“How can you think it was me?”
Heat reached past the Sancerre and pulled out a Pellegrino. This was a time for a clear head. “For one, I’ve been looking at that prose you said was so . . . what did you call it? . . . tabloidy? Well, I smell a few Rook-isms in there. Calling the funeral issue a ‘problem that cannot be buried’ . . . What else? Oh. ‘NYPD black and blue’?”
“Come on, I . . .” He stopped himself and looked like he’d tasted something foul.
“So those are your words.” She ditched the water and got out the wine.
“Sort of. But I never shared. It sounds like synchronicity.”
“It sounds like bull. Tam says you e-mailed notes to her.”
“Nope. Did not.”
Nikki pointed to his laptop over on the dining table. “What was that secret typing you’ve been doing?”
“All right, full disclosure. Yes, I have been writing up some notes for an article I plan to write on this Montrose thing.”
“You what?!”
“See? That’s why I didn’t tell you. I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it after the cover piece I did on you.”
“Rook, this is even more devious. You were hiding it from me because you knew damn well I’d be against it?”
“No. . . . Yes. But I was going to tell you. Eventually.”
“You’re digging deeper the more you talk.”
“Look, I am an investigative journalist and this is a legitimate story.”
“That Tam Svejda says you slipped to her.”
“No.”
“What else did you slip her?”
“Oh. Oh ho! Now I’m seeing what’s happening here,” he said. “This is the green monster rearing its head.”
Nikki slammed the bottle down on the counter with a loud crack. “Do not minimize what I am going through by tagging me with some cheap label.”
“I’m sorry, that was out of line.”
“Damn right it was. Now it’s my turn.” The pent-up emotion from her week of agony spilled over. “Get your stuff and get the hell out of here.”
“Nikki, I . . .”
“Now.”
He hesitated and said, “I thought you trusted me.”
But she was already storming down the hallway with the bottle in her hand. The last thing Rook heard from Heat was the locking of her bedroom door.
* * *
The next morning, even though she knew she had no reason to, Nikki got up at her usual early time, showered, and dressed for work. While she was in the shower, Raley and Ochoa left her a message of between-the-lines support. They knew about the suspension like everyone by now and had left what they called a Roach-mail. “Hey, uh, Detective, or . . . whatever I should call you now,” said Ochoa.
Raley was on the other line and said, “Hey, partner, how about a little sensitivity? Hi, it’s Roach calling. Do they let you get calls in the penalty box? Anyway your dirty coffee mug is still in the sink down here at the precinct.”
“That’s right,” said Ochoa, “and if you think we’re going to wash it for you, dream on. So if you want the mug, well, you know what to do. . . . See ya?”
She thought about calling back, but instead Nikki sat on the cushion of her window seat while she watched a sanitation crew remove the overnight snow from her street. It gave her something to do. As she idled there, Nikki wondered if she should roll some cell phone video, in case she got a chance to upload the latest viral of a parked car getting its fender peeled away by a city snowplow.