“Frankly,” he said with sympathy in his eyes, “none of it fits our planning.” When she frowned, he added, “Well, perhaps a speaker. You, if you like.”
Someone came in, and when she turned, Zach Hamner was there in shirtsleeves and tie. “You should have called me, Heat, I could have saved you a trip.”
“Why are you part of this?” she asked but directed it to Prescott.
“I phoned him,” explained the lieutenant. “In interpretive cases like this one, we consult with the commissioner of legal matters.”
“I don’t understand ‘interpretive,’ ” said Nikki.
“Simple as this,” said The Hammer. “A ruling needs to be made as to whether a Full Honors service is appropriate for a death that’s not line of duty. Budget watchdogs like to sue if the city spends frivolously.”
“Frivolously?!”
Hamner waved both hands in front of him. “Calm down, not my term, OK? But the people who sue use it, and worse. However, the fact remains, a Full Honors memorial for a suicide, not to mention for a cop whose suspicious activity may implicate him in a murder . . . ?” He shook his head.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” she said. “We’re talking about a veteran, decorated precinct commander. They haven’t ruled it suicide yet. And where do you get this business of suspicious activity implicating him in a murder?”
“Why, from you. Yes, I got a prelim from your IA meet this morning.”
Heat was floored. Her own words were being abused. “This is unacceptable. No Full Honors? What are you planning, Zach, a cardboard box and a shopping cart?”
Prescott stepped in to quell the storm. “We have a nice service level that includes a suburban mortuary near his home and an escorted ride with several motorcycles to the plot near his late wife.”
“And this is the last word?”
Zach said, “It is unless someone else foots the bill.”
“This is an affront.”
“This is what happens when you take the coward’s way out.”
“Mr. Hamner . . . ,” cautioned the lieutenant, but Nikki wouldn’t be stopped.
“That’s it,” said Heat. “I know how to deal with this. I’m going public.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” said Hamner. “If you go to the press, do you realize the damage that would do?”
“I can only hope so,” she said and then left.
* * *
Back in the bull pen, Nikki was still fuming. She had unloaded over the phone to Rook on her way uptown to the precinct and thought she had calmed down, but announcing the slap against Montrose to the squad only rekindled her anger. The words of the monsignor from that morning about having faith in a family despite its flaws did little to quell her upset.
So Nikki Heat did what she always did under those circumstances: immersed herself in work. “I want Lawrence Hays the minute he gets back in New York,” she said to Detective Raley. “He made a specific threat against Graf in writing and I want him, now.” She gave him copies of the e-mail threat to distribute to the squad.
Raley read the e-mail. “Whoa. . . . On it.”
Detective Ochoa said, “I may have something to make you feel a little better. I couldn’t let go of why Father Graf’s housekeeper, Mrs. Borelli, is being be so cagey about our mystery guest.” He pointed to the unidentified man in the Pleasure Bound surveillance still. “So I ran her last name through priors.”
“Great idea,” said Sharon Hinesburg, whose responsibility it was to ID him, and who hadn’t thought of it.
“Anyhoo,” continued Ochoa as if Hinesburg hadn’t spoken, “I got a hit on a Paul Borelli in Bensonhurst. Nothing big, a few busts for weed and disorderly conduct.” He handed her the mug shot. It was a match for the man on the board.
“Her son?”
“Nephew.”
“Still enough to embarrass his aunt. Pay him a visit.” Nikki posted the mug shot on the Murder Board next to the surveillance photo. “Oh, and nice one.”
“Yeah,” said Detective Hinesburg. “Nice one.”
* * *