“Penis car,” said a passing mail carrier, and Nikki laughed, loving New York and all its intimate strangers.
While the counter man at Andy’s made a pair of BLTs for her, Nikki checked her phone and e-mail again. Nothing from Rook since she had last surfed—right before she ordered. She got two extra honey packets for Raley’s iced tea from the condiment bar and checked her cell again. Then she thought, Screw it, and pressed Rook’s speed dial. It never rang, just dumped straight to voice mail. While she listened to his announcement, not yet even sure what she wanted to say, a man beside her waiting for a tuna on rye flipped open his newspaper and Nikki was confronted once again by Rook and his doable agent grinning outside Le Cirque. Heat hung up without leaving a message, paid for the lunches, and hurried back out into the freezing cold, cursing herself for caving in to chasing a guy.
* * *
Sharon Hinesburg always wore her emotions on her face, and when Heat breezed into the rectory unannounced, the detective looked like she had just opened the fridge and gotten a whiff of curdled milk. Nikki didn’t care. Misplaced sensitivity had led to one bad call assigning Hinesburg to handle this venue in the first place. She wasn’t going to compound her lapse by worrying about Bigfooting her subordinate.
The decision to take charge was validated by the briefing she got. After several hours on-scene, the best Hinesburg could offer was a rehash of the information Heat already had learned both from her own chat with the housekeeper and the call from the evidence crew about the missing holy medal and disturbed clothing drawers. Nikki had the not unsupported impression that Detective Hinesburg’s main activity had been to sit with Mrs. Borelli and watch The View.
She didn’t lash out at her detective, though. Hinesburg was, and always would be, Hinesburg. Heat decided there was no sense misplacing her anger, which was at herself for not getting to this interview until the afternoon thanks to reporters, department politics, and worries about her boss.
“I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Borelli,” Nikki began as they sat down at the kitchen table, “but we need to ask some questions while things are still fresh in your mind. I understand it’s a difficult time, but are you up for this?”
The rims of the wiry old woman’s eyes were swollen and red, but the look in them was clear and full of strength. “I want to help you find whoever did this. I’m ready.”
“Let’s review the period leading up to the last time you saw Father Graf. And I apologize if you have already been over this with Detective Hinesburg.”
“No, she didn’t ask me about any of that,” said Mrs. B.
Hinesburg made a show of flipping a page of her pad. “You told me you last saw him yesterday morning at ten or ten-fifteen,” she said, citing information that was already in the missing persons report.
But Nikki only smiled at the old woman and said, “Good, let’s start there.” After Heat spent a half hour quizzing her about Father Graf’s last hours and days, through a series of questions doled out in small bites, a timeline emerged, not only of the previous morning but the weeks leading up to the pastor’s disappearance. He had been a man of habits, at least in the early part of his days. Up at 5:30 for his morning prayers, opening the doors to the church at 6:30, on the altar next door for Mass at 7 &A.M.&, breakfast served by Mrs. Borelli promptly at ten minutes to eight. “He’d smell the bacon and keep the sermon short,” she said, comforted by the memory.
The rest of a typical day involved parish administration, visits to the sick, and meetings at a handful of community groups he served on. The housekeeper affirmed that he followed his pattern his last few days. Well, almost. “He had taken to longer lunches away in the afternoons. And was late for supper a few times, which was not like him.”