across the way might have picked up something, if we're lucky.' She side-nodded up the block to the man holding five leashed dogs on a sit command. 'Who's he?'
'That's the guy who found the body. Made the 911 call at 5:37.'
Nikki looked him over. He was about twenty, had a slim figure, tight jeans, and a theatrical scarf. 'Let me guess. AMDW.' Working a precinct on the Upper West Side of New York, she and her team had pet codes for some of the types who lived and worked there. AMDW was their acronym for actor-model-dancer-whatever.
'Close, Detective.' Ochoa consulted a page from his notebook and continued, 'Mr. T. Michael Dove, in the drama program at Juilliard, came upon the body while it was being bitten. He says his dogs made a mass charge and the other dog took off.'
'Hey,' said Heat, 'what do you mean close? He's an actor.'
'Yes, but in this case AMDW is actor-model-dog-walker.'
Nikki opened her blazer to cover her hand from onlookers while she gave him the finger. 'Did you get his statement?' Ochoa held up his notebook and nodded, affirming. 'I guess we're covered here, then,' she said. And then she thought of her coyote. She looked up the block at the AMDW. 'I want to ask him about that dog.'
Nikki regretted her decision immediately. Ten paces from the dog walker, he called out, 'Oh, my God, it is you! You're Nikki Heat!'
Onlookers farther up the sidewalk pressed forward, probably just wondering what the sudden commotion was more than knowing who she was, but Nikki took no chances. She instinctively lowered her gaze to the pavement and turned sideways, adopting the pose she'd seen in the tabloids, of celebrities ambushed by the paparazzi on their way out of restaurants.
She stepped close and tried to clue the AMDW into the decibel level she wanted him to adopt by speaking in a low one herself. 'Hi, yes, I'm Detective Heat.'
The AMDW not only didn't pick up on the tone, he got more effusive. 'Oh. My. God!' And then could it get worse for her? 'Can I have a picture with you, Miss Heat?' He held out his cell phone to her two detectives.
'Come on, Ochoa,' said Raley, 'let's see what's happening with Forensics.'
'Is that… Roach? It's them, isn't it?' called the witness. 'Just like in the article!' Detectives Raley and Ochoa looked at each other, made no attempt to mask their disdain, and kept walking. 'Oh well,' said T. Michael Dove, 'this will have to do, then,' and he held his cell cam out at arm's length, leaned his head beside Heat's, and snapped the picture himself.
Like most people raised in the say-cheese generation, Nikki came factory-programmed to smile when her picture was taken. Not this time. Her heart was sinking so fast she was sure the pic came out looking something like a mug shot.
Her fan examined his screen and said, 'Why so modest? Lady, you've got the cover of a national magazine. Last month, Robert Downey, Jr., this month, Nikki Heat. You're a celebrity.'
'Maybe we can talk about that later, Mr. Dove. I'm really sort of focused on what you might have seen concerning our homicide.'
'I can't believe this,' he said. 'I am an eyewitness for New York City's top homicide detective.'
Nikki wondered if a grand jury would indict if she put a cap in him. Dropped him right there. But instead she said, 'That's not really so. Now, I'd like to ask-'
'Not the top detective? Not according to that article.'
That article.
That damned article.
That damned Jameson Rook for writing it.
It had felt wrong to her from the beginning. Last June, when Rook got his assignment from the magazine, it was to profile an NYPD homicide squad with a high rate of case clearance. The department cooperated because they liked the PR of cop success, especially if it personalized the force. Detective Heat was underwhelmed by the fishbowl aspect when her squad was chosen, but she went along because Captain Montrose told her to.
When Rook began his one-week ride-along, it was supposed to be in a rotation with the entire team. By the end of his first day he had changed his focus, claiming he could tell a better story using the leader of the squad as the eyes to cover the entire picture. Nikki's eyes saw his plan for what it was, a thinly veiled ruse to hang out with her. And sure enough, he started suggesting drinks, dinner, breakfast, offering backstage passes to Steely Dan at the Beacon and black tie cocktails with Tim Burton at MoMA to kick off an exhibition of his sketches. Rook was a name dropper, but he was also actually connected.
He used his relationship with the mayor to stay on ride-along with her weeks beyond his initial commitment. And over time, in spite of herself, Nikki started to feel, well, intrigued by this guy. It wasn't because he was on a first-name basis with everyone from Mick to Bono to Sarkozy. Or that he was cute, or looked good. A great ass is just that, a great ass and no more-although not to be discounted completely. It was… the total package.
The Rook of him.
Whether it was Jameson Rook's charm offensive or her passion for him, they ended up sleeping together. And sleeping together again. And again. And again… Sex with Rook was always smokin' but did not always represent her best judgment, she reflected in hindsight. However, when they were together, thinking and judgment took a backseat to the fireworks. As he put it the night they made love in his kitchen after dashing to his place through a torrential downpour, 'The heat will not be denied.' Writer, she thought. And yet, so true.
Things began to unravel for her around the stupid article. Rook hadn't shown her his draft yet when the photographer showed up at the precinct to shoot pictures, and the first clue was that they were all of her. She held out for team shots, especially of Raley and Ochoa, her stalwarts; however, the best she could get out of the shooter were a few group photos with her team arranged behind her.
The worst of it for her were the poses. When Captain Montrose said she had to cooperate, Nikki indulged a few candids, but the photographer, an A-lister with a bulldozer approach, started posing her. 'This is for the cover,' he said. 'The candids won't work for that.' So she went along.
At least she did until the photographer was directing her to look tougher peering through the bars in the lockup and said, 'Come on, show me some of that avenging-my-mother fire I've been reading about.'
That night she demanded Rook show her the article. When she finished reading, Nikki asked him to take her out of it. It wasn't just that it made her the star of the squad. Or that it minimized the efforts of her team, turning the others into footnotes. Or that it was destined to make her so visible-Cinderella was one of her favorite movies, although Nikki thought she'd rather enjoy it as a fairy tale than live it. Her biggest objection was that it was too personal. Especially the part about her mother's murder.
To Nikki, Rook seemed blinded by his own creation. Everything she mentioned, he had an answer for. He told her that every person he profiled freaked before publication. She said maybe he should start listening to them. Argument on. He said he couldn't edit her out of the article because she was the article. 'And even if I wanted to? It's locked. It's already typeset.'
That was the last night she saw him. Three months ago.
She thought if she never saw him again, it would be just fine. But he didn't go quietly. Maybe he thought he could charm his way back to her. Why else would Rook keep calling Nikki even in the face of serial no's and then a stonewall of no replies? But he must have gotten the message, because he'd stopped reaching out. At least until two weeks ago, when the issue hit the newsstands and Rook sent her a sonar ping in the form of a signed copy of the magazine plus a bottle of Silver Patron and a basket of limes.
Nikki recycled the First Press and re-gifted the booze at a party that night for Detective Ulett who was taking advantage of the early retirement buyout to trailer his boat to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, and start drowning worms. While everyone got lit on tequila shooters, Nikki stuck to beer.
It was to be the last night of her anonymity. She had hoped that, as Mr. Warhol predicted, her fame would only last fifteen minutes and be done, but for the past two weeks, everywhere she went, it was the same. Sometimes stares, sometimes comments, always a pain. Not only was the recognition aspect unpleasant for her, but each sighting, each comment, each cell phone picture, became another reminder of Jameson Rook and the busted romance she wanted to put behind her.
Temptation had gotten the better of a giant schnauzer, who started licking milk and sugar from Nikki's hem. She smoothed its forehead and attempted to steer T. Michael Dove back to the mundane. 'You walk the dogs around this neighborhood every morning?'
'That's right, six mornings a week.'
