The Texan spun back around to take aim at her, giving Nikki no time to pull the Glock away from the manager’s grip. So Heat slapped both her hands around Ripton’s, took her best aim, and using his finger, squeezed off a shot. It missed the mark, puncturing the sling. The Texan moaned and fired.
As Nikki began to fall backward, she gripped harder onto Jess Ripton’s hand and squeezed off four more rounds into the left front pocket of Rance Eugene Wolf’s Western shirt before she hit the floor.
Chapter Twenty
Almost two hours later, sitting by himself at the counter that separated his kitchen from his great room, Jameson Rook stared at the two streams of bubbles rising in perfect parallel lines from the bottom of his pint glass of Fat Tire. It was his second beer, and he was headed for a third, figuring he wasn’t going to get much writing done anyway. It was just past midnight and the OCME and CSU strobes were still flashing up the hall.
Across his loft in the reading den he had partitioned the year before, a cozy enclave with soft furniture and clubby lighting surrounded by shoulder-height bookcases, he could hear the steely voices of the Chief’s shooting investigation team. Rook had spent a half hour with them earlier, giving his version of the gunfight; that when it was clear they were about to be assaulted, Rook created a diversion, allowing Detective Heat to seize control of Ripton’s weapon and fire once at Wolf, and when the Texan fired the shot that missed her and killed Ripton, she was able to return fire and take him out. Rook made the mistake of thinking they would find it cool that he had created his diversion with a radio-controlled chopper, using his foot and a 2.4-gig transmitter. These were sober dudes doing serious work, and he would have to look elsewhere for his high fives.
Nikki was in with them for her second visit, and though he couldn’t make out the words from where he sat, he could tell from the voice tones that the meeting was shifting into a wrap-up cadence.
When the squad finally left, Nikki passed on Rook’s beer offer but sat with him. Raley and Ochoa came out from the office, peeling off evidence gloves, and asked her about the ruling. “No disposition yet, not tonight,” she said. “Between the lines—as much as the 1PP guys give you—this looks like it will clear just fine. They just need to give it twenty-four because they have to show due diligence since it’s my second incident of the day.”
“They should give you a rewards card,” said Rook, and before they could say anything, he backpedaled. “Jeez, that was insensitive, sorry, sorry. It’s the beer talking.”
“How do you explain the rest of your day?” said Raley.
But Rook wasn’t listening. He was fixed on Nikki, searching her face, which told him she was off in her head somewhere else. “Nikki?” And when she came back, he said, “You did great in there.”
“Yeah, well, considering the alternative results, I’m not unhappy.”
Ochoa said, “Hey. You dealing OK with, you know . . . ?”
Without having to say more, they all knew he was referring to her killing of Rance Wolf, who—criminal or not—would now lose his nickname and never be the Texan to her again. Unlike some Hollywood versions of the job, taking a life is profoundly affecting to a cop, even when it’s the life of a cold, professional killer and the taking is completely justified. Nikki was strong, but she knew she would be coping for a while with the multiple losses of that day. Heat would take the counseling, not because she was weak but because she knew that it was effective. She also knew she’d be all right. Heat answered Ochoa’s question with a single nod, and that’s all anyone needed.
Raley said, “Hey, man, is it true? You stashed that chapter they wanted in your pants?”
Nodding proudly, Rook replied, “Indeed, I did.”
“That answers one question,” said Ochoa, dangling his latex gloves. “Why they made us wear these when we handled it.”