Heat tilted her head to scan the high-rise apartments lining both sides of Broadway. Ochoa anticipated her. “We’ve set up a check of facing residences to see if anybody saw or heard anything.”
She dropped her gaze to him and smiled slightly. “Good. Also see if any of these businesses spotted anything. The bakery is a good bet to have staff around in the early-early. And don’t forget security cams. That jewelry store across the way might have picked up something, if we’re lucky.” She side-nodded up the block to the man holding five leashed dogs on a sit command. “Who’s he?”
“That’s the guy who found the body. Made the 911 call at 5:37.”
Nikki looked him over. He was about twenty, had a slim figure, tight jeans, and a theatrical scarf. “Let me guess. AMDW.” Working a precinct on the Upper West Side of New York, she and her team had pet codes for some of the types who lived and worked there. AMDW was their acronym for actor-model-dancer-whatever.
“Close, Detective.” Ochoa consulted a page from his notebook and continued, “Mr. T. Michael Dove, in the drama program at Juilliard, came upon the body while it was being bitten. He says his dogs made a mass charge and the other dog took off.”
“Hey,” said Heat, “what do you mean close? He’s an actor.”
“Yes, but in this case AMDW is actor-model-dog-walker.”
Nikki opened her blazer to cover her hand from onlookers while she gave him the finger. “Did you get his statement?” Ochoa held up his notebook and nodded, affirming. “I guess we’re covered here, then,” she said. And then she thought of her coyote. She looked up the block at the AMDW. “I want to ask him about that dog.”
Nikki regretted her decision immediately. Ten paces from the dog walker, he called out, “Oh, my God, it is you! You’re Nikki Heat!”
Onlookers farther up the sidewalk pressed forward, probably just wondering what the sudden commotion was more than knowing who she was, but Nikki took no chances. She instinctively lowered her gaze to the pavement and turned sideways, adopting the pose she’d seen in the tabloids, of celebrities ambushed by the paparazzi on their way out of restaurants.
She stepped close and tried to clue the AMDW into the decibel level she wanted him to adopt by speaking in a low one herself. “Hi, yes, I’m Detective Heat.”
The AMDW not only didn’t pick up on the tone, he got more effusive. “Oh. My. God!” And then could it get worse for her? “Can I have a picture with you, Miss Heat?” He held out his cell phone to her two detectives.
“Come on, Ochoa,” said Raley, “let’s see what’s happening with Forensics.”
“Is that . . . Roach? It’s them, isn’t it?” called the witness. “Just like in the article!” Detectives Raley and Ochoa looked at each other, made no attempt to mask their disdain, and kept walking. “Oh well,” said T. Michael Dove, “this will have to do, then,” and he held his cell cam out at arm’s length, leaned his head beside Heat’s, and snapped the picture himself.
Like most people raised in the say-cheese generation, Nikki came factory-programmed to smile when her picture was taken. Not this time. Her heart was sinking so fast she was sure the pic came out looking something like a mug shot.
Her fan examined his screen and said, “Why so modest? Lady, you’ve got the cover of a national magazine. Last month, Robert Downey, Jr., this month, Nikki Heat. You’re a celebrity.”
“Maybe we can talk about that later, Mr. Dove. I’m really sort of focused on what you might have seen concerning our homicide.”
“I can’t believe this,” he said. “I am an eyewitness for New York City’s top homicide detective.”
Nikki wondered if a grand jury would indict if she put a cap in him. Dropped him right there. But instead she said, “That’s not really so. Now, I’d like to ask—”
“Not the top detective? Not according to that article.”
That article.
That damned article.