“Here’s our man!” called Captain Irons across the triage area. She turned
as Wally breezed in along with Detective Hinesburg. As her precinct commander
approached, Heat could see he not only had on a freshly pressed uniform shirt but
wore a dusting of makeup on his porcine face. Like a moth to light, Irons had found
the media and arrived ready for his close-up.
After a round of handshakes, back-claps, and a rousing “Glen, way to stay alive,”
the Iron Man asked Windsor if he would mind stepping out along with him to meet the
press. The locksmith cast an anxious look at Heat, but the captain said, “Don’t be
nervous. You don’t have to say anything, just stand with me, I’ll do all the
talking.”
Heat drew her boss aside. “Cap, I really think this is a bad idea. We don’t want
to spike the ball in the killer’s face, do we? And I think the less that’s public,
the better.”
“That’s what you always think,” said Sharon Hinesburg, inviting herself into the
conversation. “Our skipper’s taking a lot of shit. I say give him a chance to have
a moment of victory.”
“What victory, Captain?” said Heat, putting her back to Hinesburg. “He’s still
out there.”
“Appreciate your input, Detective. But I am going to step up and let New Yorkers
know the Twentieth Precinct is on top of this and saved a life. Excuse us.” He left
for the main entrance and the news cameras, his arm on the shoulder of Glen Windsor.
As they stepped out the sliding glass doors, Detective Hinesburg turned to look back
at Heat and winked.
Rook asked Nikki if she was ready to go. But she paused, struck by the recollection
that, in this very emergency room, John Lennon had been declared DOA. Heat moved on,
busy making other plans.
She came home that night to find Rook sound asleep on her couch and No Reservations
blasting on the Travel Channel. He startled awake when she muted Anthony Bourdain’s
tetchy pub crawl through Ireland’s politically charged saloons. Rook sat up and
massaged his eye sockets with the heels of his hands. The jet lag, he explained, had
crept up and walloped him. And with that, he served a natural segue to his French
adventure. Nikki didn’t seize it.
The awkwardness of dancing around the subject seemed less daunting—and less work—
to her than confronting it. Besides, why dance when you can distract? She began a
monologue about work. “Randall Feller texted from the locksmith’s shop,” she
said, putting her backup piece, a Beretta 950 Jetfire, in its cubby on the living
room desk. “They located the matching lock for the mystery key in his storeroom, so
that’s that, as far as some potential vic being caged in a room somewhere.” She
moved to the kitchen and called from behind the open fridge door, “Forensics came
up zip, no usable prints. Nothing in the store, or on the doorknob on the roof, or
on the little piece of paper. And get this. In addition to locks, Glen also installs
security systems. You think he had even one security cam in his own place? God. He’
s like the cobbler whose kids go shoeless. I’m having a beer, you want a beer?”
She didn’t get an answer, so she closed the refrigerator. And found him standing on
the other side of the door. Waiting.
“This isn’t going to go away,” he said.
Nikki considered that a moment. She opened the fridge and got him a Widmer’s to go
with hers, then they headed back to the couch.
“Answer me this,” she said when they sat down. Each tucked a leg under so they
could face each other.
“What have I started here?” He chuckled. “Am I going to get interrogated by The
Great Interrogator?”
“Your meeting, Rook. What were you hoping for?”
“To clear the air. So I can allay this irrational—totally irrational—jealous vibe
I’m getting from you about Yardley Bell. Jesus, I went to France to help you. Why
do I feel like I did something wrong?”
“My question—if I may ask it now—is how did Yardley Bell know you were there? And
don’t tell me it was coincidence. Did using your passport light up her Homeland
Security grid, and she followed you across the Atlantic?”
“She suggested we go.”
Nikki rocked backward in astonishment. “Oh. Right. Air cleared. Jealousy allayed.
Boy, how irrational could I be?”