“I said, we’d like to search the—”
“I heard what you said. I mean, you need to search again?”
Heat leaned closer to the woman. “Are you saying someone searched here already?”
“Yes. Last night, another policeman. He said he was following up on my missing person report.”
“Oh, of course, sometimes we cross signals,” said Nikki. That could well be the case, but her uneasiness was growing. She caught a look from Feller that said his antenna was up, too. “May I ask who this policeman was?”
“I forgot his name. He said it, but I was so upset. Senior moment.” She chuckled and then stifled a sob. “He did show me a badge like yours, so I let him roam free. I watched television while he looked around.”
“Well, I’m sure he filed a report.” Nikki flipped open her spiral reporter’s notebook. “Maybe I could cut through some red tape if you described him.”
“Sure. Tall. Black, or do I say Afro-American these days? Very pleasant, had a kind face. Bald. Oh, and a little birthmark or mole or something right here.” She tapped her cheek.
Heat stopped writing and capped her stick pen. She had all she needed. The housekeeper had just described Captain Montrose.
TWO
Detective Heat wasn’t sure which she would prefer, to come into the station house and find Captain Montrose in his office so she could ask him about his visit to the rectory the night before or to find his executive chair empty and be spared the meeting for a while. As it happened, that morning, like so many others, she was the one to flick the lights on in the Homicide bull pen. The skipper’s office was locked and dark behind the glass wall that gave him a view of the squad room. Her feelings upon seeing his office empty answered her question about preference; it disappointed her. Nikki wasn’t a procrastinator, and especially when a subject was uncomfortable, her instinct was to get the noise out early and then deal.
She told herself this was all about nothing, and all that was needed was to clear the air. On its face, the captain’s stop at Our Lady of the Innocents was not inappropriate. A missing persons report for a resident of the precinct gave legitimate cause to speak to the woman who filed it. That was standard police procedure.
What was not standard was for the commander of the precinct to handle a call that usually fell to a Detective-3, or even an experienced uniform. And to conduct a search—alone—was, again, not unheard of but still unusual.
An hour before, Heat and Detective Feller had gloved up and made their own walk through the premises and found no signs of struggle, breakage, bloodstains, threat mail, or anything out of the ordinary to their eyes. The Evidence Collection Unit would be more thorough, and, as they waited for ECU to arrive, Nikki was relieved that Feller had the discretion not to say anything, even though it was all over his face. She knew what he was thinking. Montrose, taking heavy fire from his bosses and under potential investigation by Internal Affairs for allegations unknown, had deviated from standard procedure and solo snooped the home of a torture vic the night he died. When she dropped Feller off at the 86th Street subway stop all he said to her was “Good luck . . . Lieutenant Heat.”
Especially since she was the first one in the bull pen that morning, Nikki would have preferred to have been able to catch Montrose early and get him alone. In the break room she speed-dialed him from her cell phone while she poured milk on her cereal. “Cap, it’s Heat. 7:29,” she said to his voice mail. “Give me a callback when you can.” Short and uncluttered. He’d know she would only call if it was important.