cratered and his money supply pinched off. Hence today’s assault. Who knows, maybe our dead gazillionaire kept the little missus on a short money leash. Or maybe Matthew Starr found out about her affair and she killed him.”
Raley nodded. “Does look bad that she was cheating on him.”
“I have a novel idea,” said Heat. “Why don’t we do this thing called an investigation? Gather evidence, assemble some facts. Somehow that might sound better in court than, ‘Here’s how it spins for me.’ ”
Rook took out his Moleskine notebook. “Excellent. This is all going to be swell in my article.” He clicked a pen theatrically to needle her. “So what do we investigate first?”
“Raley,” said Heat, “check out the Beacon, see if Gable’s been a regular there. Show them a picture of Mrs. Starr while you’re at it. Ochoa, how soon can you pull together a background check on our trophy widow?”
“How’s first thing tomorrow?”
“OK, but I was kind of hoping for first thing tomorrow.”
Rook raised his hand. “Question? Why not just pick her up? I would love to see what happens when you set her down in your hall of mirrors.”
“Much as I live my day to provide you with top entertainment, I’m going to hold off until I learn a little more. Besides, she’s not going anywhere.”
The next morning, amid flickering lights, City Hall put out the word for New Yorkers to curtail air-conditioning use and strenuous activity. For Nikki Heat that meant her close-quarter combat training with Don, the ex-SEAL, would be done with the gym windows open. His brand of training combined Brazilian jujitsu, boxing, and judo. Their sparring began at five-thirty with a round of grapples and rolls in eighty-two degrees and humidity to match. After the second water break Don asked her if she wanted to call it. Heat answered with a takedown and a textbook blood choke and release. She seemed to thrive on the adverse weather, fed on it, really. Rather than wearing her down, the gasping intensity of morning combat pushed out the noise of her life and left her in a quiet inner place. It was the same way when she and Don had sex from time to time. She decided if she had nothing going, maybe next week she’d suggest another after-hours session to her trainer, with benefits. Anything to get her heart rate up.
Lauren Parry led Nikki Heat and her reporter tag-along through the autopsy room to the body of Matthew Starr. “As always, Nik,” said the medical examiner, “we don’t have the tox work yet, but barring lab surprises, I’m writing up cause of death as blunt force trauma due to a fall from an unreasonable height.”
“And what box are you going to check, suicide or homicide?”
“That’s why I called you down. I found something that indicates homicide.” The M.E. circled to the other side of the corpse and lifted the sheet. “We’ve got a series of fist-sized contusions on the torso. These tell me he got worked over sometime day of. Look closely at this one here.”
Heat and Rook leaned in at the same time and she drew away to avoid a repeat of the balcony perfume ad. He stepped back and gestured a be-my-guest. “Very distinct bruising,” said the detective. “I can make out knuckles, and what’s this hexagonal shape from, a ring?” She stepped out to let Rook in and said, “Lauren, I’d like to get a photo of that one.”
Her friend was already holding out a print to her. “I’ll put it up on the server so you can copy it, and what did you do, get in a bar fight?” She was looking at Rook.
“Me? Oh, just a little line-of-duty action yesterday. Cool, huh?”
“Way you’re standing, my guess is intercostal injury right here.” She touched his ribs without pressing. “Does it hurt when you laugh?”
Heat said, “Say ‘line-of-duty action’ again, that’s funny.”
Detective Heat taped autopsy blowups on the bull pen whiteboard to prep for her unit case meeting. She drew a line with a dry-erase marker and wrote the names of the Forensics print matches off the balcony doors at the Guilford: Matthew Starr, Kimberly Starr, Matty Starr, and Agda the nanny. Raley arrived early with a bag of donut holes and confirmed Barry Gable’s regular hotel bookings at the Beacon. Reception and service staff had identified Kimberly Starr as his steady guest. “Oh, and the lab work came in on Barry the Beacon Beefcake’s blue jeans,” he added. “No match to those balcony fibers.”
“No surprise,” Heat said. “But it was fun to see how fast he was willing to drop his pants.”
“Fun for you,” said Rook.
She smiled. “Yeah, definitely one of the perks of the job watching sweaty clods shimmy out of their knockoff jeans.”
Ochoa rushed in, speaking as he crossed to them. “I’m late, it was worth it, shut up.” He pulled some printouts from his messenger bag. “I just finished the background check on Kimberly Starr. Or shall I say Laldomina Batastini of Queens, New Yawk?”
The unit drew close as he read bits from the file. “Our preppy Stepford Mom was born and raised in Astoria above a mani-pedi salon on Steinway. About as far from the Connecticut girls’ schools and riding academies as you can get. Let’s see, high school dropout…and she’s got a rap sheet.” He handed it to Heat.
“No felonies,” she said. “Juvie busts for shoplifting, and later for pot. One DUI…Oh, and, here we go, busted twice at nineteen for lewd acts with customers. Young Laldomina was a lap dancer at numerous clubs near the airport, performing under the name Samantha.”
“I always said
Ochoa took the sheet back from Heat and said, “I talked to a pal in Vice. Kimberly, Samantha, whatever, hooked up with some guy, a regular at the club, and she married him. She was twenty. He was sixty-eight and loaded. Her sugar daddy was from Greenwich old money and wanted to take her to the yacht club, so he—”
“Let me guess,” said Rook, “he got her a Henry Higgins,” drawing blank stares from Roach.
“I speak musical theater,” Heat said. Right up there with animated films, Broadway was Nikki’s great escape from her work on the other streets of New York—when she could swing a ticket. “He means her new husband got his exotic dancer a charm tutor for a presentability makeover. A class on class.”
Rook added, “And a Kimberly Starr is born.”
“The husband died when she was twenty-one. I know what you’re thinking, so I double-checked. Natural causes. Heart attack. The man left her one million dollars.”
“And a taste for more. Nice work, Detective.” Ochoa popped a victory donut hole, and Heat continued. “You and Raley keep a tail on her. Loose one. I’m not ready to show my hand until I see what else shakes free on other fronts.”
Heat had learned years ago that most detective work is grunt work done pounding the phones, combing files, and searching the department’s database. The calls she had made the afternoon before, to Starr’s attorney and detectives working complaints against persons, had paid off that morning with a file of people who’d made threats on the real estate developer’s life. She grabbed her shoulder bag and signed out, figuring it was about time to show her celeb magazine writer what fieldwork was all about, but she couldn’t find him.
She had almost left Rook behind when she came upon him standing in the precinct lobby, very occupied. A drop-dead-stunning woman was smoothing the collar of his shirt. The stunner barked out a laugh, shrieked, “Oh, Jamie!” then pulled her designer sunglasses off her head to shake her raven shoulder-length hair. Heat watched her lean in close to whisper, pressing her D-cups right against him. He didn’t step back, either. What was Rook doing, making a perfume ad with every damn woman in the city? Then she stopped herself. Why do I care? she thought. It bothered her that it even bothered her. So she blew it off and walked out, mad at herself for her one look back at them.
“So what’s the point of this exercise?” Rook asked on the drive uptown.
“It’s something we professionals in the world of detection call detecting.” Heat picked the file out of her driver’s door pocket and passed it to him. “Somebody wanted Matthew Starr dead. A few you’ll see in there made actual threats. Others just found him inconvenient.”
“So this is about eliminating them?”
“This is about asking questions and seeing where the answers lead. Sometimes you flush out a suspect, sometimes you’re getting information you didn’t have that takes you somewhere else. Was that another member of the Jameson Rook fan club back there?”
Rook chuckled. “Bree? Oh, hell, no.”
