“Right,” said the assistant. “Mine’s the one you can read.”
“No kidding,” said Nikki as she turned pages. “I can’t make out her handwriting at all.”
“Nobody could,” she said. “Just part of the joy of working for Cassidy Towne.”
“She was tough?”
“She was impossible. Four years of J-school to be the next Ann Curry, and where do I end up? Nanny to that thankless bitch.”
Nikki was going to ask later, but with that opening, it seemed the perfect time. “Cecily, this is a routine question I ask everyone. Can you tell me where you were overnight, say between eleven P.M. and three A.M.?”
“In my apartment with my BlackBerry turned off so my boyfriend and I could get some sleep and without getting called by Her Highness.”
On the short drive back to the precinct Nikki left voice mail for Don, her combat trainer, to rain check her busted morning jujitsu workout with him. The ex–Navy SEAL was probably in the showers by that time, no doubt having found another sparring partner. Don was a no strings, no worries guy. Same for their sex, when they had it. They both had no trouble finding other sparring partners there, either, and the no-strings relationship made for a mutually workable life design. If workable was your deal.
She had taken a hiatus from sleeping with Don during the time she was with Rook. Not a decision she made, it just worked out that way. Don never seemed bothered, nor did he ask about it when they resumed their occasional night sessions when summer ended and Jameson Rook was out of her life.
Now there he was again, Jameson Rook in her rearview mirror. Her ex-lover, riding shotgun with Raley, the two of them sitting wordlessly at the stoplight in the car behind her, looking out opposite windows of the unmarked like an old married couple with nothing more to say. Rook had asked to pool with Nikki back to the Twentieth, but when Ochoa said he wanted to accompany Cassidy Towne’s body down to the OCME, Heat told Raley to play chauffeur for the writer. Nobody seemed thrilled with the arrangements but Nikki.
Her thoughts drifted to Ochoa. And Lauren. He fooled no one with his duty sense to stay close to the high-profile victim, calling it due diligence to see the delivery through from crime scene to morgue. Maybe she should butt out and leave Lauren to find her own way. When Ochoa had approached to suggest his plan, Nikki saw the masked smile on her friend’s face as Lauren eavesdropped. As Nikki turned onto 82nd and double-parked in front of the precinct, she thought, hey, they were adults and she wasn’t the den mother. Let them have whatever happiness there was to be found in this work. If a man is willing to ride with a corpse just to be with you, that’s more effort than you get from most.
The coroner’s van took a nasty pothole on Second Avenue, and in the back, ME Parry and Detective Ochoa took some air and came down hard on the seats flanking Cassidy Towne’s body bag. “Sorry,” came the driver’s voice from up front. “Blame last winter’s blizzards. And the deficit.”
“You OK?” Ochoa asked the ME.
“Fine, I’m used to it, believe me,” she said. “Are you sure this doesn’t weird you out?”
“This? Nah, fine. No sweat.”
“You were telling me about your soccer league.”
“I’m not boring you?”
“Please,” Lauren said. And after the slightest hitch, she continued, “I’d like to come see you play sometime.”
Ochoa beamed. “For real? Nah, you’re just being polite to me because I’m a live person in your day.”
“True . . .” And they both laughed. His eyes fell away from hers for a second or two, and when he looked up she was smiling at him.
He gathered his courage and said, “Listen, Lauren, I’m playing goalie this Saturday, and if you’re—”