“One very trashed, rather empty briefcase.” It was an old-fashioned hard case, a big clamshell gaping open, with business cards and stationery items like black binder clips and Post-its scattered about it. A handheld digital voice recorder lay scuffed a foot away, beside a granola bar. “Although, I do say I admire his taste in fountain pens,” he said, indicating a brick-orange-and-black Montblanc Hemingway limited edition nestled in the L where the curb met the gutter. “Those things go for over three grand now. Kind of shoots down the mugger theory.”
Nikki wanted to go along with that, but she pushed away the temptation of coming to any conclusions for now. That’s not how cases cleared. “Unless the mugger wasn’t a writer-slash–fountain pen collector.”
Just then Rook startled her by taking her by the wrist. “Come with me, quick.”
She almost hesitated, but she went along with him as he drew her across the street with a gentle grip on her forearm. But that didn’t stop her from asking, “Rook, what are you doing?”
“Quick, before it flies away.” He pointed to a single sheet of white paper fluttering down 96th toward the park on Riverside.
Nikki reached for it, but the wind took it and she had to make another sprint to get ahead of it. When it landed on the pavement at her feet, she pounced and slapped her open palm down to trap it. “Gotcha.”
“Nice. Would have done that myself, but you’ve got the gloves,” said Rook. “And the moves.”
With her free hand, Heat carefully pinched the corner of the sheet and turned the paper over to read it. Frustrated by her poker face, Rook grew impatient.
“Well?” he said. “What is it?”
Nikki didn’t answer. Instead, she turned the page so he could read it himself.
Wasted, Dead or Alive
The Real Story Behind the Death of Reed Wakefield
By
Cassidy Towne
Chapter Fourteen
Mitchell Perkins, senior editor, nonfiction, Epimetheus Books, opened his eyes in his room on the fourth floor of St. Luke’s-Roosevelt to discover Nikki Heat and Jameson Rook sitting in chairs at the end of his bed. The detective rose and stood beside him. “How are you feeling, Mr. Perkins? Do you want me to call the nurse or anything?”
He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “Thirsty.” She spooned an ice chip from the cup on his rolling tray table and watched him savor it. “Thank you . . . for helping my wife. Before my little nap she told me you had cops there in no time.”
“It all worked out, Mr. Perkins. Although you may not feel like that yourself, at this moment.” She gave him another plastic spoon of ice without being asked. “Did you see who did this to you?”
He shook his head and registered some pain. “Whoever it was came at me from behind. That’s usually a safe neighborhood.”
“We’re still sorting it all out, but I don’t believe this was a random mugging.” Nikki set the cup down on the table. “Putting this together with the attempted break-in at your apartment, this could be the same person.” Perkins nodded, as if he had been mulling that possibility, too. “We can’t be absolutely sure because your wife didn’t see the burglar. She said someone forced open a window and the alarm went off. Whoever it was ran off.”
“If I were laying money down,” said Rook, “I’d bet the route he took was Ninety-sixth Street.”
“Lucky me,” added Perkins.
Heat arched a skeptical brow. “The perp was the lucky one. The other factor here is that you still have your wallet and watch.”
“He grabbed my briefcase.”
“Because that’s probably what he wanted.” Nikki held up the ice cup, and he shook a “No, thanks” then winced. “Somebody has been on a tear to get their hands on that Cassidy Towne manuscript, Mr. Perkins.” Heat had been thus far unable to find a judge willing to test the First Amendment by issuing a warrant to search the publisher’s files, and she labored to keep the frustration out of her voice. “You know, the one you said you didn’t have?”
“I didn’t say I didn’t have it.”