2003 in Atlantic City.”
The man was unruffled. “I’m sure I am not aware of what you’re talking about.”
Nikki reached over to the chair beside her and moved the open cookie tins of cash onto the table. “Does this refresh your memory?” For the first time since she came in the room, Heat saw the veneer crack. Not much, but his eyes flicked side to side. “No? Let me help you. This cash has been traced back to a deal brokered in your hotel suite at one of the casinos. The buyer was undercover DEA. He went in with a wire and this cash and was supposed to come out with a duffel of cocaine. Instead, he turned up in a Pennsylvania landfill three weeks later.”
The twinkle of rogue charm left his eyes as they hardened. But still he said nothing. “Let’s try some more show-and-tell.” Nikki handed over a picture of Father Graf.
“I don’t know this one, either.” He was lying. Cool as he was, Martinez showed the classic stress tells… the blinks, the dry mouth.
“Look again, I think you do.”
He gave the most cursory glance and slid it back. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Do you have any idea how this money ended up in his possession?”
“I would refer you to my prior answer. I don’t know him.”
Nikki told the ex-con about the priest’s murder and asked him where he was that night. He pondered, fixing his eyes to the ceiling and swabbing a chalky tongue over his laminates.
“As I recall, I was out to dinner. Yes, at La Grenouille and then back to my apartment for the remainder of the night. I’d rented Quantum of Solace on Blu-ray. You could be a Bond Girl yourself, Detective.”
Heat ignored the comment but made a note of his alibi. She collected the tins of cash to go. Then she sat them back down and opened her pad again. “And where were you yesterday between eleven A. M. and two P. M.?”
“Do you plan to convict me of every murder in New York City?”
“No, Mr. Martinez. I’ll be satisfied with just two.”
After Nikki returned the DEA cash to Property, she went back to the bull pen to check messages before she left for her orals. At the entrance, she stopped and stared in disbelief. Internal Affairs had boxed and cleared everything in Captain Montrose’s office. It sat completely empty.
Late that afternoon at One Police Plaza, they called Heat’s name. She put down the magazine she couldn’t concentrate on and stepped into the examination room.
It was just as Nikki had pictured it when she had visualized the orals in her mental preparation. Heat had learned from others who had taken the boards what to expect, and there was the scene before her. She stepped into a fluorescent-lit, windowless classroom where five examiners-a mix of active duty captains and administrators-sat behind a long table facing a lone chair. Hers. When Nikki said hello and took her seat, the dynamic suddenly reminded her of the ballet school judges scene in Flashdance. If only she could get through this by busting a move.
“Good afternoon, Detective,” began the administrator from Personnel who was moderating. Ripples of test anxiety stirred in Nikki. “Each member here will be asking you open-ended questions relevant to the duties of lieutenant in the NYPD. You may answer in any way you choose. Each of us will score your answers, then we’ll combine results to determine the disposition of your candidacy. Do you understand today’s procedure?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
And then it began.
“What do you see as your weakness?” asked the woman from Community Relations. A trapdoor if there ever was one. If you say you don’t have one, points off for being cocky. Name a flaw that inhibits your ability to do the job, you might as well get up and leave the room then.
“My weakness,” began Nikki, “is that I care so much about the job that I invest in it at the expense of my personal life. That’s largely because I don’t see this so much as a job but a career-or actually, a mission. Being a member of this department is my life. To serve the victims, plus my fellow officers and detectives…” The simple process of diving in and speaking from her heart calmed the stage fright inside her. The satisfied looks from the panel told her she was off on the right foot, too, and that didn’t hurt her ability to keep her head.
Focused and relaxed as she had now become, the questions that came at her during the next half hour felt more like honest conversation than a make-break test. Nikki deftly fielded inquiries about everything from how she would specifically go about evaluating those under her, to her feelings about workplace diversity, to means to deal with sexual harassment, to command judgments such as when, and when not, to deploy vehicle pursuits.
As the session came near its end, one of the judges, a commander from Staten Island who from his body language she read as the sole doubter up there, said, “I see here that you killed someone the other day.”
“I believe two suspects, sir. Only one has been confirmed.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
Nikki paused before answering, knowing this was another tricky one. “Regretful. I value life, and that was… and always would be
… a last resort. But if the play is dealt, I have to respond.”
“Do you feel it was a fair fight?”
“Respectfully, Captain? If someone is looking for a fair fight, he’d better not draw on me.”
The members shared nods and satisfied looks and passed their score sheets to the moderator. He looked them over and said, “We will, of course, have to calculate these, but I feel confident in saying you have done exceptionally well, Detective Heat. Combining this with your outstanding score on the written, I have a feeling good news is coming, and soon.”
“Thank you.”
The Personnel administrator said, “If I’m not getting ahead of the horse here, have you given any thought to commanding your own precinct?”
“Not really.”
He grinned. “I would.”
Promptly at nine the next morning, Detective Heat announced herself to the receptionist in the lobby of the Terence Cardinal Cooke Building in Sutton Place. To Nikki, the archdiocese headquarters was an odd place to be while tapering off a mild hangover and feeling blissfully sore following her night with Rook. He had insisted on a major celebration after her oral boards, and party they did. A pocket of warmth grew inside her as she reflected on how fortunate she was to have a man like him in her life, who always sought ways to escape to brightness amid the dark. Her face broadened into a dopey smirk, recalling how she had made Rook laugh by screaming “quatrain!” at a critical moment in bed.
An administrative aide in a brown three-piece suit, who introduced himself as Roland Jackson, was waiting on the nineteenth floor when the elevator opened onto the chancery offices. “Monsignor is expecting you.” He carried an armload of fat manila pocket files in one arm and gestured with the other for her to precede him through the nearest door. “Detective Heat is here,” he said as they stepped in.
They had caught the monsignor hurrying to put on his black suit jacket for the meeting. He was still flexing his elbow to adjust one sleeve as he came around to shake her hand, which he did with both of his. “Hi, Pete Lynch.”
“Thanks for making the time, Monsignor.” Nikki returned his warm smile. Thirsty as she was, Heat declined the coffee or tea offer, and the three of them took seats in the modest conversation grouping to the side of the monsignor’s desk. “I understand this is in regard to Gerry Graf,” Monsignor Lynch said. His countenance darkened. “It’s a staggering loss. When something like that happens anywhere, it’s deeply felt, but more so among our fraternity. You must know that. I hear you lost one of your own, too. He’s in our prayers, as well.”
She thanked him and then steered the conversation back to Father Graf. “As the man who administers the day-to-day affairs of the archdiocese, I wanted to get a sense from you of him as a pastor. Were you aware of any problems with him?”
“Such as?”
“Well, for instance, any financial irregularities in parish accounting? Conflicts with parishioners or anyone here? Inappropriate behavior… of any kind?”
“You can say it, Detective, you mean sexual?”
“I do.” Nikki found herself studying the monsignor, then staring.
