The next morning, amid flickering lights, City Hall put out the word for New Yorkers to curtail air-?conditioning use and strenuous activity. For Nikki Heat that meant her close-?quarter combat training with Don, the ex-?SEAL, would be done with the gym windows open. His brand of training combined Brazilian jujitsu, boxing, and judo. Their sparring began at five-?thirty with a round of grapples and rolls in eighty-?two degrees and humidity to match. After the second water break Don asked her if she wanted to call it. Heat answered with a takedown and a textbook blood choke and release. She seemed to thrive on the adverse weather, fed on it, really. Rather than wearing her down, the gasping intensity of morning combat pushed out the noise of her life and left her in a quiet inner place. It was the same way when she and Don had sex from time to time. She decided if she had nothing going, maybe next week she’d suggest another after-?hours session to her trainer, with benefits. Anything to get her heart rate up.
Lauren Parry led Nikki Heat and her reporter tag-?along through the autopsy room to the body of Matthew Starr. “As always, Nik,” said the medical examiner, “we don’t have the tox work yet, but barring lab surprises, I’m writing up cause of death as blunt force trauma due to a fall from an unreasonable height.”
“And what box are you going to check, suicide or homicide?”
“That’s why I called you down. I found something that indicates homicide.” The M.E. circled to the other side of the corpse and lifted the sheet. “We’ve got a series of fist-?sized contusions on the torso. These tell me he got worked over sometime day of. Look closely at this one here.”
Heat and Rook leaned in at the same time and she drew away to avoid a repeat of the balcony perfume ad. He stepped back and gestured a be-?my-?guest. “Very distinct bruising,” said the detective. “I can make out knuckles, and what’s this hexagonal shape from, a ring?” She stepped out to let Rook in and said, “Lauren, I’d like to get a photo of that one.”
Her friend was already holding out a print to her. “I’ll put it up on the server so you can copy it, and what did you do, get in a bar fight?” She was looking at Rook.
“Me? Oh, just a little line-?of-?duty action yesterday. Cool, huh?”
“Way you’re standing, my guess is intercostal injury right here.” She touched his ribs without pressing. “Does it hurt when you laugh?”
Heat said, “Say ‘line-?of-?duty action’ again, that’s funny.”
Detective Heat taped autopsy blowups on the bull pen whiteboard to prep for her unit case meeting. She drew a line with a dry-?erase marker and wrote the names of the Forensics print matches off the balcony doors at the Guilford: Matthew Starr, Kimberly Starr, Matty Starr, and Agda the nanny. Raley arrived early with a bag of donut holes and confirmed Barry Gable’s regular hotel bookings at the Beacon. Reception and service staff had identified Kimberly Starr as his steady guest. “Oh, and the lab work came in on Barry the Beacon Beefcake’s blue jeans,” he added. “No match to those balcony fibers.”
“No surprise,” Heat said. “But it was fun to see how fast he was willing to drop his pants.”
“Fun for you,” said Rook.
She smiled. “Yeah, definitely one of the perks of the job watching sweaty clods shimmy out of their knockoff jeans.”
Ochoa rushed in, speaking as he crossed to them. “I’m late, it was worth it, shut up.” He pulled some printouts from his messenger bag. “I just finished the background check on Kimberly Starr. Or shall I say Laldomina Batastini of Queens, New Yawk?”