His mouth opened and then closed.
“I’m a great cop. I was on track to blow past lieutenant and make captain. I was going to be running the precinct. And, as a cop, one thing I understand is motive. And when I look for your motive in leaking that article? . . . I get nothing. It makes no logical sense. Why would you give your notes on a story that’s your exclusive to somebody else? For sex? Please. I can tell, Tam’s way too needy to be good in bed.” He started to speak and she said, “Shut up. With no motive, I just don’t know why the hell you would have done that. So I’m making the choice to believe you.
“I not only want to, I have to. Because whatever’s happening on this case, it’s kicked up to a new level and there’s nobody I can trust except for you.
“Everything’s caving in. I’m locked out and the murder investigation I have been moving heaven and earth to conduct is now in the Dumpster because the bumbling pencil jockey they replaced Captain Montrose with is basically Inspector Clouseau. Say nothing.
“Now . . . as I lay there minutes ago in the southbound lane of Columbus, mowed down by a wrong-way and rather unapologetic delivery bicyclist, shivering, bleeding, and taking stock of the new low my life had achieved, I thought, Nikki Heat, are you just going to lie there? And, tempting as it may be to while away my forced hiatus at Starbucks playing Angry Birds, waiting for 1PP to call and say sorry, that is not an option. I am too stubborn and too personally invested to let this case die. But—minor technicality—I am no longer an active member of the NYPD. No gun, no badge, no access to records, no squad. Oh, and people are trying to kill me. So what do I need? I need help. To press this investigation forward I need a partner. I need someone with experience, with balls, someone with top investigative skills who knows how to stay out of my way and isn’t afraid to put in some sick hours. Which is why I am here in your kitchen bleeding on your custom slate flooring. OK, you can talk now. What do you say?”
Rook didn’t reply. Instead, he turned her gently to look over the kitchen counter into his great room. And she beheld the Murder Board Rook had reconstructed in his loft. Not everything was there—for instance, no photographs—but the main elements were in place: the timeline, the names of victims and suspects, leads to track down. It needed a big update, but the foundation was all right there.
Heat turned back to Rook and said, “Well? Are you interested or not?”
TWELVE
While she sat atop the closed toilet lid in Rook’s master bathroom, he bent over her, carefully drawing aside strands of hair to examine the cut. Nikki stared at her blood-caked face in the mirror and said, “This looks a lot worse than it is.”
“Oh, if I only had a nickel for every time I said that in my life.”
“To whom, Rook? Unsuspecting girlfriends catching you with someone in a bar?”
“You sully me with your tawdry assumptions.” Then he added, “Usually, it was the bedroom.” He turned to the mirror so Nikki could see his proud grin. “Once in an armoire. God, I miss high school.” He moved to the counter and picked up the dish of warm, soapy water he had prepared.
“What do you think, Doctor? Stitch, or no stitch?”
Rook dipped a cotton ball in the solution and gently dabbed her scalp. “Fortunately, this is in the abrasion rather than laceration category, so no stitch. Although, when was your last tetanus shot?”
“Recently,” she said. “Right after that serial killer worked on me with his dental picks out there in your dining room.”
“We do have the memories, don’t we, Nikki?”
Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed in a fresh blouse and pair of jeans that had been hanging in his closet, Heat appeared at the kitchen counter. “Transformation, complete,” she said.
He slid a double espresso over to her. “You weren’t kidding. When you get knocked down, you do get up again.”
“Just watch.”
* * *