She hung up, bit the bullet, and dialed Joe Flynn at his Quantum Recovery
office. While the phone rang, she Googled the Cezanne and got multiple hits, most
two-year-old news items about its theft. “I’m sorry, Mr. Flynn’s out of the
office,” said his assistant. “Would you like to leave a voice mail?”
After the beep, Nikki left word for him to call. Then she checked her notes for his
cell number and left a message there, too. When she hung up, she chided herself for
not calling him earlier; she could have saved half a day chasing down the painting.
It’s what happened, she thought, when she let her personal feelings interfere with
an investigation. Heat vowed not to let that happen again.
That reaffirmation met a challenge sooner than she’d thought. “Nikki Heat. It’s
your number one fan,” said the caller. At the sound of his voice, her guard went up
and she cleared everything else from her mind. Zach “The Hammer” Hamner, senior
administrative aide to the NYPD’s deputy commissioner for legal matters, never made
contact unless he wanted something. And when the man Rook had dubbed the unholy
spawn of Rahm Emanuel and Gordon Gekko wanted something, “no” came at your own
risk.
“Glad to know my name’s still alive at One Police Plaza,” she said, keeping her
side light; feeling anything but.
“Oh, you know it is,” he said cheerfully. Guess Zach could keep the weasel out of
his voice as well as Nikki could keep the dread out of hers. “Got your hands full,
I know. We’re all glad it’s you on point with this serial killer. That’s from the
Commish on down.” Zach knew the value of rank dropping.
“We’ll get him.”
“If anyone can, Heat, it’s you. Now…” His pause must have lasted five seconds, a
deliberate technique to suck in her attention. Superfluous. He had it. “Been
getting calls from Greer Baxter over at Channel 3. Media requests usually kick over
to Public Information, but Baxter has a relationship with this office, so here I am.
You know what this is about.”
“I do, Zach. But you must know what it’s like running a case like this. If you’re
doing the investigation properly, the last thing you have time for is media.”
“Which is why we’re seeing fucking Wally Irons’s face on every screen. Listen to
me while I count fingers. One: Greer Baxter is a friend of the commissioner. Two:
Her newsroom lost one of its own to this creep. Three…” He worked another pause.
Heat knew what was coming before he said it. “You owe me this.”
Nikki sank deeper in a quicksand of gloom. Earlier that year Hamner had championed
her to become a captain and the precinct commander of the Twentieth, only to have
her embarrass him by publicly rejecting the promotion at the last moment. And just
within the past month, she had come back to him for a favor when Captain Irons gave
her an unfair medical suspension, citing a phantom concern for her mental state
following a shooting. The Hammer got her badge back but warned her his bill would
come due.
Today was payday.
“I’ll bring you out to Greer’s set in two minutes, Detective,” said the stage
manager, who then left the small room backstage at WHNY. Rook moved over to stand
behind Nikki’s makeup chair. The mirror framed them both. One of them looked
unhappy.
“For somebody who wanted to be an actress once upon a time, I’d think you’d be
enjoying this,” he said. “People rushing in saying, ‘Two minutes, Detective,’ ‘
Bottle of water, Detective?’ ”
“Touch up your makeup, Detective?” asked the woman who appeared at the door.
“See?” said Rook. “Magical.”
“Thanks, I’m still good.”
The makeup artist left. Rook asked, “You sure? Almost a million people watch this
newscast.”
Nikki said, “I just want to get this over with. I don’t care how I look.”
“Mm, OK…”
“What?”