“Hey, man, it’s the thought that counts,” said Raley. Rook, Roach, and a number of detectives and uniforms were crowded in the precinct break room, around the open Fire and Icing box Rook had lovingly cradled on the drive. The assortment of buttercream icings, whipped creams, and ganache had melted and run together into what would charitably be described as cupcake roadkill.
“No, it’s not,” from Ochoa. “Man promised cupcakes, I don’t want thought, I want a cupcake.”
“I tell you these were perfect when they left the bakery,” said Rook, but the room was emptying around his good deed. “It’s the heat, it’s melting everything.”
“Leave ’em outside a little longer. I’ll come back with a straw,” said Ochoa. He and Raley moved on to the bull pen. When they arrived, Detective Heat was updating the whiteboard.
“Filling up,” said Raley. It was always a mixed feeling at this point on an open homicide, when the satisfaction of seeing the board becoming populated with data was offset by the most salient fact: Nothing up there had brought a solve. But they all knew it was a process, and every bit they posted was a step closer to clearing the case.
“So,” Nikki said to her squad, “Morgan Donnelly’s alibi checks with the Tribeca Film commish.” As Rook entered the room eating a cupcake out of a paper cup with a spoon, she added, “For the sake of her cupcakes, I hope the heat wave breaks by April. Roach, you saw Kimberly Starr’s cosmetic surgeon?”
“Yeah, and I’m thinking of getting something ugly removed that’s been bothering me for the past two years.” Raley paused and added, “Ochoa.”
“See, Detective Heat?” said his partner. “I give and I give, and this is what I put up with all day.” Then Ochoa went to his notes. “The widow’s alibi checks. She had a last-?minute booking for a ‘consultation,’ and showed up at one-?fifteen. That squares with her departure from the ice cream parlor on Amsterdam at one.”
Heat said, “Over to the East Side in fifteen minutes? She got there in a hurry.”
“Ain’t no mountain high enough,” said Rook.
“All right,” continued Nikki, “Mrs. Starr managed to tell us the truth about cheating on both her husband and Barry Gable with Dr. Boy-?tox. But that’s just her whereabouts. Check phone records from her or the doc for any calls to Miric or Pochenko just to button it all down.”
“Right,” said Roach in unison and they laughed.
“See? I can’t stay mad at you,” said Ochoa.
That evening, darkness was trying to push through the soggy air outside the precinct on West 82nd when Nikki Heat stepped out carrying the Met Store box containing her John Singer Sargent print. Rook was standing at the curb. “I’ve got a car service coming. Why don’t you let me give you a lift?”
“That’s all right, I’m fine. And thanks again for this, you shouldn’t have.” She started off toward Columbus, on her way to the subway near the planetarium. “But you’ll notice I’m keeping it. Night.”
She got to the corner and Rook was beside her. “If you insist on proving how macho you are by walking, at least let me carry that.”
“Good night, Mr. Rook.”
“Wait.” She stopped but didn’t mask her impatience. “Come on, Pochenko’s still at large. You should have an escort.”
“You? Who’ll protect you? Not I.”
“Jeez, a cop who uses proper grammar as a weapon. I’m rendered helpless.”
“Look, if you have any doubt I can take care of myself, I’ll be more than happy to give you a demonstration. Is your health insurance current?”
“All right, what if this is just my flimsy excuse to see your apartment? What would you say to that?”