changed at Fifth Avenue and she drove out of the park, past the rows of embassies and consulates. 'What sort of problem did she have with Toby Mills or vice versa?'
'Not much that I know of currently. She used to write about his wild-child days when he first got to the Yankees, but that was history. Last week she did run an item that he had moved to his new digs in the East Side, but that's hardly the stuff scandals are made of. Or assaults.'
'You'd be surprised, writer boy, you'd be surprised,' she said with a superior grin.
As they stood at the intercom at the front door of Toby Mills's town house, Nikki Heat's smile was a distant memory. 'How long has it been?' she said to Rook.
'Five minutes,' he said. 'Maybe six.'
'Seems like longer. Who the hell do they think they are? It was easier getting into the Milmar and you didn't have a tie.' She mocked the voice from the little speaker: ' 'We're still checking.' '
'You know they can probably hear you.'
'Good.'
He nodded upward. 'Probably see you, too.'
'Even better.' She squared herself to the security camera and held up her shield. 'This is official police business, I want to see a human being.'
'Seven minutes.'
'Stop that.'
And then in a low mutter he said, 'Odd sock.'
'Not helping.'
A crackle of static and then the man's voice returned to the intercom. 'I'm sorry, Officer, but we're referring all inquiries to Ripton and Associates, Mr. Mills's representative. Would you like that phone number?'
Nikki pressed Talk. 'First of all, it's not Officer, it's Detective. Homicide Detective Heat of the NYPD. I need to speak directly to Toby Mills regarding an investigation. You can make that happen now, or I can come back with a warrant.' Satisfied with herself, she released the button and winked at Rook.
The tinny voice came back. 'If you want to get a pen, I can give you that number.'
'OK. That's it,' she said. 'This is officially a mission for me. Let's see about a warrant.' She pivoted from the door and stormed to the sidewalk, and Rook came along. They had almost reached Madison, where they had parked across from the Carlyle, when Rook heard his name called out.
'Jameson Rook?'
They both turned to see Cy Young contender Toby Mills on the sidewalk in front of his town house, beckoning them to come back.
Rook turned to Nikki, gloating. 'Whatever I can do to help, Detective.'
Chapter Four
'I'm Toby,' he said when they got to the front door. Before Nikki could introduce herself, he said, 'Could we take this inside? I don't want to draw a crowd out here, if you don't mind.'
He held the door for both of them and followed them into the foyer. The baseball star was in a white polo shirt and jeans and was barefoot. Nikki couldn't tell if his slight limp was from being shoeless or from his sore hamstring. 'Sorry about the mix-up out there. I was taking a nap and they didn't want to wake me.' To Rook, he said, 'And then I saw you and said, 'Oh, man, I can't send Jameson Rook away mad.' And you're with the police?'
'Hi. Nikki Heat.' She shook his hand and tried not to be the typical fan. 'A pleasure, really.' So much for playing cool.
'Well, I thank you for that. Come on in. Let's get comfortable and see what I've done now to have the police and the press pounding on my door.'
There was a spiral staircase to the left, but he led them to an elevator on the back wall of the entryway. Beside it, a man who looked like a secret service agent, in a long-sleeved white shirt and maroon patternless tie, sat at a desk watching a split screen of four security cams. Toby pushed the elevator call and, as he waited, said, 'Lee, when Jess gets here, would you tell him I'm taking our guests up to the den?'
'Sure thing,' said Lee. Nikki recognized his voice from the intercom, and he registered her reaction and said, 'Apologies for the confusion, Detective.'
'No problem.'
The elevator showed five floors in the town house, and they got off at the third. They were greeted with a new-carpet smell as they stepped into a circular room with halls branching off in three directions. From what Heat could tell, two of them led to what were most likely bedrooms, toward the rear of the rectangular property. Mills hooked his multimillion-dollar arm to indicate they should follow him to the near doorway, which put them in a sunny room giving out onto the street below. 'Guess you could call this my man cave.'
The den was a sports trophy room, done with taste. Mounted baseball bats shared wall space with classic sports photos: Ted Williams watching one fly out of Fenway, Koufax in the 1963 Series, Lou Gehrig enjoying a Babe Ruth headlock. Atypically, it wasn't a shrine to Toby. The only pictures of him were with other players, and none of the trophies were his, although he could have easily filled the room. Heat read this as where he came to escape the hype, not to bask in it.
Toby stepped behind a wet bar of blond wood with turf green inlay and asked if he could fix them something. 'Now, all I've got is Colonel Fizz, but, truthfully, it's not just because they sponsor, I like the stuff.' Heat could hear the Oklahoma in his voice and wondered what it was like to graduate high school in Broken Arrow and come to all this in fewer than ten years. 'I assume you're working; otherwise, I'd offer something more of a bump up.'
'Like what? Is there a General Fizz?' said Rook.
'See? There it is. Writer.' Toby snapped open some cans and poured drinks over ice. 'I'll start you off with the cola. It hasn't killed anyone, not yet, anyway.'
'I'm surprised you knew me,' said Rook. 'Do you read that much of my stuff?'
'To be honest, I read your Africa trip with Bono and the Portofino article about Mick Jagger on his boat. Man, I have to get myself one of them. But the political stuff, you know, Chechnya, Darfur, I can do without, no offense. But I know you mainly because we have a lot of friends in common.'
She wasn't sure whether Toby Mills was a natural host or was stalling them, but while they talked she took in the view from the window. A few streets over, she picked out the Guggenheim. Even cropped by the rows of town houses, the distinct shape of the roof gave it away. Up the street, the treetops of Central Park were just beginning to show a hint of autumn. In two weeks, the color would bring out every amateur photographer on the eastern seaboard.
Nikki heard a man talking to Toby, but when she turned he wasn't in the room yet. 'Hey, Tobe, I got here fast as I could, buddy.' Then he stepped in, a fit-looking guy in a power suit with no tie, moving quickly to Rook. 'Hi, Jess Ripton.'
'Jameson Rook.'
'I know. You guys should clear these with me first. We don't do press without advance clearance.'
'This isn't a press interview,' said Nikki Heat.
Ripton turned, seeing her for the first time. 'You the cop?'
'Detective.' She gave him her card. 'You the agent?'
Behind the counter, Toby Mills just laughed. An actual 'Whoa, ho, ho.'
'I'm not an agent. I'm a strategic manager.' He smiled, but it did little to soften him or take the clang off his brass balls. 'The agent works for me. The agent stays out of the way and collects the checks and we're all happy. I handle public relations, bookings, media, endorsements, every point along the value chain.'
'Must be tough to fit all that on a card,' said Rook, earning another laugh from Toby.
Ripton sat in the corner easy chair. 'So tell me what this is about.'
Nikki didn't sit. Same as she didn't take dictation from Chester Ludlow, she wasn't going to honor Jess Ripton's type-A stampede. She wanted to keep this her meeting. But now, at least, she understood the stall. Daddy's here.
