That damned Jameson Rook for writing it.
It had felt wrong to her from the beginning. Last June, when Rook got his assignment from the magazine, it was to profile an NYPD homicide squad with a high rate of case clearance. The department cooperated because they liked the PR of cop success, especially if it personalized the force. Detective Heat was underwhelmed by the fishbowl aspect when her squad was chosen, but she went along because Captain Montrose told her to.
When Rook began his one-week ride-along, it was supposed to be in a rotation with the entire team. By the end of his first day he had changed his focus, claiming he could tell a better story using the leader of the squad as the eyes to cover the entire picture. Nikki’s eyes saw his plan for what it was, a thinly veiled ruse to hang out with her. And sure enough, he started suggesting drinks, dinner, breakfast, offering backstage passes to Steely Dan at the Beacon and black tie cocktails with Tim Burton at MoMA to kick off an exhibition of his sketches. Rook was a name dropper, but he was also actually connected.
He used his relationship with the mayor to stay on ride-along with her weeks beyond his initial commitment. And over time, in spite of herself, Nikki started to feel, well, intrigued by this guy. It wasn’t because he was on a first-name basis with everyone from Mick to Bono to Sarkozy. Or that he was cute, or looked good. A great ass is just that, a great ass and no more—although not to be discounted completely. It was . . . the total package.
The Rook of him.
Whether it was Jameson Rook’s charm offensive or her passion for him, they ended up sleeping together. And sleeping together again. And again. And again . . . Sex with Rook was always smokin’ but did not always represent her best judgment, she reflected in hindsight. However, when they were together, thinking and judgment took a backseat to the fireworks. As he put it the night they made love in his kitchen after dashing to his place through a torrential downpour, “The heat will not be denied.” Writer, she thought. And yet, so true.
Things began to unravel for her around the stupid article. Rook hadn’t shown her his draft yet when the photographer showed up at the precinct to shoot pictures, and the first clue was that they were all of her. She held out for team shots, especially of Raley and Ochoa, her stalwarts; however, the best she could get out of the shooter were a few group photos with her team arranged behind her.
The worst of it for her were the poses. When Captain Montrose said she had to cooperate, Nikki indulged a few candids, but the photographer, an A-lister with a bulldozer approach, started posing her. “This is for the cover,” he said. “The candids won’t work for that.” So she went along.
At least she did until the photographer was directing her to look tougher peering through the bars in the lockup and said, “Come on, show me some of that avenging-my-mother fire I’ve been reading about.”
That night she demanded Rook show her the article. When she finished reading, Nikki asked him to take her out of it. It wasn’t just that it made her the star of the squad. Or that it minimized the efforts of her team, turning the others into footnotes. Or that it was destined to make her so visible—Cinderella was one of her favorite movies, although Nikki thought she’d rather enjoy it as a fairy tale than live it. Her biggest objection was that it was too personal. Especially the part about her mother’s murder.
To Nikki, Rook seemed blinded by his own creation. Everything she mentioned, he had an answer for. He told her that every person he profiled freaked before publication. She said maybe he should start listening to them. Argument on. He said he couldn’t edit her out of the article because she was the article. “And even if I wanted to? It’s locked. It’s already typeset.”