Raging Heat

“There goes my weekend in Lahaina.”


“No leaves, not even for the weekend,” he shot back, trumpeting his total lack of irony. As she entered the bull pen he called out, “And Heat. No more letting personnel leave the city for a Friday fuck off without my OK.” It wasn’t his snippy tone that made her flare. Or shouting into her squad room at her like that. It was one more instance of the armchair administrator calling shots. Nikki took it to his face.

“I think we had better be clear on something, Captain.” His eyes popped at the unexpected confrontation. Behind her, Detectives Rhymer and Feller swiveled their desk chairs to rubberneck. “Sean Raley and Miguel Ochoa are seasoned investigators who were working very late hours last night and took the initiative to call me to request permission to explore what they see as a promising lead upstate. I will back these detectives for their tenacity and heads-up play. I will also be respectful and honor your request for the sign-off. But I will not let you characterize the work of these men as a ‘Friday fuck off’.” She left him there and went to her desk, reading the emergency status memo.

It said that Sandy had crossed the Bahamas and begun a more north-northwesterly course. Even though it had diminished from just one mile per hour shy of a Category Three hurricane to a Cat One, it remained potent and dangerous with wind speeds of eighty. Up the Eastern seaboard, North Carolina, Maryland, DC, Pennsylvania, and New York had already declared states of emergency, with New Jersey and Connecticut expected to follow suit. In anticipation of possible landfall sometime Monday into Tuesday, the mayor had officially opened New York City’s Office of Emergency Management’s Situation Room. Not only were leaves and vacations canceled, but also all police, fire, and sanitation workers should be expected to be ready for deployment, as ordered, for public safety and civil order.

Heat shared the memo with Feller and Rhymer, who were back to working their phones, beating the bushes for anything that would resuscitate the stalled Beauvais-Capois murder case. She didn’t think it would be too early to try Rook, so she stepped outside onto Eighty-second Street for some privacy and called his number.

It didn’t go straight to voice mail, which told her the phone was on. And it delivered the full complement of rings before she heard his outgoing message, so at least he hadn’t pushed the decline button to reject her. Hearing his recording, Nikki’s mouth went dry. After the tone, she kept it short and as pleasant as she could manage given her stress level. “Hey, it’s me. Storm’s coming, thought I’d check on you. Call me so we can talk, all right?” She almost hung up but added, “I’m here” first.

She looked up at the sky, which was brilliant blue with only a few vaporous clouds the morning sun hadn’t burned off yet. No hint of the cyclonic pinwheel feeding off humid water a thousand miles southeast. The storm made her think of the Emily Dickinson poem Rook joked about in happier days—at the chicken slaughterhouse. The one that called hope the thing with feathers that sings such a sweet tune. And in her mind, she recited her favorite stanza:

And sweetest in the Gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm.

Then her iPhone buzzed with a text from Rook. It said he thought they should take a breath and get some space. He’d be in touch. He didn’t say when.

Not one feather on that.


When Raley and Ochoa checked in later that morning they were southbound on the Taconic in the Roach Coach. “What did you learn at the farm?” she asked.

“Not much from Walter Sliney, that’s for sure.”

The speakerphone picked up Ochoa, whom she could envision behind the wheel. “Total doucher.”

“Understandable, though,” said Raley. “He was icing us to protect his brother.”

“Who murders old ladies.” Another addition from Ochoa.