“Do I even need to ask why?” Nikki knew from her meeting the day before.
“Because of the Iron Man,” said Ochoa. Heat had a mental bet that would be the handle they’d give Captain Irons. She also bet they weren’t the first. “He’s pulling all resources into the dead homeless guy, even though it’s gonna end up accidental OD.”
“For all intents, this case is dead.” Raley side nodded to the Father Graf Murder Board, which had been carelessly erased and hung there, suspended on the easel with only the ghostly streaks of Nikki’s colored markers to hint at its prior purpose.
“It almost seems convenient,” she said.
Ochoa chuckled. “Know how we’re always pimping Rook over his wild-ass conspiracy theories?” Heat nodded even as she masked her pain at hearing his name. “Nothing compared to what Rales and I have been thinking.”
“Any answers?” asked Heat.
Raley said, “Only one. On your time off, let us know what you need.”
“On your ‘time off,’ ” repeated Ochoa, complete with air quotes.
* * *
The only satisfaction she could draw from this disheartening news about the shelving of the Graf case was that Sharon Hinesburg was ordered by Captain Irons to go undercover as a homeless woman and had to spend the night in the Riverside Park pedestrian tunnel. “Let it snow,” Nikki said.
On a whim—yes, a whim, she told herself—Heat logged onto her computer so she could print out a PDF of the Huddleston homicide file, the 2004 case then-Detective Montrose had run. Disbelief.
Her password didn’t work.
Access denied.
Nikki phoned the IT department help desk. After a brief hold, the technician came back on and apologized. He said that due to her renewed classification, she was currently unauthorized to use the NYPD server.
After she set the phone back on its cradle, Heat realized how wrong she had been. She had mistakenly thought it wasn’t possible to feel more shaken and alone. Stepping out into West 82nd Street, Nikki turned to face the icy wind rushing crosstown off the Hudson. But she knew that no matter how long she stood there, it could never dish out enough cold to numb her. She turned her back against the bluster and plodded toward the subway to go home.
“Lady-lady!” was the last thing Heat heard before the collision. She whirled in the direction of the shout a split second before the delivery guy and his bicycle smacked into her, knocking her down onto Columbus Avenue. They landed in a tangle—arms, legs, and a bike—surrounded by ruptured cardboard take-out cartons, broccoli in oyster sauce, smashed wontons, and a duck leg. “My order’s ruined,” he said.
Still down, with handlebars against her cheek, Nikki turned up from the gutter and said, “You were going the wrong way in that lane.”
His response was, “Hey, up yours, lady.” He jerked his bike off Nikki and raced away, leaving her and his lost order down in the crosswalk at the side of the avenue. For a split second as Heat watched the patch of filthy snow and sand under her face redden with her blood, she actually wondered if whoever killed Montrose had also sent the crazy delivery guy on the bike. Such was the rabbit hole of conspiracy thinking. When you actually stop and look around and wonder, who in the world can you trust?
* * *
When Rook opened the door, his expression was a mix of shock and vigilance. First he reacted to her face with its tributaries of dried blood fanning like tentacles from the spot in her scalp where Nikki held a wadded handkerchief. Then, out of experience, he checked the hall to make sure she wasn’t on the run and being followed. “Nikki, jeez, what happened?”
She strode past him through his foyer and into the kitchen. He locked the door and joined her. Nikki held up a hand. “Shut up and don’t say anything.”