“And how do you feel about that?”
Nikki paused before answering, knowing this was another tricky one. “Regretful. I value life, and that was . . . and always would be . . . a last resort. But if the play is dealt, I have to respond.”
“Do you feel it was a fair fight?”
“Respectfully, Captain? If someone is looking for a fair fight, he’d better not draw on me.”
The members shared nods and satisfied looks and passed their score sheets to the moderator. He looked them over and said, “We will, of course, have to calculate these, but I feel confident in saying you have done exceptionally well, Detective Heat. Combining this with your outstanding score on the written, I have a feeling good news is coming, and soon.”
“Thank you.”
The Personnel administrator said, “If I’m not getting ahead of the horse here, have you given any thought to commanding your own precinct?”
“Not really.”
He grinned. “I would.”
* * *
Promptly at nine the next morning, Detective Heat announced herself to the receptionist in the lobby of the Terence Cardinal Cooke Building in Sutton Place. To Nikki, the archdiocese headquarters was an odd place to be while tapering off a mild hangover and feeling blissfully sore following her night with Rook. He had insisted on a major celebration after her oral boards, and party they did. A pocket of warmth grew inside her as she reflected on how fortunate she was to have a man like him in her life, who always sought ways to escape to brightness amid the dark. Her face broadened into a dopey smirk, recalling how she had made Rook laugh by screaming “quatrain!” at a critical moment in bed.
An administrative aide in a brown three-piece suit, who introduced himself as Roland Jackson, was waiting on the nineteenth floor when the elevator opened onto the chancery offices. “Monsignor is expecting you.” He carried an armload of fat manila pocket files in one arm and gestured with the other for her to precede him through the nearest door. “Detective Heat is here,” he said as they stepped in.
They had caught the monsignor hurrying to put on his black suit jacket for the meeting. He was still flexing his elbow to adjust one sleeve as he came around to shake her hand, which he did with both of his. “Hi, Pete Lynch.”
“Thanks for making the time, Monsignor.” Nikki returned his warm smile. Thirsty as she was, Heat declined the coffee or tea offer, and the three of them took seats in the modest conversation grouping to the side of the monsignor’s desk. “I understand this is in regard to Gerry Graf,” Monsignor Lynch said. His countenance darkened. “It’s a staggering loss. When something like that happens anywhere, it’s deeply felt, but more so among our fraternity. You must know that. I hear you lost one of your own, too. He’s in our prayers, as well.”
She thanked him and then steered the conversation back to Father Graf. “As the man who administers the day-to-day affairs of the archdiocese, I wanted to get a sense from you of him as a pastor. Were you aware of any problems with him?”
“Such as?”
“Well, for instance, any financial irregularities in parish accounting? Conflicts with parishioners or anyone here? Inappropriate behavior . . . of any kind?”
“You can say it, Detective, you mean sexual?”
“I do.” Nikki found herself studying the monsignor, then staring.
“None I am aware of.” He broke off eye contact and removed his wire-framed glasses to rub the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Roland has the parish books there. Anything untoward?”
“No, nothing of the sort.” Mr. Jackson patted the files on his lap. “His books always balanced, he was loved by the parish, and he was not involved in any personal scandals.”