the lockbox in the hall outside Interrogation One. “Welcome back, Heat.” She spun the combination and turned to the voice. There he stood with Detective Hinesburg at his elbow.
“Captain.” Brevity, she thought, was face saving’s best friend.
“What’s going on here? I understand you called my prisoner up.”
“Yes, sir,” said Heat, keeping things deferential. “I have a few questions to ask him. I also have one for you. Any news on that missing glove?”
“Nada. And I’ve been a thorn in the butt of Forensics.”
Detective Hinesburg chimed in. “Immaterial now, isn’t it? Now that we’ve got our man.”
Hinesburg’s stupidity might have been amusing to Heat in a Real Housewives sort of way if the detective didn’t do so much damage. “And what about the guy I shot who wore that glove? Does ‘our man’ have any bullet holes, or did you notice?”
“No,” Sharon said, “I’d definitely notice that.”
Irons interceded on behalf of his detective-slash-secret girlfriend. “Obviously, we’re not talking the same person, Heat. Which is telling me your shotgun shooter is probably from another case altogether. An old grudge. Like maybe a holdout from that death squad that tried to get you in Central Park last winter.”
Detective Heat could see this was going nowhere good and looked to move things along. “Guess we’ll see. Excuse me.”
“Hang on,” said Irons. “We already got a signed confession, why you going in there?”
She held up Spooner’s file. “Captain, with all due respect, everything in his confession is public knowledge. Every detail has appeared in magazine articles like Rook’s one about me, news reports, news leaks…” Nikki managed not to look at Hinesburg, whom she was certain had also sourced the numerous follow-up stories to her first leak. The latest reports had even given away critical media hold backs, such as the railroad grime on Nicole’s clothing and the matching precision stab wounds in the backs of her mother and Bernardin.
Irons waved both palms at her. “Whoa, let’s get to this flat out, Detective. Published or not, this guy confessed to it all. And you should be happy ‘cause it takes your dad off the list. So what’s on your mind, going in there? Is it our job to get the guilty off, or to get them off the street?”
“It’s our job to get the truth. And that is precisely what I have in mind. Because if this man is lying to get his moment of fame, or whatever, the killer is still out there. Now let me do my job. Because if you arrested the wrong guy, would you rather find out now or when the DA throws your case out at a press conference?”
Nikki loved watching Wally’s eyes widen at that notion. “OK, Heat. You’ve got one shot. Take it. I’ll be watching.”
Hank Norman Spooner’s eyes lit up when Detective Heat entered the airlock door into the interrogation room. A smile that felt a little too grand to Nikki greeted her as she took her seat across the table from him. She said nothing, just let first impressions enter, unfiltered. These always proved valuable, and to absorb them, she shut out everything else: the stakes of the case; the upheaval of the week-plus since the freezer truck; the audience of Irons and others behind the mirror. For Nikki Heat, it always came back to Beginner’s Eyes.
He hadn’t shaved but still managed to appear clean-cut. His sheet put him at forty-two, but she would have subtracted seven years. Attribute that to the slight build and the boyish face. And the hair. Neatly trimmed and parted, it was red. Not red in the bright sense but softer. Auburn. The day’s growth of whiskers had a blonder hue, making them disappear on his cheeks which, she noticed, had begun to blush as she studied him. And he still smiled that too-friendly, too-familiar grin. His teeth had some yellow in them, and he knew it, judging by the way he kept his upper lip. His hands were folded on his lap under the table, so they would have to be read later. To Nikki, hands were the best tells, second only to the eyes. His stayed on her, expressing what she could only call bliss. And the eye contact was good. Like the smile, too good. Her beginner’s impression got borne out by his opening sentence.
“I can’t believe I’m meeting the real Nikki Heat.”
Hank Spooner was a fan.
She decided not to acknowledge that and maintained a clinical distance, turning her attention down to his file. The fan card could be played later, if needed. What she wanted right then was to listen and to learn. If this was indeed the killer, Nikki wanted to pick up the bits of information that would tell her that. If he wasn’t, she needed to pay attention for the inconsistencies to get to that, too. Heat did what she did in every interview: set aside her bias and paid attention.
“I have some clarifications I need regarding your statement.”
“You got it.”
“But first, I want to understand your background.”
“Name it, Detective.”
“You had some trouble on one of your jobs as a security guard.”
“It was really a misunderstanding.” His manacles clanked as he brought his hands up to gesture. She wasn’t surprised to see that his nails were immaculate, and his slender fingers were clean and lightly freckled like the skin under his eyes.
“These charges say you stole from the offices you guarded and stalked women in the apartments you patrolled.”
“As I said, all a misunderstanding. I did borrow some electronics, you know, computers and a printer, but intended to return them.”
“And the stalking?”
He put a hand over his heart. “I learned the hard way, when you are a lowly apartment security guard, it’s best not to ask residents on a date.”
“You had three restraining orders.”
“That’s what I mean about the hard way.” He fixed her with his grin again, and she put her nose back in the manila folder.
“And for about ten years you’ve worked on cruise lines?”
“That’s right. Well, off and on.”
“What sort of work?”
“Bit of this, bit of that. I worked casino operations staff doing slot maintenance. Also did some time on deck operations. You know, prepping chairs, handing out towels, lifeguarding.”
“You got fired from your cruise in 2007.”
“Only because I refused to accept a reassignment to work as bartender. I have a severe citrus allergy.” Heat looked up to stare at him at length for the first time. He fidgeted under her fixed gaze and explained himself. “That’s right. And you try to mix a drink on a tropical cruise that doesn’t have a lemon, orange, or lime.”
“Never heard of that,” she said.
“That was the reason, no lie. As a kid, I almost died from anaphylactic shock, so I said no way, and they fired my ass.”
Nikki mulled that over and went back to the rap sheet. “I thought you’d been put ashore because you were caught spying on a female guest.”
“That was on another ship. And all I did was check her stateroom for fresh towels. Her word against mine, and who do they believe? The paying guest or the grunt in the white uniform?”
“And how have you made ends meet between cruises?”
“I do some dog walking, a lot of apartment sitting. Oh, and I have a blog now.”
“Blogging? How well does that pay?”
“Not so much yet. But I’ll get there. I’m also on Twitter. I hear I’ve gone bat shit with followers since I got arrested.”
Easing into a new phase, she smiled at him and said, “You’re going to be pretty famous yourself, I guess, Hank.”
“Think so?” He beamed upon hearing his name from her. “Not like you, Detective Heat. And you’re not even on social media.”
“Not my thing.”
“You should do it. You’d trend off the hook. Seriously, you’re a real hero. I’ll bet I’ve read everything there is about you.” Nikki pulled out his confession and, from its contents, bet Hank Spooner had indeed become quite the expert.
