Soleil examined the DMV photo of Esteban Padilla. “Nope.”
“What about this man?” She handed her the police sketch of the Texan. “Ever see him?”
“Nuh-uh. Looks like the Bad Santa guy.” She gave Nikki a smug smile.
“And what about him? Do you know him?” Nikki handed her a head shot of Derek Snow at his autopsy and watched the arrogance melt off her face.
“Oh, my God . . .” She let the picture flutter to the floor.
Heat said, “His name was Derek. The same Derek you popped a cap on in the Dragonfly House last December. Is that the Derek you got a call from when you were with Zane Taft? I’m asking because you left the Brooklyn Diner and this man, Derek Snow, was murdered shortly after that.”
“I can’t . . . I . . .” Soleil’s face went ashen.
“We’re talking two people connected to you who were killed that night, Soleil. You think good and hard and tell me what’s going on. Was Cassidy Towne writing something about you? And I want the truth, no more lying.”
“I have nothing more to say to you.”
The crew was coming back onto the set. Soleil Gray pushed through them as she ran out. Rook said, “Aren’t you going to try to hold her?”
“For what? I can charge her with lying to a police officer? Go back in time and hit her with illegal discharge of a firearm? That’s not getting me anywhere. The record company lawyers would have her out in time to sing on tonight’s show. I’d rather save that card for when it would do me some good. Right now, what I want to do is keep pressure on her and let her freak.”
“All right. But if she blows that cartwheel tonight, it’s on you.”
They waited around in their back row seats for rehearsal to resume. In Nikki’s experience, sometimes difficult people had changes of heart after she jammed them, and she wanted to give Soleil a breather to reflect and, perhaps, return in a more cooperative mode. But after they’d spent fifteen minutes in the freezing studio, the stage manager called a one-hour meal break and Soleil didn’t come forward, so they left.
As they turned the corner into the hallway leading to the elevators, someone called out behind them, “Oh, my God. Is that Nikki Heat?”
She whispered, “I don’t need this right now.”
Rook said, “Maybe we can outrun this one.”
“Nikki?” said the man.
Hearing his voice again, she stopped walking, and Rook watched a look cross over her, the annoyance transforming into dawning surprise. Then Nikki turned and her face lit up into a radiant smile. “Oh, my God!”
Rook twisted to look behind him at the lanky, sandy-haired guy in the V-neck and jeans approaching with his arms spread wide. Nikki ran to him, colliding with him, and they hugged. She squealed with glee and he laughed. And then they rocked each other back and forth, still hugging. Not sure what to do with himself, Rook shoved his hands in his pockets and looked on as the two pulled apart to hold each other at arm’s length, beaming.
“Look at you,” said Nikki. “With no beard.”
“You look the same,” he said. “No, better.” Rook noticed his “r” had a guttural sound, not a burr like he was Scottish, but definitely an accent.
Then Nikki gave him a kiss. Brief, but—as Rook made note—full on the lips. Finally, still holding him by one arm, she turned to Rook and said, “This is Petar. My old boyfriend from college.”
“No kidding.” Rook put a hand out and they shook. “I’m Jameson.”
“James?” he said.
“Jameson. And you’re . . . Peter?” Rook was a man who could be proud of a cheap shot.
“No, Petar. Rhymes with ‘guitar.’ People make that mistake all the time.”
“I can’t get over this.” Nikki gave Petar a shake with the arm she had around his waist. “I didn’t even know you were in New York.”
“Yes, I work here as one of the segment producers.”
“Petar, that’s great. So you’re the producer?” she asked.