“Nikki Heat, it’s Phyllis Yarborough. Hope you don’t mind me calling your personal number.”
“About the only way to reach me today.” Heat tried to make it light without putting any stink on it. Like she was taking it all in stride.
“I hear that,” said the deputy commissioner. “May I tell you flat out, this sucks?”
Nikki laughed, and even though the call didn’t sound like it was going to be the reprieve she had hoped for, she was glad for it. “You won’t get much argument out of me.”
“I just want you to know, if you weren’t aware of it, the decision was not unanimous. There was one dissenting vote, and you’re talking to her.”
“Oh… I didn’t know that. But thank you. That means a lot.”
“Have to say, I’m not a fan of The Hammer anyway, and this time he did not disappoint. He called the meeting, he fanned the flames, he pressed for the sanction, he was obsessed.” Yarborough paused. Nikki figured it was her turn.
“I do have to admit I understand Zach taking it as an affront, the way I lit into him about the captain’s funeral.”
“Oh, boo-hoo, he needs to grow a pair. I’ll tell you something, Nikki, I not only don’t believe you leaked this, I believe this is pure politics. Zach and his network of man weasels were fine when I was interested in grooming you for my team at RTCC, but there was a definite sea change after Captain Montrose died.” She quieted her tone and added, “I am sorry about that, by the way, I know it’s a loss for you.”
“Thanks.” Nikki’s curiosity was piqued. “Why do you suppose the change?”
“Because if my candidate-that would be you, my dear-gets fast-tracked to replace Montrose that weakens their power. Look who they put in there. Floyd the Barber. They don’t want a precinct commander, they want a puppet.”
“I appreciate you standing up for me.”
“Considering the result, I don’t think I did you any favors.”
Nikki said, “I think working the street is safer than 1PP.”
“That’s politics, it’s an ugly game.”
“And one I don’t care to play, thanks,” said Heat. “Not why I swore my oath.”
“Actually, that’s why I called,” said the deputy commissioner. “Since backstabbing isn’t your favorite sport, I wanted to let you know that I’ll keep my eyes open for you. I can’t promise there won’t be any more surprises, but maybe I can head them off, or at least I can warn you.”
“Wow, that’s very generous.”
“You deserve it. So what’s up for you? Daytime dramas? Scrapbooking?” When Nikki’s pause was the answer, Yarborough continued, “Of course not. You’re Nikki Heat. Listen, do what you have to do. But if you need anything, anything at all, please call me.”
“I will,” said Heat. “And Phyllis? Thanks.”
About an hour later, impatient with exile in her apartment, unable to escape needling thoughts through daytime TV, Nikki bundled up. Even the process of getting ready was a confrontation with her unhappy situation: By reflex, she reached for her holster-empty-muttered a quiet curse, and, for the first time Heat could recall in ages, had to step out her door unarmed.
The best way to cover ground in Manhattan during a snow event is to go under it. As was her habit, Nikki picked up a 6 train at Park Avenue South and rode it down to Bleecker for a transfer to the uptown B. Waiting on the platform, she performed the straphanger’s rite of leaning over the edge of the track every sixty seconds, scouting up the dark tunnel for the gleam of an oncoming headlight reflected on the tracks. It didn’t make the trains come any faster, but it was something to do other than look for scurrying rats in the grime below.
Nikki did her headlight check, she did her rat check, and she also did a platform check. There had been no cruiser parked downstairs that morning-no Discourager to give a two-finger salute or bring coffee to. They had pulled her protection when they pulled her shield. Heat didn’t clock any threat and got on her car for the ride uptown to the Twentieth, and was able to relax a bit.
But her inner demons got on with her and muscled into the next seat. Always a clear thinker who could slow things down and navigate the wildest distractions under fire, Nikki couldn’t shake her thoughts free of how her whole life had been upended in a blink. What the hell was going on? She prided herself on being skeptical, not paranoid, but Heat seriously believed she was being railroaded. But why? And by whom?
It pained her that a few hundred words in an also-ran newspaper could get her kicked out. That damned article.
And Rook.
Her sharpest agony. She had invested in this guy. Waited for this guy. Felt something for this guy that went beyond the bedroom… or wherever else they took each other. Nikki did not give herself easily to a man, and this betrayal by Rook was why. Heat reflected on her answer at the oral boards about her greatest flaw and admitted her reply was a mask. Yes, her identification with her job was total. But her greatest flaw wasn’t overinvestment in her career. It was her reticence to be vulnerable. Unarmed as she was-literally-she had been emotionally so with Rook.
That was the gut shot that had blown clean through her soul.
What the hell was she doing back there in the bull pen? The others weren’t asking her that. Nikki Heat was asking herself.
When she had put on her coat and picked her way along the unshoveled sidewalk heading from her apartment to the subway, Nikki had decided that she needed some things from her desk. Not knowing how long this suspension would last-or whether it would be permanent-there were materials she required and wanted at home. By the time she came up the steps from the B train under the American Museum of Natural History and trudged toward Columbus Avenue, she had convinced herself that entering her squad room was all about dignity. And that dirty coffee mug Roach had alerted her to.
The truth behind her visit was that the detective in Heat craved information. And what Nikki learned only served to deepen her suspicions about her reversal.
Right off the bat Roach drew her aside to a quiet corner. “WTF?” said Ochoa.
“Yeah, why’d you have to go and get yourself suspended?” added Raley. “Your timing sucks.”
“Not so much that we care about you,” said his partner, “but the Graf investigation’s upside-down in the ditch with four wheels clawing sky.”
“Do I even need to ask why?” Nikki knew from her meeting the day before.
“Because of the Iron Man,” said Ochoa. Heat had a mental bet that would be the handle they’d give Captain Irons. She also bet they weren’t the first. “He’s pulling all resources into the dead homeless guy, even though it’s gonna end up accidental OD.”
“For all intents, this case is dead.” Raley side nodded to the Father Graf Murder Board, which had been carelessly erased and hung there, suspended on the easel with only the ghostly streaks of Nikki’s colored markers to hint at its prior purpose.
“It almost seems convenient,” she said.
Ochoa chuckled. “Know how we’re always pimping Rook over his wild-ass conspiracy theories?” Heat nodded even as she masked her pain at hearing his name. “Nothing compared to what Rales and I have been thinking.”
“Any answers?” asked Heat.
Raley said, “Only one. On your time off, let us know what you need.”
“On your ‘time off,’ ” repeated Ochoa, complete with air quotes.
The only satisfaction she could draw from this disheartening news about the shelving of the Graf case was that Sharon Hinesburg was ordered by Captain Irons to go undercover as a homeless woman and had to spend the night in the Riverside Park pedestrian tunnel. “Let it snow,” Nikki said.
On a whim-yes, a whim, she told herself-Heat logged onto her computer so she could print out a PDF of the Huddleston homicide file, the 2004 case then-Detective Montrose had run. Disbelief.
Her password didn’t work.
Access denied.
Nikki phoned the IT department help desk. After a brief hold, the technician came back on and apologized. He said that due to her renewed classification, she was currently unauthorized to use the NYPD server.
