“Hang on,” said Irons. “We already got a signed confession, why you going in there?”
She held up Spooner’s file. “Captain, with all due respect, everything in his confession is public knowledge. Every detail has appeared in magazine articles like Rook’s one about me, news reports, news leaks …” Nikki managed not to look at Hinesburg, whom she was certain had also sourced the numerous follow-up stories to her first leak. The latest reports had even given away critical media hold backs, such as the railroad grime on Nicole’s clothing and the matching precision stab wounds in the backs of her mother and Bernardin.
Irons waved both palms at her. “Whoa, let’s get to this flat out, Detective. Published or not, this guy confessed to it all. And you should be happy ‘cause it takes your dad off the list. So what’s on your mind, going in there? Is it our job to get the guilty off, or to get them off the street?”
“It’s our job to get the truth. And that is precisely what I have in mind. Because if this man is lying to get his moment of fame, or whatever, the killer is still out there. Now let me do my job. Because if you arrested the wrong guy, would you rather find out now or when the DA throws your case out at a press conference?”
Nikki loved watching Wally’s eyes widen at that notion. “OK, Heat. You’ve got one shot. Take it. I’ll be watching.”
Hank Norman Spooner’s eyes lit up when Detective Heat entered the airlock door into the interrogation room. A smile that felt a little too grand to Nikki greeted her as she took her seat across the table from him. She said nothing, just let first impressions enter, unfiltered. These always proved valuable, and to absorb them, she shut out everything else: the stakes of the case; the upheaval of the week-plus since the freezer truck; the audience of Irons and others behind the mirror. For Nikki Heat, it always came back to Beginner’s Eyes.
He hadn’t shaved but still managed to appear clean-cut. His sheet put him at forty-two, but she would have subtracted seven years. Attribute that to the slight build and the boyish face. And the hair. Neatly trimmed and parted, it was red. Not red in the bright sense but softer. Auburn. The day’s growth of whiskers had a blonder hue, making them disappear on his cheeks which, she noticed, had begun to blush as she studied him. And he still smiled that too-friendly, too-familiar grin. His teeth had some yellow in them, and he knew it, judging by the way he kept his upper lip. His hands were folded on his lap under the table, so they would have to be read later. To Nikki, hands were the best tells, second only to the eyes. His stayed on her, expressing what she could only call bliss. And the eye contact was good. Like the smile, too good. Her beginner’s impression got borne out by his opening sentence.
“I can’t believe I’m meeting the real Nikki Heat.”
Hank Spooner was a fan.
She decided not to acknowledge that and maintained a clinical distance, turning her attention down to his file. The fan card could be played later, if needed. What she wanted right then was to listen and to learn. If this was indeed the killer, Nikki wanted to pick up the bits of information that would tell her that. If he wasn’t, she needed to pay attention for the inconsistencies to get to that, too. Heat did what she did in every interview: set aside her bias and paid attention.
“I have some clarifications I need regarding your statement.”
“You got it.”
“But first, I want to understand your background.”
“Name it, Detective.”
“You had some trouble on one of your jobs as a security guard.”
“It was really a misunderstanding.” His manacles clanked as he brought his hands up to gesture. She wasn’t surprised to see that his nails were immaculate, and his slender fingers were clean and lightly freckled like the skin under his eyes.