Gaining access to the Port Authority Emergency Management Office came easily enough—if you planned ahead. Which is just what Heat had done. She was too experienced to come all that way with her entourage only to be turned back. So Nikki had phoned Cooper McMains, the commander of the NYPD Counterterrorism unit to discreetly secure entry for her entire group. The bond of trust that had developed between the commander and the detective was strong enough that he did not ask her the reason for her visit, nor did she volunteer it. She knew McMains to be not only one of the most trustworthy cops she’d met, but one of the smartest. In her heart, Heat believed he had her mission figured and was tactful enough not to carry the conversation further into potentially uncomfortable zones.
The result of laying such groundwork was to witness the utter shock on the face of Port Authority commissioner Keith Gilbert when Nikki Heat and Jameson Rook strode into his situation room during one of his press briefings. “Thank you,” he boomed mid-question to the gathering of media, some of who reacted with dismay at the uncharacteristically short shrift when he stepped away from the podium. Gilbert was so taken aback that, for a moment, he waffled in place, unsure of which direction to go—to Heat, or away. Nikki decided to help the man decide.
“Commissioner Gilbert,” she said, marching forward directly to him. “Detective Heat, NYPD. You remember me, I’ll bet.”
The commish smiled the politician’s smile—the one that gets pasted on when there’s a chance a picture might be taken. And God knew there was a press pool’s worth of lenses surrounding them both. He put out his hand and when she took it he gave a hard squeeze then pulled her close so he could speak low in her ear through his grin. “What the fuck do you think you are up to?”
With a hand that still felt rubbery from the previous night’s rodeo on the roof of the BearCat, Nikki returned a bone vise of her own. “What I’m paid to do, Commissioner. I catch murderers.”
Behind her, the public information officer for Gilbert’s campaign approached Rook. After greeting each other Rook said, “A little out of your area, aren’t you, Dennis?”
“How so?”
“This isn’t exactly a political event.”
The PIO chuckled. “My friend, when you’re ramping up for a nomination, everything is a political event. I’ve got a video guy here getting footage of him for future ads.”
“Tell your guy to keep his lens cap off,” said Rook. “He may get some unexpected candids.” He moved over beside Heat, leaving the flak to wonder what that meant.
When he joined her, Keith Gilbert had turned his back to the press pool to square off with Nikki. His face was empurpled with suppressed rage. Still, he maintained a hushed tone. “What are you, some kind of a stalker? Use your goddamned head. Look around. You’ve come into my situation room in the middle of a crisis.” Heat scanned the nerve center. Clearly the immediate danger had passed sufficiently that the other commissioners, officials, and their lieutenants were running things just fine on their own.
“Seems like things have slackened enough for you to do your media thing against this nice backdrop.”
“Your guy’s getting some sweet footage, too,” added Rook with a thumbs up to Dennis and his shooter across the room.
“As usual, Heat, you’re out of line and your timing sucks.”
“Think so?” said Nikki. “I think my timing may be just about perfect.”
“Hear me loud and clear. You are not going to make a scene in here. Especially not now.” Then he saw something over Heat’s shoulder that made his forehead tighten enough for the weathered creases to go smooth.
Across the room, Detective Rhymer stepped through the glass doors accompanied by two uniformed policewomen escorting Alicia Delamater. His spurned mistress gave him a hard glare that he broke off to sweep the area. All he saw were too many underlings. And press.