When she turned from the map, Heat caught Ochoa eye-rolling to his partner. “
Problem, gentlemen?”
Ochoa said, “I know, like, Rales is your King of All Surveillance Media, and all
that. But we’re getting spread a little thin. We still have to get back in the
field to brace more of the restaurant owners on Conklin’s roster.”
“You’ll have to juggle both,” said Heat. “Like we all do.” She didn’t need to
take it further. Nikki could see the impact on all their faces. Every detective in
that room knew their squad leader not only juggled these two cases; she did it while
someone was actively out to kill her. She adjourned, continuing to ponder the why of
that. Heat didn’t have the answer yet, but the attempt on her life that morning
told her one thing. Something new was up with whatever conspiracy had led to her mom
’s murder ten years ago. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be working this hard to kill her
now.
On the drive with Rook to City Island to interview Roy Conklin’s widow, Nikki found
her eyes on the mirrors a lot more than usual. When you know a professional wants
you in the crosshairs, a little extra vigilance may get you a chance to see the next
day.
Heat was at risk, and nobody would have thought less of her if she bunkered up.
Captain Irons was so worried about her safety, he’d even offered her administrative
leave or vacation time, if she wanted it. Nikki had stomped out that idea on the
spot. The cop in her would never hide in the face of personal danger. That was the
gig. But she did feel a healthy nerve jangle. Who wouldn’t? So Heat did what Heat
did best: She compartmentalized. Experience had taught her that the only way to move
forward was to cage the beast—put her fear in a box. Because what was the
alternative? To close herself inside her apartment? Run and hide?
Not this detective. This detective would bring the fight to them. And check her
mirrors.
The phone rang as they crossed the Pelham Bay Bridge, where the Hutchinson River
separated the urban Bronx from the expansive green woods surrounding Turtle Cove.
Nikki fished her Jawbone earpiece from the side door pocket and got an earful from
her friend Lauren Parry. “Do I need to remind you that I will kill you if you get
yourself killed?”
Heat chuckled. “No, you make that pretty clear. Every time.”
“See?” Lauren kidded, but sisterly worry came through. “That’s why you’re still
walking God’s earth. Because I will come after you.”
Admonishment completed, the medical examiner filled in Heat on Roy Conklin’s
postmortem. “Hard to call it good news,” said Lauren, “but Mr. Conklin was
deceased before he went into the oven.”
Nikki pictured the body. Envisioned the high-temp bake. “So he didn’t suffer?”
“Doubtful. Cause of death was a .22 delivered to the base of the skull.” Heat
answered Rook’s inquiring face by miming a finger pistol while the ME added,
“Condition of the body and the small caliber hid the GSW from me on-scene. I found
the slug when I opened him up. Ballistics has it now.”
“What about my poisoning vic from Starbucks?”
“He’s next up.”
“Be sure to run a cross-check versus whatever killed Petar,” said Nikki, mindful
of Salena Kaye’s earlier poisoning victim.
“Gee, ya think?” said Lauren. “Leave the autopsies to me. You concentrate on
staying alive.”