Waiting for the cross signal on 45th, Rook followed her gaze to the newsstand where a dozen Nikki Heats hung from clothespins along the roof of the kiosk.
“How many weeks till November?” she said. And then the light changed and they crossed the street to enter the lobby of the Marriott Marquis.
They found Soleil’s old keyboardist Zane Taft exactly where his agent had told Nikki he would be, in the Marquis Ballroom on the ninth floor. Nikki had also gotten the musician’s cell phone number, but she didn’t call ahead. Soleil could have already texted him, as she did Allie, but if she hadn’t yet, no reason to give him a heads-up and a chance to call his former lead singer to line up their alibi stories.
He was alone in the ballroom, on a riser overlooking the empty dance floor, doing a sound check on his keyboard. The first thing Nikki noticed about him was his smile, big and open and crammed with perfect teeth. He fished out Diet Cokes from the ice bucket the hotel had left for him, a man glad for the company.
“Got a gig here tonight, a Sweet Sixty.”
“Birthday party?” asked Rook.
Zane shrugged. “Life, huh? Four years ago today I’m at the Hollywood Bowl in Shades, playing our second encore, looking out at Sir Paul in the front row and making eye contact with Jessica Alba. And now?” He popped the tab on his aluminum can and Coke fizzed over. “I should have had a business manager. Anyway, tonight I’m getting duked an extra three hundred because birthday boy likes Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons and I know all the songs from Jersey Boys.” He slurped the overflow from around the rim of the can. “Fact is, Soleil was the band. She gets the fat contract, I get to play ‘Do You Like Pi?a Coladas?’ for boomers who are recession-proof enough to afford parties for themselves.”
Nikki said, “You don’t sound bitter.”
“What’s that going to get you? And, hey, Soleil’s still a pal. She checks on me from time to time, or when she hears about a studio gig, she’ll make a call for me. It’s cool.” He smiled and all those teeth reminded Heat of the keyboard on his Yamaha.
“Have you been in touch with her recently?” Nikki phrased it openly, seeing how he played it.
“Yeah, she called about half an hour ago, telling me to expect a visit from the famous detective, what’s-her-name. That’s her saying that, not me.”
“No problem,” she said. “Did Soleil tell you why we’re here?”
He nodded and took another hit off his soda. “Here’s the truth. Yes, she was with me the other night. You know, when the lady got killed. But not for long. She met up with me at the Brooklyn Diner on Fifty-seventh about midnight. I was only on the first bite of my Fifteen Bite Hot Dog when she got a call and freaked and said she had to go. That’s Soleil, though.”
“I can never finish those,” said Rook. “And I’m a dog eater.”
Nikki ignored Rook. “So she was only with you for how long?”
“Ten minutes, if.”
“Did she say who the call was from?”
“No, but I heard her say his first name when she answered. Derek. I remember it because I started thinking . . . and the Dominos. You know as in,” and then he started riffing the iconic piano solo from “Layla,” the coda sounding as authentic as if the band were in the room. Later that night, he’d be playing “Big Girls Don’t Cry” for a landscape contractor from Massapequa, Long Island.
As soon as the doors closed to the ballroom, Rook said to Heat, “Know how you’ve been kidding me, always saying my insider knowledge ain’t crap?”
“Who says I was kidding?”
“Well, stop. Because I know who Derek is.”
Nikki U-turned herself in the hallway and stepped in front of him. “Seriously? You know who Derek is?”
“I do.”
“Who?”