For Nikki Heat today, there was just no escape.
The dude with the pale skin and bloody patch of scalp kept reading and asked them if they wanted it for an hour or a day. “If you get day, ice and baby oil comes with.”
Rook leaned over to Heat and whispered, “I think I know why they call this the Sophisticate.”
Nikki elbowed him and said, “Actually, we’re looking for one of your guests, Holly Flanders.” She watched his eyes dart up from the paper toward the ceiling above his head and then back to her.
“Flanders,” he said. “I’m trying to remember.” And then, pointedly, “Maybe you can help me.”
“Sure.” Nikki drew aside her blazer and flashed the tin on her belt. “That help you any?”
The room number he gave them was down a dingy second-floor hall that smelled like disinfectant and puke. There was an outside chance Ichabod Crane was going to call the room and tip Flanders off, so Heat told Rook to stay down there to watch him. He didn’t like the assignment, but agreed. Before she left, she reminded him what happened last time he didn’t stay downstairs when she told him to.
“Oh, yeah. I have a vague recollection. Something about getting taken hostage at gunpoint, right? . . .”
Behind every door she passed, daytime television blared. It was as if people blasted TV noise to cover life noise and only succeeded in making more noise. Inside one room, a woman was crying and moaning, “It’s all I had left, it’s all I had left.” It sounded like prison to Heat.
She stopped outside 217 and positioned herself off-line with the door. She didn’t know how much to put into Ludlow’s warning about the handgun purchase, but she checked her coat clearance anyway. Always good policy if you planned to go home that night.
She knocked and listened. A TV was on in there, too, although not as loud. Seinfeld, from the bass guitar riff after the laugh. She knocked once more and listened. Kramer was getting banned from the produce market.
“Shut up out there,” came a man’s voice from somewhere across the hall.
Heat knocked louder and announced herself. “Holly Flanders, NYPD, open this door.” As soon as she said the word, the door flew open and a chubby man with braided pigtails ran past her and up the hall. He was naked and carrying his clothes.
The door had a pneumatic closer, and before it shut, Nikki crouched low and clotheslined it open with her left arm as she put her hand on her gun butt. “Holly Flanders, show yourself.” She heard Jerry himself getting thrown out of the produce market and then a window sash thrown in the room.
She rolled in low and came up with her Sig Sauer just in time to see a woman’s leg disappear out the window. Heat ran to it, pressed her back against the wall, and made a quick look out and then back. A yelp came from below, and she looked down to see a young woman, early twenties, in jeans but topless, lying on her back on a pile of trash.
When Heat holstered her weapon and ran out into the hall, it was crowding with people, mostly women, coming out of their rooms to see what the excitement was. Nikki shouted, “NYPD, back, back, clear the way,” which only brought more curiosity-seekers. Most of them were slow movers, too; drugged or dazed, what did it matter? After fighting her way through them, she bounded the stairs in twos and pushed through the glass doors to the outside. A large dent in a black trash bag marked Holly’s landing spot.
Heat stepped to the sidewalk and looked right. Saw nothing. Then left, and could not believe what she saw. Holly Flanders being led back to her by the elbow, escorted by Rook. She was wearing his sport coat but was still topless underneath.