Deadly Heat

“Something very new for you,” she said as she took a sip of her Burgundy.

“Come on, Nik, now that you’ve seen that French doctor with your mom in those old

pictures, isn’t one investigative bone in that body of yours aching to find the

connection?”

“Well. I have been thinking the same thing.”

“Covertly?”

“Shut up.”

“A moment, while I savor this rare tit-for-tat victory.” He closed his eyes,

smiled, then opened them. “OK. Here’s what I want to do. I want to show up at that

Paris hospital, surprise Dr. McFrenchie, and see what he knows about Tyler Wynn,

then and now.”

Nikki sat upright and rested her glass on the coaster. “You know, I’m hating this

less.”

“So you do see the logic of going?” he asked. When she said she did, he pressed

it. “And you’ll come?”

“Get real, Rook. I can’t get away.”

“Not even for a working trip?”

She smoothed his collar then left her hand draped on his chest. “May I point out I

have plenty of loose ends I’m working right here, including a fresh trail to Salena

Kaye? Not to mention a little thing that’s come up called a serial homicide.”

“It’s always something,” he said, kidding, but only sort of.

Nikki nodded to herself, reaching a decision. “You go. But answer this: Are you

trying to help me solve the case, or gather more material for your next article?”

Rook said, “That hurts.” He stared out the window into the New York night, then

said, “But I’ll forgive you if we can have make-up sex.”




Nikki Heat called her team in for an early start. When the detectives rolled in at 6

A.M., she positioned her computer screen so she could peek at their reactions as

each discovered a coffee waiting on his or her desk labeled “Nikki” in grease

pencil. “You’d better laugh,” she said over their chuckles. “This prank cost me

twenty dollars.”

Her cell phone vibed. Rook, texting that he was about to go through TSA screening

for his flight to Paris, and before he jetted off, he wanted to let her know how

much he enjoyed his wake-up service. Heat had slept deeply after their make-up sex,

descending into sweet oblivion folded into his arms. She awoke because of the

morning-after soreness from her jujitsu round with Salena Kaye. Since he’d planned

to get up at four to make his plane, she decided to be his alarm clock and slid

under the sheets. Nikki texted back that she looked forward to his next layover and

walked to the front of the squad room, but slowly enough to lose the smirk.

She’d rolled two Murder Boards side by side: one for Roy Conklin and a new one, for

Maxine Berkowitz. She briefed the detectives who hadn’t been on-scene at Riverside

Park on the bullet points of the TV reporter’s death. When Ochoa asked about

boyfriend troubles, Nikki shared about the bad breakup with the news director and

assigned him to check out George Putnam’s alibi. “Check his wife’s whereabouts,

too,” said Heat, just in case there was a volatile side of that triangle. “But

tread lightly. Let’s not rule anything out, but this feels like more than a jealous

payback.”

That brought her to the connection between the two murders. “We have a unique

telltale that indicates a serial killer.” She posted blowups of CSU photos of the

string found at each crime scene and then picked up her notes. “Forensics burned

some midnight oil to get us some data this morning. Both the red and the yellow

string are made from a braided polyester widely used for everything from hobbies and

crafts, to jewelry making, to yo-yo strings and something called kendama.”

Randall Feller raised a finger for attention and said, “That’s a Japanese game

that uses a wooden spindle with a cup at one end that you use to catch a wooden ball

attached to it by a string.” He paused only briefly and added, “Don’t ask.”