“I have an idea,” said Nikki. She got off the bar stool and stretched. “I’ll let you know if I’m right tomorrow. After I have a talk with somebody in the morning.”
Something was different when Nikki Heat walked along West 82nd from the precinct the next morning. In the distance she detected a low droning sound she hadn’t heard in over a week. As she got nearer to Amsterdam, a modest cough of diesel smoke rose and the droning became a brief roar that stopped with the hiss and squeal of air brakes as a city garbage truck came to a halt. Two sanitation workers hopped off and attacked the hill of refuse accumulated there from the strike. First one car and then another pulled up behind the trash truck as it idled, temporarily blocking the street while the men tossed black and green plastic bags into the rear loader. As she walked past, Heat could hear a driver curse through the rolled-up window of his blocked car and shout, “Come on!” Nikki smiled. The garbage strike was over, and now New Yorkers could be frustrated by something else.
It was five after eight. Cafe Lalo had just opened and Petar had been the first one there, waiting for her under one of the large European art posters in the back corner against the brick wall. He gave her a hug. “I’m glad we could do this,” he said.
“Yeah, me too.” She sat across from him at the white marble table.
“This spot OK?” he asked. “They gave me my choice, but I didn’t want to be near the windows. Garbage strike is over and the diesel fumes are back. Man.”
“Yes, the trash fumes were so much better.”
“Touché, Nikki. I keep forgetting it’s always half-full for you.”
“Well, at least half the time, it is.”
When the waitress came, Nikki said she only wanted a latte, nothing to eat. Petar closed his menu and said to make it two. “You’re not hungry?”
“I have to be back at work soon.”
A knot of disappointment formed between his brows, but he didn’t express it. Instead he soldiered on with his agenda. “You know this is the place they filmed You’ve Got Mail?” Out of nowhere, You’ve Got Penis popped into Nikki’s head, and an unbidden smile opened up her face.
“What?” said Petar.
“Nothing. I think I’m still a bit on the fried side from yesterday is all.”
“Where’s my head?” he said. “I didn’t ask how that’s all going.”
“It’s not so easy, to be honest, but fine.” She didn’t tell him about her evening ordeal at Rook’s loft, but he went right to it.
“It’s all over this morning about Toby Mills and Jess Ripton and that other guy. Were you part of any of that?”
Their lattes came, and Nikki waited for the waitress to go before she answered. “Petar, I don’t think this is going to be happening for us.”
He put down his spoon and gave her a puzzled look. “It’s because I’m pressing you, I’m pushing too hard again?”
She had made up her mind to have this conversation, however difficult, and ignored her coffee. “It’s not about that. Yes, you are . . . unwavering in your interest.”
“Is it because of the writer? You are an item with Jameson Rook?”
He gave her an opening and she seized it. “No, this won’t work because I’m not sure I can trust you.”
“What? Nikki . . .”
“Let me help you. I’ve been trying to figure out how Soleil Gray got it in her head to go after Cassidy Towne’s book editor.” Petar immediately shifted. She could hear a small crack from the stress he put on his bistro chair. When he settled himself, she continued. “That all came on the heels of Soleil’s visit to your show. The same night you told me about Cassidy’s book.”
“You’re a friend, of course I told you.”