Crashing Heat Read online

  She kept to the perimeter to have the best view of the entire room, catching snippets of conversations as she moved. She came upon two women staring at Rook from across the room.

  “Good-looking and smart. Quite a catch,” one of them said.

  “But off the market,” said the other.

  The first one gave a knowing nod. “Married—”

  “To a cop. Have you seen her?”

  “No, but he’s such a hottie. I’m sure she doesn’t deserve him.”

  Nikki’s jaw dropped. She didn’t deserve him? Who were these women to pass judgment on her?

  “She’s gorgeous, Sue,” the other woman said. “They’re like the perfect power couple. I heard Jameson Rook interviewed a few weeks ago. He gushed over her. ‘The perfect combination of brains and beauty,’ he said. You should have seen his face. That man is in love.”

  “Isn’t she here?”

  The first woman nodded. “Tall. Perfect skin. She could have been a model, you know.”

  “So why did she become a cop?”

  They looked at each other, giving simultaneous shrugs.

  Nikki left them to their conjecture and speculation about her relationship with Rook and her choice of career, shaking her head. The things people spent their time talking about.

  Nikki kept on, skirting around a raucous table of journalists. “The piece was mediocre, at best,” one of them was saying.

  “Right!” another said, following the exclamation with a hard palm to the table. The salt and pepper shakers jumped, and the cocktail glasses rocked on their bases.

  “You’re just jealous,” a third person at the table, a woman dressed from head to toe in black sequins, said. “That piece on Lindsy Gardner and the bribery...It was pretty good.”

  Nikki wanted to lean over the table, slam her palm against it, and say, “Damn straight, it was good.” That story had it all. Greed. Power. Long-lost mother. Near-death experience. Rook had captured it all with aplomb, as he liked to say.

  Nikki wandered on, picking up on other chatter. Just scattered words, mostly, that floating out there by themselves meant nothing. Finally, after a solid twenty minutes, she sidled up behind Rook, slipped her arm around his waist, and leaned in close. “Ready to blow this Popsicle stand, big boy?”

  But instead of picking up the thread of her flirtatious proposition, he grabbed her wrist, yanked it clear of his body, and whipped her around until she tottered on her heels next to him. “Blow this Popsicle stand? What, are you crazy? We can’t leave now. I’m just getting started. See those guys?” he asked, clutching his tumbler in his hand as he pointed to a cluster of people.

  “What I see are very few women. I mean, come on, Rook. You can’t tell me that women never write award-winning pieces.”

  He fluttered his hand in front of her. “Well, of course they do. Don’t be a ninny. I did just win the Nellie Bly award. And look. Look over there,” he said, and once again, he was pointing. “That’s Rebecca Reisenbold. Just last year, she won the very exclusive—” He stroked his chin. “Now what was that award?”

  Nikki shook her head. “You are proving my point, Rook.”

  His fluttering hand turned into a wave. “No, no, no. Nikki Heat, you are not going to get me all verklempt—”

  She grinned, feeling it stretch the entire width of her face. She came up closer to him again, slipping her hand under his jacket and letting it snake around his middle. “Aw, but baby, don’t you want me to get you all verklempt?”

  She felt him stiffen. Oh yeah, she had him. She knew his eyes were probably rolling back slightly. If they were in a cartoon, his clutch on his tumbler would have shattered it. What were usually ordinary words coming from his mouth had turned to unintelligible gibberish. “I can...do...verk...now...coatroom,” he said, his eyes now half-closed.

  She took hold of his tie and pulled him into motion. “Like I said. Let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said again, following like a tiger she’d tamed. “Let’s blow something.”

  Without missing a step, she set her wine glass down on a nearby table. Rook, still her lapdog, did the same with his tumbler. They were almost at the door, where they could hail a cab to take them back to their Tribeca loft. No one had stopped them. No one had noticed. She pushed against the door. Almost there—

  “Jamie, where in the devil are you off to?” The booming voice of Raymond Lamont stopped them in their tracks. He sauntered up beside them, clapping Rook on the back with one hand, a tumbler of whiskey on the rocks in the other.

  Damn, Nikki thought. They’d been so close.

  A young woman appeared from behind Lamont. Surely not his date, Nikki thought, although it wouldn’t surprise her. It was the ultimate cliché for a professor to date a student.

  “Thought we’d call it an early night,” Rook said. Heat kept her hand on his arm, hoping she could still guide him out into the Brooklyn evening while it was early enough to walk along the waterfront when they got back to Tribeca.

  He nodded his greeting to Nikki, then smiled. “Say no more. Beautiful night for lovers.”

  Nikki cringed. She didn’t dislike Lamont, but God, he could be such a windbag. He was interesting—he was smart. He wore an earring, and she’d glimpsed the tattoo on his inner wrist once when his long sleeve had slipped up. But he often drank too much, and now was one of those times. He was far less stable on his feet than he’d been onstage, and his words slurred.

  “But before you go, my fine people,” he continued, “let me introduce you to a member of your fan club. Chloe Masterson, Jameson Rook.” Lamont ushered the young woman forward.

  Nikki had spent half her life as an observer, trying to understand why people did what they did and said what they said. She’d learned to size up a person pretty quickly, although she also withheld judgment until she had more information. Her first impression of this girl was that she was confident and strong and knew how to get what she wanted. She had shoulder-length black hair held back with a simple thin hairband. Clear skin and a lean figure told Nikki that the young woman took care of herself. Her mascaraed eyes and pink plump lips said that she cared about her appearance, but not overly so. And her evening dress, a simple black knee-length sheath, looked like she belonged in it. She owned the dress, rather than the dress owning her.

  She gave a forced smile, Nikki noticed, clearly not liking the introduction Lamont had given her. “It’s very nice to meet you,” she said, adding, “and I’m actually a journalism student.”

  Lamont thrust his shoulders back, said, “I stand corrected,” and threw back his drink.

  Chloe clearly had wanted to speak to Rook, and she’d gotten Raymond Lamont to give her an introduction, more evidence of her determination and strength. Nikki could see that this girl went after what she wanted. “I admire your work so much,” Chloe said.

  “Well. I can’t say I ever get tired of hearing that,” Rook answered, the quintessential twinkle in his eye. “Would you like an autograph? Or a picture? Do you have a cell phone?” Before she could answer, he turned to Nikki. “Would you do the honors?”

  “No, no, Mr. Rook, I’m not a fan—” She blushed, but quickly regained her composure. “That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry. Of course I’m a fan, but that isn’t why I wanted to meet you.”

  “Do tell,” Rook said, intrigued.

  “Let me,” Lamont boomed. “Ms. Masterson is one of Cam U’s best and brightest. She’s you, Rook, when you were at the university. Of course, you exceeded expectations, and her editor is not near as talented as yours.” He guffawed. “But we won’t go there.”

  “Let me guess, you were his editor?” Nikki asked, smirking so only Rook could see. Rook exceeding expectations was putting it mildly.

  “Editor in chief. Perhaps the greatest experience I had. It led me down a winding path, but ultimately to become the dean of the very journalism program that produced us both,” Lamont said, squeezing Rook’s shoulder. “Chloe he
re is a go-getter just like we were.”

  “Are,” Rook inserted. “Just like we are. Hide a carrot and we will sniff it out. Chloe, if what old Lamont here says is true, you have a bright future ahead of you. A bright future, indeed.”

  “What I, and everyone else, have been telling her. Saunders met with her personally. Daily’s her advisor. We all have high hopes.” He turned to Chloe. “You, my girl, are going to put Cam U on the map.”

  To Rook, he said, “This little lady is going to give you a run for your money, Jamie. I’ve regaled her, as well as my other students, with our journalistic antics from our time at the Journal. Stories we wrote, parties we crashed, the kill files—”

  Nikki drew back at that. “The what?”

  “Stories pitched or started, but never finished,” Rook explained.

  “Professor Lamont could tell stories all day long,” Chloe confirmed.

  Nikki detected the slightest hint of sarcasm, but it seemed to be lost on Lamont. “She has been quite determined to meet you,” he said to Rook.

  “Excellent,” Rook said.

  Nikki leaned in, keeping her voice low. “I’ve been on the other end of Raymond’s stories,” she said. “I feel you.”

  Chloe gave a knowing smile. “Captain Heat, I presume.”

  Impressive, Nikki thought. The girl wanted to talk to Rook—that was evident—but she’d done her homework by learning at least the bare minimum about his wife. She wondered about this meeting. It wasn’t a chance encounter. She’d run across Rook’s fans, both crazed and otherwise, in the past, but this one—this one was different. She wanted something.

  “So Ms. Masterson,” Rook said, “I see that you are more than a fan. What can I”—he swept his arm out to include Nikki—“what can we do to help you?”

  Lamont looked at his empty tumbler and excused himself. “I’ll take this opportunity to take my leave,” he said. As he sauntered toward the bar, he glanced over his shoulder. “See you around campus, Rook.”

  Once it was just the three of them, Chloe directed her piercing dark eyes at them. “Mr. Rook. It’s not what you can do to help me. It’s what I can do to help you.”

  “That is quite an opening. You have my curiosity piqued, my dear,” Rook said in his best Sherlock Holmes impersonation.

  Nikki rolled her eyes, but she had to admit, her curiosity was piqued, too.

  “I’m not able to take your class this term, and I’m graduating in the spring, but I do want to talk with you when you’re there. If that’s all right with you, of course.”

  “‘Visiting professor’ means I’ll visit with anyone who wants to pick my brain,” Rook said.

  Nikki stayed silent. Things were good between Rook and her. Whatever drama they’d faced in recent months had receded, and they were just living their lives. It was a rare circumstance. Nikki’s mother was alive and well. Not just well, but on her honeymoon with none other than Nikki’s CIA buddy Derrick Storm’s dad. Love at first sight, they’d both said. She let her gaze skim over Rook. Nikki herself had fought it tooth and nail, but she knew just what her mother was talking about. None of them wanted to waste another minute.

  Except, it seemed, for Jameson Rook. Two-time Pulitzer Prize–winning author for First Press. Ruggedly handsome investigative journalist. Her husband. He was perfectly willing to waste another precious minute. Or 172,800 minutes, which was what the four months he’d be gone added up to while he did this professor thing at Cambria University. But who was counting?

  “I work on the Cambria Journal, like Professor Lamont said. Editor-at-large.”

  “Great college. Great paper,” Rook said. “Worked there all four years of my attendance. I can honestly say that without the Cambria Journal, I would not be the award-winning author I am today.”

  “You’re an inspiration, Mr. Rook,” Chloe said. “Your work when you were a student was inspirational. My God, I bet your notebooks could be in a museum. Do you still have them? You changed the trajectory of the paper, did you know that? Raised the bar for all of us.”

  Nikki cleared her throat. It was possible that Chloe actually was president of the Jameson Rook fan club. Groupies weren’t isolated to musicians. Or...she could just be very good at knowing how to ingratiate herself with a person. If they didn’t cut this off soon, Nikki thought, they might never make their escape. “Chloe, we were just on our way out. I imagine you can talk to Rook when he’s in residence—”

  “Oh! Of course! I’m so sorry.” She stepped back, her expression looking troubled. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Rook flashed Nikki a look. Cut the poor girl a break, it said. She just met her personal hero. To Chloe, he said, “You didn’t interrupt. I always have time for an aspiring journalist.”

  “I really am. I’m researching a story. I think you will find it interesting, actually. Right up your alley. Sku—”

  She stopped when Nikki sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to interrupt your evening any more. I’ll see you in Cambria, Mr. Rook.”

  “I look forward to that,” Rook said. “And I’m happy to share my formative experiences.”

  Nikki read between the lines. Chloe had hit the trifecta of capturing Rook’s full attention: she’d pandered to his ego, had brought in a quick reference to conspiracy theories, à la Skull and Bones, and she’d alluded to wanting his advice on her latest piece and admiring his humble journalistic beginnings. Nikki wasn’t going to let him sink into the black hole the young woman had carved out, or they’d never get back to their loft. She grabbed a fistful of Rook’s jacket sleeve, propelling him into motion. “Okay, great. He’ll be seeing you soon, then. Nice to meet you, Chloe.”

  Rook let himself be dragged out of the event room, but he turned to Chloe before the door slammed in his face. “See you in a week!”

  Chloe nodded. “Counting the seconds,” she called.

  A few minutes later, Nikki and Rook stood outside the venue, watching cabs roll past. “Looks like the president of your fan club is all lined up and ready to go,” Nikki said.

  His smile widened. “You think so, too? I thought it was just me. I wonder what advice I can give to the young impressionable minds of the twenty-first century that they haven’t already heard before?” he mused, stroking his chin.

  Nikki had been kidding, but Rook was not. She would always be content staying behind the scenes, but Rook thrived in the limelight. No wonder he wanted to do the writer-in-residence gig. All of a sudden, it made perfect sense. For four months, Rook was going to be the expert in all things journalism, and whether or not he was aware of his need, a part of him would be fulfilled by the adulation the underclassmen at Cambria University would bestow upon him. Rook would be in seventh heaven.

  And Nikki would be on her own.

  “Cap, you okay?” Sean Raley, one half of the best squad leader team in all of New York, looked at Heat, a mix of concern and curiosity on his face. She didn’t like seeing either one of those emotions directed at her. She prided herself on her professionalism. On her ability to be logical, while also pragmatic.

  Damn Jameson Rook. He was in her head, and she needed to get him out. She wiped away any insipid romantic notion that marriage could be perfect, resolved to deal with Rook and his writer-in-residence gig later, and turned her full attention to Raley, dismissing his question with a wave of her hand. “Yeah, of course. I’m fine. What d’ya got?”

  “What we got is a dead body,” he said.

  The beat of her pulse quickened. Her promotion to captain had changed her. She’d taken the job rather than risk a potentially inept new captain coming in. But being head of the Twentieth had changed the primary function of her job. She’d gone from fieldwork as a detective to a job filled with bureaucracy. Most of her time was spent dealing with the brass at One Police Plaza, shuffling papers, taking reports, and all the other minutiae that came with being the head honcho of a detective squad.

  Finding balance by finding a way to stay in the field was the t
rick. Right now, the chance to get back into it was like an itch that needed scratching.

  “I’m listening,” she said.

  “Details are sketchy at this point.” This time it was Miguel Ochoa, the other half of the dynamic duo detective team, who spoke.

  “Accidental?” she asked. Not every body they came across was the result of a murder.

  “Unlikely.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Unknown.”

  “Age?”

  “Also unknown.”

  Heat dragged her hand through her hair, fingers splayed, her frustration mounting. “Is there actually a dead body, Miguel?”

  He gave a noncommittal grunt. “We’re pretty sure.”

  Raley and Ochoa were stellar cops. The best she’d worked with. But they had their quirks, namely cracking jokes at inopportune times. In the face of the violent death they were constantly surrounded by, levity was needed. Nikki herself was serious. She didn’t make the jokes, but she didn’t stop her crew from telling them, or from lightening the general mood of the bull pen with their antics. Instead, she did her part by playing the straight man. But right now, her annoyance was being triggered by the snail’s pace with which they were parceling out information. “You’re pretty sure? What exactly does that mean?”

  “He hasn’t been examined yet. It’s a little bit of an unusual situation.”

  “Sounds like it,” she said.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it, Cap,” Raley said.

  “Oh, I know you will. But let me just get this all straight. We have what we think is a dead body, but no age, no COD, and presumably not an accident. And why do you think it was murder?”

  “Thought you’d never ask, Cap,” Ochoa said, a little too lightly for her taste. Heat rolled her eyes but kept her annoyance in check. “Our vic was found this morning on one of the sculptures in the pool at Lincoln Center Plaza.”

  This caught her by surprise. There weren’t many firsts when it came to murder in Manhattan. Bodies in alleys. Bodies in dumpsters. Bodies in beds. Bodies in cars. There were plenty of unsavory locations, but...“On the sculpture?”