Tam.” She gave Nikki a warm grin, revealing a perfect row of gleaming teeth. In fact, her whole look was one-off supermodel: highlighted blonde with a great cut, wide green eyes that showed intelligence and a hint of mischief, young enough to get away without much makeup-probably not yet thirty, tall and slender. It was a look you’d associate more with a TV reporter than the pencil press.
“Good. All right, Tam works,” said Nikki. “But I’m just here for a minute and then I’m on my way out of here. I’m really sorry.” She took a step toward the inner doors, but Tam moved with her. She was taking out her reporter’s notebook. A spiral Ampad, same as Heat used.
“A minute will do nicely, then I won’t keep you. Are you classifying Father Graf’s death murder or accidental?”
“Well, I can keep this short for you, Ms. Svejda,” she said with flawless pronunciation. “It’s too early in our investigation to comment on any of that yet.”
The reporter looked up from her notes. “A sensational murder-a parish priest gets tortured and killed in a bondage dungeon-and you really want me to go with just that? A stock ‘no comment?’ ”
“What you print is up to you. This is a young investigation. I promise when we have something to share, we will.” Like any good interrogator, Heat found herself gaining information even when she was the one being questioned. And what she was learning from Tam Svejda’s interest in the Graf case was that Nikki wasn’t the only one who felt something more than just another homicide was going on.
The reporter said, “Got ya,” but without missing a beat added, “Now, what can you tell me about Captain Montrose?” Heat studied her, knowing even her next “no comment” had to be carefully delivered. Tam Svejda would be writing this, not she, and Nikki didn’t want to inspire some reporter-ese about circled wagons or tight-lipped cops. At last Svejda said, “If this is uncomfortable we can go off the record. I’m just hearing a lot of not so flattering things, and if you can steer me in my investigation, you could be doing him some good.. .. If the rumors are untrue.”
Detective Heat chose her words. “You really don’t think I’d dignify rumors, do you? I think the most productive thing I can do is to go in there and get back to my job working Father Graf so I can get you some solid information. Fair enough, Tam?”
The reporter nodded and put her notebook away. “I must say, Detective, Jamie did you justice.” When Nikki furrowed her brow, she explained, “In your cover story, I mean. Meeting you, seeing how you handle yourself. Rook sure got you right. That’s why Jamie gets the covers and the Pulitzers.”
“Yeah, he’s good.” Jamie, thought Nikki. She called him Jamie.
“Did you see his picture in our morning edition with that piece of work, Jeanne Callow? That bad boy sure gets around, doesn’t he?”
Nikki closed her eyes a moment and wished Tam Svejda would be gone- poof! -when she opened them. But she wasn’t. “I’m running late, Tam.”
“Oh, you go ahead. And say hi to Jamie. If you talk to him, I mean.”
Heat had a distinct feeling she had more in common with Tam Svejda than a reporter’s notebook. Quite possibly it was a reporter.
When Detective Heat got back to the bull pen, Captain Montrose was slouched in his office chair with the door closed, his back to the squad, staring out his window down to West 82nd Street. He might have seen her drive into the precinct lot below him, but if he did, he made no move to greet or look for her. Nikki made a quick scan of the While You Were Outs on her blotter, saw nothing that couldn’t wait, and felt her heart race as she walked to his door. When he heard her knock on the glass, he beckoned her in without turning. Heat closed the door behind her and stood looking at the back of his head. After five eternal seconds he sat upright and swiveled in his chair to face her, as if willing himself out of some trance and down to business.
“You’ve had quite a day already, I hear,” he said.
“Action-packed, Skip.” He gestured to the visitor chair and she sat.
“Wanna trade? I spent my morning wearing the dunce cap at the Puzzle Palace,” he said, using the less- than-flattering cop slang for One Police Plaza. And then he shook his head. “Sorry. I promised I wouldn’t complain, but it’s got to come out somewhere.”
Nikki’s gaze went to the windowsill and the framed photo of him and Pauletta. That was when she realized Montrose hadn’t been staring out the window but at the picture. It had been almost a year since a drunk driver killed her in a crosswalk. The pain of his loss was borne stoically, but the toll was written on his face. Suddenly Nikki wished she hadn’t initiated this meeting. But she already had.
“You called about something?”
“Yes, about the priest, Father Graf.” She studied him, but he was passive. “I’m working the BDSM angle first.”
“Makes perfect sense.” Still just listening.
“And there are indications of a search at his rectory and an item or items missing.” She regarded him more closely, but he gave nothing back. “I have Hinesburg up there on it.”
“Hinesburg?” At last a reaction.
“I know, I know, long story. I’ll do my own follow-up to backstop her.”
“Nikki, you’re the best I’ve ever seen at this. Better than me, and that’s, well, that’s pretty damn good. Word’s around you might be getting yourself a gold bar soon, and I can’t think of anyone more deserving. I gave my recommendation, which might not be your best calling card the way things are going.”
“Thank you, Captain, that means a lot.”
“So what did you need to talk to me about?”
Heat tried to toss it aside and sound casual. “Just touching base on something, actually. When I went to the rectory this morning to confirm ID on the vic, the housekeeper said you had been there last night.”
“That’s correct.” He rocked slightly in his executive chair but held her look. Heat could see the smallest flash of steel in his eyes and felt her resolve crumbling. She knew if she uttered the question she wanted to ask, it would start something in motion she would never be able to call back. “And?” he said.
Free fall. Nikki was in absolute free fall. What was she going to say? That with all his erratic behavior, the rumors about Internal Affairs-and now pressure from the media-she wanted to make him justify himself? Heat was one question away from treating him like a suspect. She had thought through everything about this meeting except one thing: her unwillingness to spoil a relationship over rumor and appearances. “And I just wanted to ask for your take. And see if you learned anything while you were there.”
Did he know she was BS-ing? Nikki couldn’t tell. She just wanted out of there.
“No, nothing useful,” said the captain. “I want you to pursue the line you’re on, the bondage thing.” And then, signaling that he knew exactly why she was asking, he added, “You know, Nikki, it might seem unusual for me, a precinct commander, to personally respond to an MPR. But as you’ll soon learn if you get your promotion, the job becomes less about the street and more about appearances and gestures. You ignore that at your peril. So. A high-profile member of my precinct, a church pastor, goes missing, what am I going to do? Sure not going to send Hinesburg, am I?”
“Of course not.” And then she noticed him playing with the Band-Aid on his knuckle. “You’re bleeding.”
“This? It’s fine. Penny bit me this morning while I was combing out a mat in her paw.” He stood and said, “That’s the way it’s been going for me, Nikki Heat. My own dog turned on me.”
The walk back to her desk made Heat feel like she was underwater in lead shoes. She had come within a whisper of destroying a relationship with her mentor, and only his orchestration of the awkward meeting kept her from doing that. Mistakes were only human, but Nikki was all about not being the one to make mistakes. Anger filled her for allowing herself to be distracted by gossip, and she resolved to focus on getting back to doing what she did, solid police work, and to avoid getting swept up in the sharp blades of the rumor mill.
On her monitor an icon flashed, alerting her that the case file she had requested from Archives had arrived. Not so long ago a requisition like that would have taken at least a day, or a personal visit to expedite delivery. Thanks to the department’s computerization of all records, as spearheaded by Deputy Commissioner Yarborough, who’d brought the NYPD technology up to this century, Detective Heat now had the PDF of the 2004 investigation mere minutes after putting in for it.
She opened the file detailing the murder of Gene Huddleston, Jr., errant son of an Oscar-winning national treasure whose only child descended from wealth and privilege in a tragic spiral into a life of alcoholism, got kicked out of two colleges for sex scandals and drug abuse, then graduated to dealing and, finally, violent death. First she
