“Tell me.”
“Rook’s been hounding me. Insisting on dragging me back over old family issues to investigate my mom’s mur—” Neither of them needed the end of that sentence to fathom the potential significance of what she was revealing. Nikki panicked. She saw herself imprisoned in Therapy World for eternity with no time off for good behavior and immediately tried to buy it back. “But you know,” she said, “people quarrel in relationships. If it’s not one thing it’s another, right?”
“Yet, this was one thing. And not another.”
As the silence crushed her, the therapist waited. And waited.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“I can’t answer that. All I can do is ask, who were you truly angry with? And, who would be most hurt if you had slept with Don?” He smiled and then looked at the clock behind her. “We’re at the end of our time.”
“Already?” As he picked up her papers and slid them in a file, she said, “So?”
“All these years, all these sessions, it always ends with a cop asking, ‘So?’” He smiled again. “Nikki, you have a lot of loss you are coping with and more trauma than most carry in a lifetime.” Her mouth sprouted cotton. “But. Having said that, I see that you are remarkably resilient and, in my view, a strong, high-functioning, centered person with what Hemingway called grace under pressure. Far healthier than most I see in your profession.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s why I think you’ll be happy with my recommendation that you return to work—after one’s week’s rest.”
“But my work. My case …”
“Nikki. Look at what you’ve been through. You need some time to find your center. Grace under pressure comes with a price tag.” He got out a pen and wrote in the file. “So that’s why I’m ordering this seven-day forced leave of absence, with pay.” He twisted the pen closed. “For my final disposition, it might be viewed as a healthy sign if you demonstrated an attempt to mend connections you’ve severed related to the trauma.”
“You mean Rook?”
“That would be significant.” He closed the file and said, “Let’s meet a week from today to reevaluate.”
“You mean, this leave of absence might extend if I don’t?”
“Let’s meet a week from now. Then see where you are.”
EIGHT
The caller ID read “Twentieth Precinct.” Nikki stepped away from the cash register to let the customer behind her go ahead while she pressed answer. “Heat.”
“Roach,” came the voices of Raley and Ochoa together.
“Hey, in stereo.”
Raley said, “Uh, actually that technology is years away. Your earpiece is, sadly, monaural.”
“Buzz killer,” said Ochoa. “Detective Sean Raley, where joy goes to die.”
“Did you two call to try out your morning zoo routine? Because I have news for you. Howard Stern is safe.”
Ochoa led off. “Calling with an update on that taxi you shot up, figuring we’re still allowed to keep you in the loop. Catch you at an OK time?”
“Sure, I’m just buying a new rug. A runner for my entry hall.”
“Listen,” said Ochoa, “you need any help cleaning up over there? Because Raley’s got, like, no life.” The pair laughed, and he continued, “Seriously, we can swing over after shift.”
“Thanks, really. But I spent the rest of my afternoon sweeping and scrubbing. I’m good. Whatcha got?”
Forensics had just shipped the prelim, and Roach wanted to let her know they lifted lots of prints and were running them. To expedite things, Feller drove a mobile ID kit to the driver’s house so his could be eliminated. Roach didn’t sound hopeful about the rest of the fingerprints. Ochoa said, “I’m guessing the bulk are going to be from the parts scavengers. Man, they hit that cab like a school of piranha.”
“Even took the security dash cam and the hard drive, so no video of our shooter.”
Heat asked, hopefully, “How much blood on the seats?”