Deadly Heat

Ochoa, who was standing at the oven, said, “Detective?” Heat stood and

followed the beam of his flashlight. In the back corner of the oven, where it had

been blocked from view by the body, sat a folded coat. Just like the badge and

lanyard, it showed no signs of scorching. Detective Ochoa used a long-handled pizza

paddle to shovel it up. When he slid it forward to them, nobody spoke. They just

stared at the coat and what was on top of it: a neat coil of red string and a dead

rat.

Detective Feller had completed his interviews with the cook and the busboy by the

time Heat, Rook, Raley, and Ochoa emerged from the kitchen. “Their stories square

up,” he reported. “They served their last pies at midnight, tore down, closed up

at one A.M., came back at nine, and found the vic.” He flipped through pages of

notes. “No unusual activity in the days prior, no sign of burglary or forced entry.

They do have a closed-circuit camera system, but it died last week. No beefs with

customers or vendors. As for the health inspector, Conklin’s name or photo didn’t

ring a bell with either one. I held back the info about where you found the ID, of

course, but when I asked, generally, if they touched or tampered with the body, it

was a double no.”

Heat said, “Soon as we rustle up some better head shots from family or DHMH, have

them take a look. Meanwhile, go ahead and kick them loose.”

Determining exact time and cause of death would be tricky, since a baked corpse

corrupted cellular structures and body temps. So while Heat left her BFF the medical

examiner to take the body to 30th Street for its postmortem, she plotted the

immediate moves for her crew. Ochoa would deploy a team of uniformed officers to

canvass the neighborhood with cell-capture copies of Conklin’s ID photo. Once the

unis got launched, Ochoa would go to Conklin’s home to notify family and see what

could be learned there. Raley would do his usual spot check for area security

cameras that might have caught something. Heat put Detective Feller on a trip to the

Health Department to get the victim’s employment records and to interview his

supervisor about his case work and office relationships. As for Rook, he offered to

be an extra brain at the squad briefing, and Nikki couldn’t resist saying, “You

flatter yourself, but sure.”

When the two of them stepped out of Domingo’s Famous, Rook wagged his head in

disdain at the gathering of onlookers behind the yellow tape. “You know, Nikki, I

can’t get over the looky-loos who hang out for whatever macabre thrill they get out

of watching a body bag loaded into a van. More like looky-loozahs.”

A voice called out from the crowd. “Jameson? Jameson Rook?” They stopped. “Here,

over here!” The waving arm belonged to a big-haired young woman in black leather

pants and what could charitably be described as fuck-me heels. She pushed to the

front of the rubberneckers and pressed the fullness of her leopard-print vest

against the yellow tape. “Could I get a picture with you?… Please?”

Sheepish, Rook muttered to Nikki, “It occurs to me that, after my Times Square

thing, I may have Tweeted that this is where I was going…”

“Make it quick.” And as Rook headed over to the woman, Nikki added, “You do know

this is why Matt Lauer Purells.”

Heat waited in the undercover car while Rook posed with not just the one fan, but

each of three additional babes who materialized from the crowd. At least he wasn’t

signing their breasts this time.

She made a quick e-mail check. “Yesss,” she said aloud to the empty car when she

saw one from a private investigator she’d been waiting to hear back from. “You

about done?” she said as Rook got in the passenger seat.

“The photo was just the beginning. She wanted me to Tweet the picture myself and

add hashtag-ruggedlyhandsome.” He put his head back on the headrest and said,

“Apparently, I’m trending as we speak.”

Nikki started the car. “Remember Joe Flynn?”

Rook sat upright. “That PI. The one who has the hots for you?—No.”

“Well, that PI did me a favor and dug through his archives and found some old

surveillance photos of my mom. He wants to have lunch.”