“Makes sense,” said Rook. “What’s a trip to New York without a picture of Uranus?”
Feller couldn’t resist joining in, adopting the voice of a tourist. “‘My God, Harry, I can’t believe the size of Uranus.’”
“Wanna talk massive?” said Rook. “Feast your eyes on this space junk.”
Heat turned to them. “Boys.” Then, admonishing Rook, “Definitely a nap next time.”
Raley resumed. “The tourist couple volunteered the video so I could make a digital copy. This part’s in slo-mo. Ready?” Rales didn’t bother waiting for a reply. Everyone gathered a little closer to the monitor when he rolled the footage.
The screen displayed a barrel-chested senior citizen with silver hair sprayed into a meticulous pompadour embracing a buxom woman of about fifty who wore her jewels proudly and rested her head on the love of her life. Both smiles seemed frozen, but that was due to the video speed, apparent when their eyes blinked in slow motion. “Here comes,” said Raley. A few seconds later, a dark form shaped like a bullet descended from the sky at a steep angle and crashed into the roof of the cube. Nobody on the video noticed or reacted, but the video room sure did, resounding with moans, gasps, and a long “Fuuuuck” from Ochoa.
“Can you zoom in?” asked Heat.
“Already done. Now, the more you zoom, the more this stuff pixilates, so it’s not real sharp, but there’s something interesting. Ready?”
His zoomed version excluded the couple, except for the top of the silver pompadour. Raley had also slowed the video down a step further so, as the body appeared, its movement played somewhat jerkily. A second before impact, he froze the frame.
Rhymer said, “Oh, man, headfirst.”
“And check it out.” Raley used a pencil to indicate the victim’s hands. “Tucked behind his back.”
“Who doesn’t put his hands out?” asked Rook.
Detective Feller said, “Might be unconscious.”
Ochoa shook his head. “If you’re unconscious, your arms are all loose.” He posed to demonstrate.
They all studied the image. After a few moments, Raley played it out to impact. This time it was met with silence. Which was broken by Rook. “I guess that’s what the kids today mean by photobomb.”
It turned out Nikki Heat’s fantasy about a trail of clothes from the door to the bed wasn’t so far off—the two main differences being it was Rook’s loft, not the Excelsior Hotel, and they never made it as far as the bed. At least not the first time.
Separation had created a hunger and they eagerly flew at each other in a frenzy, the time apart making this reunion feel fresh. Even their familiar ways and places carried a sense of novelty and wild excitement. And abandon. Definitely abandon. Afterward, with her head nestled into his shoulder, Nikki reflected how she had never been with a man who could make her forget everything so completely and lose herself in the instant they were creating. Of course, he could also break the spell.
“Reunion sex,” he said. “Nothing like it.”
“Hotel sex? Sex on the roof? And what about that time in the back of the squad car?”
“Oh, right. You know I’m very sorry to hear the NYPD is retiring the noble Crown Victoria from the its fleet. Fuel economy is one thing. A spacious and, might I say, firm, backseat is another.”
“On the topic of firm backseats, how much weight did you lose?”
“Jungle travel is very slimming.”
“And what is this here?” Nikki ran her fingertips down from the old indent made by the bullet he took to save her life and traced them over a jagged scar. She slid down his chest to examine it. Even in the dim light she could make out the bas-relief of crude stitchwork, recently healed.
“Later,” he said, drawing her face up to his. “Let’s enjoy this.”
“Oo, man-of-mystery.”
“Yeah?”