he said. “I had this notion that
people could sleep together and still work together.” Both Heat and Rook kept eyes
front. “I was wrong. I knew too much. Running this newsroom, I had to keep secrets
from her. She’d find out, of course, when I’d send a memo to the staff about a
change, and she’d get all bent about not being told first. It ate us up.” Nikki
let the silence do the work. Putnam filled it. “I broke it off a year ago. It ended
ugly. But that affair was ancient history. I mean, when a romance is over, it’s
over. Right?”
Rook turned immediately to Nikki and said, “Yes… Absolutely.”
Heat said, “Mr. Putnam, I’d like your whereabouts midday today, please.” But even
as Heat jotted down his statement, she knew it wasn’t him and that getting Putnam’
s alibi was just a formality.
The real killer was somewhere out there.
Rook made their dinner that night in his loft while they drank unfiltered hefeweizen
and Nikki watched across the kitchen counter after her bath. “What magic’s
happening in that oven of yours, Mr. Jameson?” she said. “Loving the garlic and
fresh thyme.”
“It’s Good Eats Forty Cloves and a Chicken.” Then Rook held up the cookbook and
said, “How weird is this? Alton Brown calls this the perfect make-ahead meal for
those pesky serial-homicide weeks, or when you’ve had a long day chasing Naughty
Nurses.”
While they ate, they watched News 3 @ 10. Of course, the lead story was the
strangulation murder of their consumer advocate, Maxine Berkowitz. Greer Baxter’s
stoic reading was offset by video of WHNY staffers in tears and a live shot from
72nd and Riverside Drive, where the field reporter, standing before a makeshift
curbside memorial of candles and flowers, showed the crime scene, which police had
cordoned off waiting for a daylight evidence search. The reporter said, “NYPD
Captain Wallace Irons is with me. He is commander of the Twentieth Precinct.”
“He’s also the shortest distance between a body bag and a TV camera,” heckled
Rook as Wally stepped into the bright lights beside the reporter.