In the dead quiet that had descended over the room as they reflected on the surveillance implications, Heat said, “Well. They went to a lot of trouble. Glad I made it worth their while.”
Nikki backed up closer to the Murder Board, which had grown so full of pictures and congested with marker notes in all colors and sizes that it looked like one of those urban buildings that, unbidden, becomes a tagger’s paradise. She declared to the group, “And guess what? I’m not done. Legal Affairs may have wimped out, but I am not erasing this. Instead, I am digging in. Gilbert is dirty, and the fact that he’s flipped from own recog to no recog changes nothing. He’s not going anywhere. The storm will keep him around, and tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that, we are going to find the thing we don’t have up there yet.…” She paused and surveyed the history of the case on the whiteboard, then continued, “…And we will do exactly what he hoped for in his press conference: Bring the true killer of Fabian Beauvais to justice. And I know who that is.”
When she turned back to face her homicide squad she guessed only half of them were with her. That was a start.
When she unlocked the door to her apartment, she almost called “Lucy, I’m home” to set a lighter tone with Rook, but something gave her pause. Heat knew the feel of her own place—the sounds, the scents, the atmosphere—through many years and countless moments. She’d known it as a party space and a work space; a love scene and a crime scene; and all shades in-between. What was off?
The quiet? No, not that, because it wasn’t exactly quiet. The city ambience of car horns and far distant sirens seemed too present, as if a window were open.
Heat dismissed the notion of going downstairs to the cruiser posted across Twentieth Street, but mindful of Detective Rhymer’s briefing, she closed the door quietly and rested her hand on her holster as she crept forward. Nikki reached the end of the rug where her entry hall met the corner turn to the kitchen and saw a white cocktail napkin on the floor. She chanced a peek around the edge and saw another napkin two feet away. A doorman’s taxi whistle drifted across the square from the Gramercy Park Hotel and one ply of the far napkin lifted in a breeze to wave hello and then settled at rest. The warmth of a fond remembrance enfolded her and she took her hand off her gun. Then Nikki stepped around the corner and smiled.
A line of cocktail napkins led across the floor like paper stepping-stones from the hallway, through the living room, to the open window. When she stuck her head out to look up, The fire escape was lit by votive candles to the roof. Nikki thought, this day could turn around yet, and started climbing.
Rook took her by the hand when she reached the upper rung and held it in a courtly manner that began playfully but became genuine as she stepped onto the flat of the rooftop. “Looks like you had no trouble finding me. Talk about a paper trail, huh?”
“I seem to recall you using that method once before.”
“Hold that thought,” he said. “It’s the theme of the evening.”
“It’s Thursday. Since when does Thursday have a theme?”
“You’re the fancy-ass detective. You figure it out.” He stepped aside so she could take in the alfresco dining spot he had created for them. Two chairs at a table covered by a white linen cloth reflecting pools of dancing candlelight had been grouped in the center of the roof. To the side, a card table with more candles was set with covered dishes and the makings of a bar.
“I don’t exactly know.” She took a stab. “Romantic, open-air dinner?”
“Congratulations.” He held her in both his arms and smoothed her hair. “You win. You are the worst detective ever. Our theme tonight is Beginner’s Eyes.” As he led her over, Rook said, “Tonight, we are going back to our beginnings, Nikki Heat. Remember our first time? Of course you do, I was magnificent, a stallion. I digress.” He gestured to the bar, which amounted simply to a bottle of tequila, a shot glass, lime wedges, and a salt shaker. “Our first drink ‘that night’?”