Heat Rises (6 page)

“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 scanned for any photographs of the
TENS
burns Lauren Parry had mentioned, but found none on her first pass. Out of habit, she clicked on the roster page listing the investigators on the case to see if she knew any of them. Then she saw the name of the lead detective and felt a flutter in her diaphragm.

Heat slumped back in her chair and just stared at the screen.

The first thing Heat did after she clicked the tiny red square and closed the Huddleston file was call Lauren Parry. She tried not to think too much about it first, because she might hesitate and then hold back. That was the death of good police work. Gather facts but trust your hunches. Especially the ones about which facts to gather.

“So soon?” said Lauren when she picked up. “You leave something here? Tell me you didn’t leave your keys. I’ve had that happen, and you don’t want to know where I’ve found them.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Even though she had her end of the bull pen to herself at the moment, Nikki looked over her shoulder before she continued. “Listen, I saw how busy you all were down there in B-23 this morning—”

“Yeah, yeah, what do you need me to fast track?”

“The priest collar. The one with the bloodstain. Can you push it to the head of the class for me?”

“You on to someone already?”

In her mind’s eye, Heat kept seeing the bandage on Captain Montrose’s finger. She wanted to say she hoped not, but answered, “Who knows? As much to eliminate as anything.” Nikki heard papers rustle before the ME answered.

“Sure, I can expedite. It still takes time, you know.”

“Then let’s get this party started.”

“Then I’ll be burnin’ rubber.” Lauren chuckled and continued, “While we’re talking, I just shipped my report over to you.” Nikki checked her monitor and saw that the e-mail was parked there for her. “Heads up on an additional note I added.
CSU
did an evidence vacuum of the torture room—a few hairs, you can imagine—but they also came up with what looks like a sliver of fingernail.” Nikki replayed her survey of the dead priest while he was still on the frame and recalled that his nails were not broken. Her friend underscored that. “I just did a double-check of the body, and neither his fingernails or toenails show signs of chipping.”

“So it could be from whoever worked him over,” said Heat. “Assuming it’s not a holdover from another session.” That possibility might not make it court-worthy, but it could open an investigative lead. Before they hung up, Lauren offered to push that test up the chain as well.

“How’s it going in here?” she asked as she entered the audiovisual booth, a converted supply closet, where Raley was screening the security video from Pleasure Bound.

“Rockin’ it, Detective,” he said without looking up from his monitor. “That place isn’t as busy as you’d think, so I’m flying through these tapes.”

“This is why you’re King of All Surveillance Media.” She came around behind his table and leafed through the stills her detective had printed out so far. “Any hits on Father Graf?”

“Zip,” he said. “Speaking of which, check out the guy on the leash in a gimp mask with a zipper mouth. It’s like watching the outtake reel from
Pulp Fiction
.”

“Or
Best in Show
,” said Heat, examining it. Other than the cleaning crew and Roxanne Paltz, Nikki didn’t recognize any of the dozen people whose faces Raley had captured. She set the stack down beside the printer. “I want to run these past the housekeeper up at the rectory. How soon until you finish?”

He paused the deck and turned to her. “Excuse me, but is this how one addresses the king?”

“OK, fine. How soon until you finish . . . sire?”

“Gimme twenty.”

She looked at her watch. Lunch hour, for those who were fortunate enough to actually have one, had come and gone. She asked Raley what kind of sandwich he wanted and told him she’d be back in fifteen minutes. In the hallway, she smiled when the door closed and she heard his muffled shout, “Hello? I said twenty!”

Andy’s Deli would have delivered, but Nikki was in the mood for a walk, even in the cold. No, especially in the cold. The day had put her head in a vise, and something primal howled to be outside and moving. The wind had begun to diminish, taking a fraction of the ache out of the winter air, but after dropping all day to four degrees, it was still plenty bitter, and the sensation of it invigorated her. Rounding the corner at Columbus she heard a loud crack behind her and turned. A big
SUV
was inching forward from 82nd for a right as well, and one of its monster tires had shattered an ice patch in the gutter, hurling frozen chips up onto the curb. Heat looked to see who still drove those big-shouldered gas hogs in the city, but she never got a look. The throaty engine gunned, and the
SUV
fishtailed into traffic and was soon swallowed by its own fading roar.

“Penis car,” said a passing mail carrier, and Nikki laughed, loving New York and all its intimate strangers.

While the counter man at Andy’s made a pair of BLTs for her, Nikki checked her phone and e-mail again. Nothing from Rook since she had last surfed—right before she ordered. She got two extra honey packets for Raley’s iced tea from the condiment bar and checked her cell again. Then she thought, Screw it, and pressed Rook’s speed dial. It never rang, just dumped straight to voice mail. While she listened to his announcement, not yet even sure what she wanted to say, a man beside her waiting for a tuna on rye flipped open his newspaper and Nikki was confronted once again by Rook and his doable agent grinning outside Le Cirque. Heat hung up without leaving a message, paid for the lunches, and hurried back out into the freezing cold, cursing herself for caving in to chasing a guy.

Sharon Hinesburg always wore her emotions on her face, and when Heat breezed into the rectory unannounced, the detective looked like she had just opened the fridge and gotten a whiff of curdled milk. Nikki didn’t care. Misplaced sensitivity had led to one bad call assigning Hinesburg to handle this venue in the first place. She wasn’t going to compound her lapse by worrying about Bigfooting her subordinate.

The decision to take charge was validated by the briefing she got. After several hours on-scene, the best Hinesburg could offer was a rehash of the information Heat already had learned both from her own chat with the housekeeper and the call from the evidence crew about the missing holy medal and disturbed clothing drawers. Nikki had the not unsupported impression that Detective Hinesburg’s main activity had been to sit with Mrs. Borelli and watch
The View
.

She didn’t lash out at her detective, though. Hinesburg was, and always would be, Hinesburg. Heat decided there was no sense misplacing her anger, which was at herself for not getting to this interview until the afternoon thanks to reporters, department politics, and worries about her boss.

“I hope you don’t mind, Mrs. Borelli,” Nikki began as they sat down at the kitchen table, “but we need to ask some questions while things are still fresh in your mind. I understand it’s a difficult time, but are you up for this?”

The rims of the wiry old woman’s eyes were swollen and red, but the look in them was clear and full of strength. “I want to help you find whoever did this. I’m ready.”

“Let’s review the period leading up to the last time you saw Father Graf. And I apologize if you have already been over this with Detective Hinesburg.”

“No, she didn’t ask me about any of that,” said Mrs. B.

Hinesburg made a show of flipping a page of her pad. “You told me you last saw him yesterday morning at ten or ten-fifteen,” she said, citing information that was already in the missing persons report.

But Nikki only smiled at the old woman and said, “Good, let’s start there.” After Heat spent a half hour quizzing her about Father Graf’s last hours and days, through a series of questions doled out in small bites, a timeline emerged, not only of the previous morning but the weeks leading up to the pastor’s disappearance. He had been a man of habits, at least in the early part of his days. Up at 5:30 for his morning prayers, opening the doors to the church at 6:30, on the altar next door for Mass at 7 &A.M.&, breakfast served by Mrs. Borelli promptly at ten minutes to eight. “He’d smell the bacon and keep the sermon short,” she said, comforted by the memory.