Dutch said, “Some folks have no manners, getting killed at this hour.” Heat didn’t imagine Detective Van Meter paused a lot for reflection before meeting a corpse.
“Listen,” she said. “Not that I don’t like standing in twenty-five degrees, but I’ve got a vic waiting.”
“Where’s your ride-along?” said Feller with more than a little interest. “The writer, what’s his face?”
Feller, fishing again. Just like he did every time they crossed paths, testing to see if Rook was still in the picture. Nikki had been on Feller’s radar since the night months before when she escaped from a hired killer in Rook’s loft. After Heat’s battle with the Texan, he and Dutch were in the first wave of cops who raced to her aid. Ever since, Feller never missed a chance to pretend he didn’t know Rook’s name and take a sounding on her. Heat rolled with it; she was no stranger to interest from men, even liked it if they didn’t cross a line, but Feller . . . In the Rom-Com he’d be more Com than Rom; the joshing brother rather than the love interest. Detective Feller was funny and good company but more for beers in the cop bar than Sancerre by candlelight. Two weeks ago she’d seen him come out of the men’s room at Plug Uglies wearing a sanitary tissue ring around his neck, asking everyone if they’d also like a lobster bib.
“What’s his face?” repeated Nikki. “He’s off on assignment.” And then to send the message, she added, “He’s back at the end of this week, though.” But the detective read something else in her voice.
“That a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Good thing,” Heat said a little too abruptly. So she flashed a grin trying to reset her tone. “Real good.” And then, to convince herself, she added, “Really good.”
* * *
What Nikki found on the other side of the door was not an urban shrine to oenology with artfully stacked green bottles, nor did she hear the ping of an aluminum bat followed by the thud of a ball into padded netting. Instead, a throat-catching mixture of incense mixed with vapors from a harsh cleaning solvent rose up to greet her as she descended a flight of stairs to the basement. Behind her, Detective Van Meter moaned a low “Whoa,” and as Heat rounded the landing to make her turn down the last flight, she heard Dutch and Feller snapping on gloves. Van Meter muttered to his partner, “I catch an STD down here, I’ll sue till I own the damn city.”
At basement level they arrived at something that only charitably could be referred to as a reception area. The crimson painted-brick walls behind the Formica counter and the Internet catalogue chairs reminded her of a small, private gym lobby, and not a very high-end one. Four doors were spaced along the far wall. They were all open. Three led into dim rooms, lit only by the spill of harsh radiance from the CSU light stands set up to illuminate the lobby during the investigation. More light, punctuated by strobe flashes came from the far doorway, where Detective Raley stood watching the activity, latexed hands by his side. He saw Nikki out of the corner of his eye and stepped out to her.
“Welcome to Pleasure Bound, Detective Heat,” he said.