Or was he involved in something? Could the captain have crossed over and gotten into something dirty? No, Nikki dismissed those thoughts. She couldn’t imagine the Charles Montrose she knew doing anything like that.
Detective Heat shivered. She didn’t know what was going on, but she knew one thing. Standing there on the snow, deep in the coldest winter in a century, she saw herself on the tip of an iceberg. And all around her in the water were sharks.
* * *
The purple bunting was already hung above the main entrance to the precinct when they got back. Of course, business in the house was still being conducted, but the air was somber. On the trip through the lobby to Homicide, Heat noticed that the uniforms wore mourning bands across their shields. Conversations everywhere she passed were hushed and had the odd effect of making the ring of telephones sound louder. Captain Montrose’s office remained empty and dark. There was also a seal on his door.
Detective Rhymer gave her an interval to settle at her desk before he came over. After they shared brief condolences, he handed her a file. “Just came in. An ID of your dude from the park.”
Detective Heat flipped open the cover and a mug shot of the rifleman she had stabbed at Belvedere Castle stared back at her. Sergio Torres, DOB February 26, 1979, was a shoplifter turned car radio thief who did enough jail time to hook up with Latin gangs on the inside. That relationship earned him a few new stretches stacking time for carjacking and assaults. She closed the file on her lap and stared into the near distance.
“I’m sorry,” said Rhymer. “I should have waited.”
“No, no, it’s not that,” said Heat. “It’s just . . . This is not sitting right. I mean, Torres had no military background. I saw this guy in action. He had skills. How does a gang banger get trained like that?” Her phone rang.
It was Rook trying her again. It must have been his tenth call. And for the tenth time, Nikki didn’t pick it up, because if she did, she’d have to talk about it. And once she did that, it became real. And once it became real, it was all over. And Heat couldn’t afford for it to be all over right now.
Not in front of everyone else. Not while she was going for lieutenant.
“Hey?” said Ochoa. “Timing sucks, but before all this went down I set a meet with Justicia a Garda and they’re here. Want me to try to push it to tomorrow?”
Heat gave it serious thought. No, she had to power forward. Keep paddling or risk sinking. “No, don’t cancel. I’ll be right there. . . . And Miguel? Thanks for stepping in like that, ID-ing the captain.”
“Before you thank me you should know something,” he said. “The God’s truth? I couldn’t look.”
* * *
“Thank you for coming,” said Nikki as she entered the waiting room. She was met by silence. A man and woman, both about thirty, sat across the table from Detective Ochoa, arms folded, without so much as a glance her way. Heat couldn’t help but notice that they also still wore their coats, another nonverbal cue.
As soon as Nikki sat, the woman, Milena Silva, spoke. “Mr. Guzman and I are here as hostile participants. Also, I am not only one of the directors of Justicia a Guarda, I have a law degree, so you have fair warning before you begin.”
“Well, first of all,” began Heat, “this is just an informal meeting . . .”
“In a police station,” said Pascual Guzman. He looked around the room, clawing fingertips through his Che beard. “Are you recording this?”
“No,” she said. It bugged her that they were trying to run her meeting, so she pressed on. “We invited you here to help give some background on Father Graf, to help us find his killer or killers.”