“No. Livor mortis indicates that he died seated in that boat.”
Nikki didn’t bother with a good-bye, just scrambled for the incoming before it dumped to voicemail. “Captain Heat.”
“You didn’t waste any time catching a hot one your first day,” said the chief of detectives without a hello or introduction. Heat guessed he had figured out that she was a detective and could read a caller ID.
“No, sir.”
“In about ten minutes, I’m riding with the commissioner to a strategy session on these protests over this college kid from Syria. That shrink was one of our own, and the commish wants a briefing in the car. What do you have?”
She jumped to her feet for an unobstructed view of the Murder Board and began to PowerPoint him, fighting off the squeeze of accountability tightening a corset around her rib cage. Just breathe, Nikki told herself as she spoke. Heat had been in gunfights and felt more at ease.
In two minutes, she had summarized it all, ending with the autopsy findings. “And those just came in when you called, so you couldn’t be more current.”
“Is that supposed to impress me?”
“Sir?”
“I’ll fluff it out for the boss, but sounds to me like you’re still clearing your throat. Captain, I want you to move off the prelims and generate some activity. Give me some meat to report, or—preferably—closure. And soon. Am I understood?”
“Of course. Yes, Chief.” Heat didn’t know if he had stayed on the call long enough to hear her answer. But he was a detective. He could figure out what it was.
Nikki found Raley and Ochoa at a table in the break room interviewing Rook, and, to judge from their expressions, getting about as far beyond his journalistic privilege as she had. “Boys, let’s convene.”
“Sounds good,” said Rook, hopping to his feet with a grin, rubbing his hands together vigorously.
“A meeting?” asked Ochoa from his chair. “Early on, don’t you think?”
His partner didn’t get up either. “Kind of still tasking.”
The air of disagreement hanging between the cops sent Rook to the door. “You guys work this out. I’ll be in the bull pen.”
“Seriously,” said Ochoa after Rook had left. “We spend more time in meetings, we’ll never get traction.”
So this is what it becomes, thought Nikki. A battleground of preordained roles. Detectives wanting more time. Downtown wanting more results. Precinct commander caught in the vise grip in between. One slot Heat refused to fill—especially on day one—was that of a skipper harried by her superiors into pushing the pressure down the line. She also didn’t want to be perceived as susceptible to that pressure herself. The flop sweat of Captain Irons was still stinking up the halls of the Twentieth. So she didn’t mention the hotfoot she’d just gotten from the chief of detectives. “Meeting in five minutes” was all she said, then left them to work it out.
With no sign of dissent, her interim homicide squad leaders had gathered the crew by the time Captain Heat entered the bull pen from her office to begin the meeting. Rook, busy in the back of the room at his squatter’s desk, finished pulling a shot of espresso from his machine and joined the semicircle around the Murder Board.
Nikki began with a recap of Dr. Parry’s autopsy results, which led to a handoff to Detective Ochoa and the report he had just received from the ballistics lab.
“As expected, we were looking for a small-caliber GSW. The vic’s autopsy yielded a .22 slug. Rounded, non-hollow-point.”
Feller finished a note and commented, “The .22 is an interesting choice, considering the conditions.”
“In an alley fight, I’d want a .9mm or a .44 Mag,” said Inez Aguinaldo. “But when I was military police, there were a fair number of fatals with .25s and .22s. Your critical factors are always distance, angle, and location.”