“Maybe if you let it go—”
“I can’t!…Let it go.” He smiled. “OK, that was a little crazy, wasn’t it?” She rocked her head side to side. “Yuh, thought so.” He sipped some cold coffee and leaned back, willing calm upon himself. “I just feel like I should have this nailed.”
“You’re proud of your phone surfing, I know.”
“It’s not pride. Well, a little. But, what it really is, is wanting to get some damned traction on this story.” He corrected himself. “Case, I mean case.”
Nikki sat with him. “It’s all right. It can be both. I know it’s a story, too. And I know there might be another Pulitzer Prize for you, that would be nice. You could embroider another gold coin on your flak vest.”
He got a chuckle out of that. He wouldn’t be Rook if he couldn’t see his own folly. Then he said, “Yeah, yeah, we joke about the Pulitzers. The Pulitzers are fine, I suppose. Not that I don’t love them. I have two, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“But the awards aren’t the goal. They just follow. You know I do this because it makes a difference, don’t you? I’ve exposed arms dealers supplying terrorists, diamond smugglers, human traffickers…And now I can help blow the whistle on Tangier effing Swift and his safety cover-up. That means I have a chance to save lives. Who can say that about what they do?”
“Doctors, nurses, first responders, suicide hotline counselors…”
“OK, yes, this is how we joke about my Pulitzers. Ha-ha, L-O-L, winking emoji, hashtag–you made your point.”
“No, I hear you,” said Heat. “And love you for that fire you have.”
“You have it, too, Nik. It’s what we share. And I want to see this through. I may not be able to get justice for those crash victims—or, now, the murder victims—but when my article comes out, there won’t be any more lives wasted.”
“So go to it. And leave the justice part to me. And if you’re going to insist on jotting down your numbers, why don’t you do it with something worthy of your quest?”
She went to her coat draped on the barstool and came back with the box from the Fountain Pen Hospital. He took it, removed the lid, and found his Hemingway Montblanc nestled in a felt liner. He carefully unscrewed the cap to examine the new nib, then looked up at her with tender eyes. “I’m speechless…I can’t believe you touched my good pen.”
Heat and Rook had a surprise waiting when they arrived at the precinct that morning. Nikki spotted the red satin track suit through the glass doors while she was still on the sidewalk and gave Rook a muttered “What is this?” to go with an elbow jab. Her curiosity only grew when she passed the Wall of Heroes, got a full view of the lobby, and saw that not only was Fat Tommy there but beside him in the visitors’ chairs sat none other than Joseph Barsotti. In that tableau, instead of a journeyman mobster and his muscle, the pair resembled an irascible senior and the dutiful grandson who insisted on waiting with Pop-Pop to make sure he got on the right bus.
But prudent caution made Heat eye-sweep them for signs of weapons and ascertain that they were the only ones there, except for the desk sergeant behind the ballistic glass. From police stations to shopping malls, no place was truly benign to Heat anymore, nor was anyone, hospice-bound or otherwise.
“Thank God you guys start early,” said Fat Tommy. “Been a long night at the Wheel, and I’m ready for bed.”