“Bet you would,” said the lawyer. “Pleasure Bound is a discreet business protected by rights of privacy and client privilege.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Paltz, but last I heard, client privilege may protect lawyers and doctors, but not people who dress up and play doctor.” Heat turned again to the manager. “Roxanne, a death took place on your property. Are you going to cooperate, or shall we close you down while we assess the public safety and health concerns at Pleasure Bound?” Nikki was only sort of bluffing. A shutdown, if she got it, would only be brief, but her assessment of the state of the business—old paint, cheap furniture, shopworn fixtures, neglected security surveillance—told her Roxanne operated on a thin margin and that even a week without clients would put a hurt on her. She was right.
“All right. I’ll give you her name,” she said after another nod from the lawyer. “Fact is, I only have one dominatrix at present. I lost my other two a couple of months ago to the higher-end places Midtown.” Roxanne Paltz made an audible shrug with her vinyls. “I tell you, the bondage business is a struggle.” Nikki instinctively waited for Rook’s wisecrack. Same as she had so many times during his absence. What would he blurt? Knowing him, something like “That would make a catchy ad slogan.” She pictured a match turning Rook’s Le Cirque photo to ashes.
After Roxanne gave her the name and contact number of the domme, Heat asked about clients. “That’s all on her,” answered the manager. “She pays me to use the space, sort of like a hairdresser. The client bookings are her deal.”
“For the record, Roxanne, can you account for your whereabouts last night between six and eleven?” Nikki widened the time frame since she hadn’t gotten the official from Lauren Parry yet.
“Yes, I can. I was at dinner and then the movies with my husband.”
After Heat wrote down the name of the restaurant and the movie, she asked, “And your husband can vouch for this?”
Simmy Paltz nodded. “You bet I can.”
Nikki Heat looked from the old coot to Roxanne and made another note, this one mental. A reminder not to assume. Not in New York City.
Hadn’t she just learned that painful lesson from Rook?
* * *
She called Detective Ochoa to find the domme while Roxanne and her husband were still in Interrogation, so they wouldn’t have a chance to tip her off. Heat had given them some mug arrays of violent sex offenders to pore over, knowing it was busywork but the kind of busy that would keep them out of her way. Ochoa was only a few blocks from Andrea Boam’s address in Chelsea, and just fifteen minutes later he rang back to report that her roommate said Ms. Boam had been away on vacation since the weekend. Nikki asked, “Did the roommate say where?”
“Amsterdam,” said Ochoa. “The city, not the avenue.”
“Imagine that. Amsterdam. For a dominatrix.”
“Yeah,” he agreed. “Sounds like a busman’s holiday, if you ask me.”
“Do a follow-up with Customs to run her passport, just to make sure she went,” said Heat. “Smells like a solid alibi, though. Any luck with the priest’s picture?”
“Nada. But. Canvassing these clubs isn’t a total loss. Mostly, I’ve been interviewing submissives, and it’s doing wonders for my self-esteem.”
Heat was eager to know what was up at the rectory, but Lauren Parry texted her that the autopsy was complete on Father Graf, so she waited until she got to her car on her way to the coroner’s before she called Detective Hinesburg.
“What’s going on, Nikki?” asked Hinesburg.