again, vaulted the ornate deco railing, and balanced his heels on the edge.
She started for him. “NYPD, freeze!”
He turned and stared right at her, then looked down-and dove.
Nikki reached the spot where he had leaped and looked in amazement. Immediately below her stood the Trapeze School of New York, housed in a giant, inflatable white dome. Her perp had soft landed on it like it was a kid’s bouncy castle.
And fled.
Heat swung a leg over to follow but stopped when she saw him disappearing into a taxi across the street. She tried to get the medallion number, but it was too far away and it sped off too quickly.
Back at the sniper’s hide overlooking Cafe Gretchen, the tech from Evidence Collection knelt to show Heat the compressed earth and trampled grasses where he had fired at her. “Get the best casts you can of those footprints,” she said, thinking back to the work boot of whoever had ransacked Nicole Bernardin’s apartment. “See if they’re size eleven.”
She stood up and arched her back. “You OK?” asked Detective Ochoa.
“Yeah, just a little sore. Took an unexpected step into a pothole up there during the chase.”
“You’re lucky that’s all that’s sore.” Ochoa held up two plastic evidence bags, each containing a shell casing. “No shortage of stopping power here.”
Heat curled her right hand to form a circular hollow in her palm and closed one eye to peer through it like a sniper’s scope down at the cafe. Another ECU tech was busy inside the yellow tape excavating a slug from the planter beside her chair. Nikki felt a chill and turned back to Ochoa. “I don’t want the same thing to happen with this brass that happened to the glove.”
“Already with you. I’m taking these to the print lab myself and sitting with them all night, if I have to.” He started to go but took a step back. “No more close calls, OK?”
“I’ll try. Meanwhile, I’ll never complain about an earthquake again.”
Back down at street level, Heat found her waiter in the back of the cafe. When she handed him the money for her latte and tipped him, he said, “You’re kidding, right?” And then he looked at her and saw that she wasn’t.
A gleaming black Crown Victoria pulled up to the curb when she stepped back out front. Rook rolled out of the passenger seat and hugged her. “Now that I know you’re alive, thank you for interrupting my dinner. Seriously. Bless you.”
Wally Irons hauled himself from behind the wheel and ambled around the car to the sidewalk. “Heat, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“No, I think the mud pie will get you first, Captain,” said Rook.
Irons chuckled and said to her, “Jamie’s been like this all night. What a kidder.” Then he frowned. “In all seriousness, Detective, in light of recent events that I shouldn’t need to remind you of, what the hell are you doing exposing yourself to such a risky meet, alone and at night?”
“I appreciate your concern, sir, but I am working a case, and that’s not going to stop at sundown. Plus, my meeting was with someone I knew, who happens to be an ex-cop, so it didn’t seem like a risk to me.”
“Now what does it seem like?” asked Rook.
“A setup.”
“Who’s the ex-cop?” asked Irons.
“Carter Damon. He was lead on my mother’s case.”
“Oh yeah, I remember him. From the Thirteenth.” Irons surveyed the crime tape and the fractured planter beside Nikki’s tipped-over chair. “Let me ask you this. He ever show up?”
“No, sir.”
“You find that curious?” He inclined his head to Rook and muttered, “You should be getting some of this down.” Rook just winked and tapped his forehead with his finger.
Nikki said, “I found it curious enough to call the One Twenty-second in Staten Island to send some uniforms to drop by his house.”
“Already? Quick thinking,” said Irons, which only made her fume. She was so close to insubordination, it was lucky he spoke again before she could. “They get him?”
“No. And there’s an accumulation of mail and newspapers at his door.”
“Want me to put out an APB for Carter Damon?”
“Already done, sir.”
“Well, then.” The captain stood jangling pocket change, then pulled back his cuff to see his watch. “You know, Rook, since everything’s in hand here, we could-”
“Thanks the same, but you’ve already given me a lot to think about for one night. And I should probably hang out with Detective Heat.”
“Sure thing,” he said. The captain waited an awkward moment then got in his car. After he put it in gear, he powered down the passenger window and called across the front seat, “Alert me, twenty-four-seven, if there are any developments.” Then he drove off.
“Who talks like that?” said Heat.
“A man hoping to be quoted.”
She hated leaving Rook, so warm and naked under those sheets the next morning. He didn’t make it any easier. “Sure, use me and go to work. I feel so cheap.” And then he added, “There’s a twenty on the dresser. Get yourself something nice.” That’s when the pillow landed on his face.
Before Nikki got into the shower, she did her ritual check of personal electronics. She came back into the bedroom holding her cell phone. “Rook, listen to this. I got a text from Carter Damon at four-fifteen this morning. It says, ‘Heat. I am so sorry.’”
“For setting you up to be killed?” He looked at the text and handed the phone back to her. “Who says manners are dead?”
Nikki had already put in a good two hours when Rook strolled into the bull pen at nine. “Just got word from Detective Malcolm on Nicole Bernardin’s cremation,” she said. “Order came in from a mortuary that went out of business last year.”
“Let me guess. Seacrest Mortuary?”
“No, but I hear what you’re getting at. How bad is it, Rook, when even your wack conspiracy theories are nothing compared to this case?”
“Guess I just need to get wackier.” He handed her a Starbucks. “Here. Now try not to get a bullet hole in this one.”
“You know, I’m not one to give anyone the finger, even in jest, but I’m considering breaking my rule. You’re just that special.” She took the cup and saluted him with it. “What’s the story in Tribeca?” she asked.
“Fingerprint techs were still dusting my loft when I split. They’ll be most of the morning, but basically, they’re telling me not to hold my breath. Except for one set of yours, from opening it, there are no prints to get off the filing cabinet.”
“Wiped?”
“With extreme prejudice-a phrase that now seems apt. Same with the front doorknob and the door to the office. No prints even to lift.”
“I’m trying to reconstruct the pictures in that box to figure out what someone would want, but I’m drawing a blank. I should have kept them in a safe.”
“Like that would have stopped these guys.” He sat on her desk and she pried a sheet of paper from under one of his cheeks. “Carter Damon ever get back to you?” She shook no. “Send flowers? Edible Arrangement? A bullet with your name on it?” This time she did sneak him the finger. He smiled. “There’s hope for you yet, Nikki Heat.”
“I tried calling Damon. No answer and his voice mail box is full. I put Malcolm and Reynolds on checking his gym, his barber, the usuals. They also ran his ATM and credit cards for activity. Nothing. He’s off the grid.”
“You think he might have just set you up, or was he your sniper?”
“At this point, anything’s possible. But why? Because I pissed him off at lunch at P.J. Clarke’s? And why the text apology?” Her phone rang. It was Detective Ochoa.
“Tell me the lab did not lose that brass.”
“No, Raley and I camped out to make sure of that. In fact, I’m calling because we scored some nice, juicy
