“Detective, do you know how much money the city of New York paid out over the last decade in claims against this department?” He didn’t wait for her reply. “Nine hundred and sixty-four million. That’s pocket change short of a billion with a B. Do I take claims seriously? You bet. And so should you. You don’t need something like this coming up right now. Not with your promotion pending. Now, tell me what happened.”
She gave him a brief recap of the meeting and the reason for it. When she was finished, The Hammer said, “Did you have to show the mug shot of the gang banger? That’s the inflammatory part.”
“Sergio Torres tried to kill me this morning. I will damn well show his picture to everyone connected to this case.” When Hamner said he got it, she continued, “And one more thing. Conducting an investigation is hard enough without outsiders second-guessing my case work.”
“I am going to chalk that up to your obvious stress from the day you’ve had. By the way, our condolences on the loss of your commander.” Nikki couldn’t shake her memory of The Hammer standing outside the ambulance that morning whining, “Where the fuck is Montrose?”
She figured one push-back was enough for this call, so she let it go. “Thanks.”
“Where do you go from here?” he asked.
“Back to what I was doing. Finding out who killed Father Graf. And maybe my boss.”
Zach’s chair creaked. He must have sat up. “Hold on, wasn’t that a suicide?”
“We’ll see,” she said.
* * *
Rook met her with a cocktail when she opened her apartment door. “I hope you’re up for a mojito. This is a recipe I picked up in a dive bar near a beachside landing strip in Puerto Rico.”
She traded him her coat for the drink, and right there in the entryway, they raised their tall glasses up in a toast. But Heat and Rook didn’t clink right away. Instead they held each other’s eyes a long moment, letting the intimacy of their stillness speak. Then Nikki set her glass down on the foyer table, saying, “First things first,” as she folded her arms around him and they hugged.
“I figured after your day, you would be in the mood for some red meat,” he said when they moved into the kitchen.
“Smells amazing.”
“Roast beef tenderloin—simple-simple—just salt, pepper, and rosemary, plus the usual sides, mashed potatoes, brussels sprouts.”
“Comfort food. Rook, you don’t know what this means right now. . . . Oh, yes you do.” And then she took another sip. “You don’t have time to do this, what with bringing me clothes and trying to write your article.”
“Done! E-mailed it off two hours ago and came over here to take care of you. I was going to make kabobs, but after your morning in the park, I figured skewers would be too darkly comic, even for me.”
“And yet you mentioned them.”
“What can I say? I’m an enigma inside a conundrum inside a condom.” Nikki started to laugh but caught herself. Her face became drawn and she sat at the counter. She stayed there, perched on the bar stool, through her mojito and a glass of a surprisingly perfect red from Baja California, while Rook carved and served. He transferred the place settings from the dining table to the counter and they ate there, the informality of it relaxing her. She was hungry but only managed a small portion, choosing instead to fill him in on things she hadn’t told him about her difficulties with Captain Montrose. He told her she didn’t have to talk about it if it was painful, but it wasn’t, she said, it was therapeutic, a chance to let out the burden she carried.