Heat Rises (21 page)

“I believe two suspects, sir. Only one has been confirmed.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

Nikki paused before answering, knowing this was another tricky one. “Regretful. I value life, and that was . . . and always would be . . . a last resort. But if the play is dealt, I have to respond.”

“Do you feel it was a fair fight?”

“Respectfully, Captain? If someone is looking for a fair fight, he’d better not draw on me.”

The members shared nods and satisfied looks and passed their score sheets to the moderator. He looked them over and said, “We will, of course, have to calculate these, but I feel confident in saying you have done exceptionally well, Detective Heat. Combining this with your outstanding score on the written, I have a feeling good news is coming, and soon.”

“Thank you.”

The Personnel administrator said, “If I’m not getting ahead of the horse here, have you given any thought to commanding your own precinct?”

“Not really.”

He grinned. “I would.”

Promptly at nine the next morning, Detective Heat announced herself to the receptionist in the lobby of the Terence Cardinal Cooke Building in Sutton Place. To Nikki, the archdiocese headquarters was an odd place to be while tapering off a mild hangover and feeling blissfully sore following her night with Rook. He had insisted on a major celebration after her oral boards, and party they did. A pocket of warmth grew inside her as she reflected on how fortunate she was to have a man like him in her life, who always sought ways to escape to brightness amid the dark. Her face broadened into a dopey smirk, recalling how she had made Rook laugh by screaming “quatrain!” at a critical moment in bed.

An administrative aide in a brown three-piece suit, who introduced himself as Roland Jackson, was waiting on the nineteenth floor when the elevator opened onto the chancery offices. “Monsignor is expecting you.” He carried an armload of fat manila pocket files in one arm and gestured with the other for her to precede him through the nearest door. “Detective Heat is here,” he said as they stepped in.

They had caught the monsignor hurrying to put on his black suit jacket for the meeting. He was still flexing his elbow to adjust one sleeve as he came around to shake her hand, which he did with both of his. “Hi, Pete Lynch.”

“Thanks for making the time, Monsignor.” Nikki returned his warm smile. Thirsty as she was, Heat declined the coffee or tea offer, and the three of them took seats in the modest conversation grouping to the side of the monsignor’s desk. “I understand this is in regard to Gerry Graf,” Monsignor Lynch said. His countenance darkened. “It’s a staggering loss. When something like that happens anywhere, it’s deeply felt, but more so among our fraternity. You must know that. I hear you lost one of your own, too. He’s in our prayers, as well.”

She thanked him and then steered the conversation back to Father Graf. “As the man who administers the day-to-day affairs of the archdiocese, I wanted to get a sense from you of him as a pastor. Were you aware of any problems with him?”

“Such as?”

“Well, for instance, any financial irregularities in parish accounting? Conflicts with parishioners or anyone here? Inappropriate behavior . . . of any kind?”

“You can say it, Detective, you mean sexual?”

“I do.” Nikki found herself studying the monsignor, then staring.

“None I am aware of.” He broke off eye contact and removed his wire-framed glasses to rub the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Roland has the parish books there. Anything untoward?”

“No, nothing of the sort.” Mr. Jackson patted the files on his lap. “His books always balanced, he was loved by the parish, and he was not involved in any personal scandals.”

“What about the situation with the priest you removed, the one who they say molested those boys on the field trip?”

The monsignor’s forehead gained a mild sheen, and a glance flicked between the two men. “Father Shea,” prompted Roland Jackson without necessity.

“These behaviors are the scourge of our holy church now. As you mentioned, we removed that priest immediately, and he is in a counseling program isolated from any parish, especially children.” Then Monsignor Lynch added, “He will probably face criminal charges—and should.”

Nikki said, “I hear one of the parents threatened Father Graf, accusing him of complicity.”

“You mean Mr. Hays.” He replaced his glasses. “Can you begin to imagine the pain a parent endures when his innocent child is molested?”

“Unimaginable,” she said. “I wanted to find out if you were privy to any specific threats against Father Graf made by Mr. Hays.”

Jackson shuffled his deck of pocket files and found a printout of an e-mail. “About a month and a half ago, Father Gerry received this.” He handed the page to Nikki. It was a full page, single-spaced rant laden with expletives and accusations. The last lines read, “You ever hear of a Tikrit Tune-up? I have, padre. You suffer until you pray to die and then you suffer some more. Lots more. The best part is when you call out to God for mercy and He looks down and spits upon your withered douche bag of a soul.”

“Monsignor Lynch,” said Heat, “this is not only direct and specific, but it’s very much like the way he was killed. Didn’t you take this seriously?”

“Of course, Detective, no threat would be dismissed out of hand. However, Mr. Hays was understandably agitated. Also, Father Graf wasn’t the only one he sent notes like this to, so we had no cause to focus on him alone.”

Roland Jackson backed him up. “Father Shea got one, of course, very similar.”

“Even I got one,” said the monsignor.

“Why didn’t you report this to the police?” she asked.

“We were hoping to handle this as an internal matter.”

Heat said, “And how has all that been working out for you fellas?”

Monsignor Lynch registered a weary sense of defeat. “Your point has been well made many times, Detective Heat, believe me. And, given the benefit of hindsight, well . . .” He lowered his eyes and then brought them back to her. “Do you have any idea what it is like to love an organization so much that it is like your family? But like any family, it has flaws that pain you, but you endure nonetheless because you trust in its greatness?”

“I think I have an idea,” she said.

The cold blast when she came out the revolving door onto First Avenue numbed Nikki’s face, and the wind was so strong that Heat had to shelter against the dark gray marble wall of the vestibule so she could make out Deputy Commissioner Yarborough over the scratchiness on her cell phone. “Is this a bad time, Nikki?”

“No, I’m just out here pounding the pavement.”

“Well, if what I hear is true, you won’t be doing that much longer. You’re the talk of the building this morning after your oral boards. I have a feeling you’re going to have bigger responsibilities than wearing down your Nine Wests in the cold.”

A fire truck rolled by with full siren and horn. Nikki plugged one ear and turned to the wall. When it had passed, she said, “That’s awesome. I have to admit, it felt like it went OK.”

Phyllis Yarborough laughed. “Love the understatement. Let me tell you how I read it. I think you’re not only going to get your gold bar, but with the sudden command void in your precinct, there’s talk they may fast-track you to a captaincy so you can assume Montrose’s job. Nothing’s firm, but this is your heads-up to hang loose on your calendar. You may get the call anytime, think you can do that?” In the brief pause when Nikki’s heart fluttered, the deputy commissioner said, “Don’t worry, Nikki. We both know you’re up for the task.”

The Waterfront Ale House, the closest eats near the
OCME
, was at the start of lunch rush so Nikki Heat and Lauren Parry grabbed one of the high tops in the bar rather than wait for a table. For a saloon the food was surprisingly good and always adventurous. Both ordered from the chalkboard. Nikki had the porter onion soup, her friend broke out and said she’d try the elk burger.

After Heat filled her in on her exam results and the recent call from Phyllis Yarborough, Lauren congratulated her, but seemed muted. She said that in spite of the good news, she was worried about Nikki after her ordeal in Central Park. The detective glanced out the window to Second and The Discourager parked in his blue-and-white and reassured Lauren she felt secure enough. “And after lunch I’ll be in the safest place in Manhattan. The Montroses didn’t leave any relatives, so I’m going to 1PP to see what I can do to assist with the memorial service.”

Their food arrived. The ME bisected her elk burger and asked, “No relatives? No kids?”

“The dog was their kid.”

“What kind of dog?”

“Long-haired mini dachshund, just like yours.” Heat pulled a strand of melty cheese from her spoon and could see the wheels turning in her friend. “Dr. Parry, before you get any ideas about Lola getting a big sister, the captain’s neighbor has Penny and wants to keep her.”

“Penny . . . ,” said Lauren. “Tell me she isn’t sweet.”

“A prancing bundle of cuteness.” Heat grew reflective. “It’s one more thing that weakens the suicide theory. Cap doted on Penny. No matter what else was going on, no way he would just abandon her.”

“Good luck trying to derail where this train is heading with that,” said the ME. “This has momentum. A suicide disposition is all but signed and sealed.”

Nikki studied her friend. “Is it me, or do I hear reservations?”

“I am a skeptic by profession. That’s science.”

“But . . .”

Lauren Parry set down the crescent of remaining burger and dabbed her mouth. “I don’t like the bullet trajectory. It’s in the realm, but for my taste it tracks forward and to the left too much. Plus it was a chin shot.” They both knew that most shooters minimized a nonfatal miss factor by sticking the barrel in their mouths, hence the cop slang “eating your gun.” She must have sensed Nikki’s thought process and added, “Yes, there was residue on his hand.”

Heat pushed her soup aside and stared out the window, lost in thought.

She should have known something was off by the look on the lieuten ant’s face when she showed him her list. “I see . . . right. Just a moment, please.” The department’s funeral director went to a desk in the back of the small office suite and punched a number on his phone without sitting. While Nikki waited, she studied the Honor Roll of the Fallen—heroes remembered forever on tall brass plaques that lined the walls of the reception area. Framed pictures traced the history of memorial ceremonies for New York’s Finest from sepia to black-and-white to Kodachrome to digital. She reviewed her list, which included suggested speakers, Emerald Society bagpipes, and a request for a helicopter flyover, since that was one of Captain Montrose’s early units before he made detective.

Lieutenant Prescott returned. “Would you like to have a seat?”

“Is there a problem?”

Prescott’s face grew solemn. “Detective Heat, I appreciate your volunteering to assist us with the service for Captain Montrose, but our planning doesn’t go to anything as, well . . . elaborate . . . in this particular case.”

“Is it the helicopter? I’ve seen it done, but that’s only an idea.”

“Frankly,” he said with sympathy in his eyes, “none of it fits our planning.” When she frowned, he added, “Well, perhaps a speaker. You, if you like.”

Someone came in, and when she turned, Zach Hamner was there in shirtsleeves and tie. “You should have called me, Heat, I could have saved you a trip.”

“Why are you part of this?” she asked but directed it to Prescott.

“I phoned him,” explained the lieutenant. “In interpretive cases like this one, we consult with the commissioner of legal matters.”

“I don’t understand ‘interpretive,’ ” said Nikki.

“Simple as this,” said The Hammer. “A ruling needs to be made as to whether a Full Honors service is appropriate for a death that’s not line of duty. Budget watchdogs like to sue if the city spends frivolously.”

“Frivolously?!”

Hamner waved both hands in front of him. “Calm down, not my term, OK? But the people who sue use it, and worse. However, the fact remains, a Full Honors memorial for a suicide, not to mention for a cop whose suspicious activity may implicate him in a murder . . . ?” He shook his head.

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” she said. “We’re talking about a veteran, decorated precinct commander. They haven’t ruled it suicide yet. And where do you get this business of suspicious activity implicating him in a murder?”

“Why, from you. Yes, I got a prelim from your IA meet this morning.”

Heat was floored. Her own words were being abused. “This is unacceptable. No Full Honors? What are you planning, Zach, a cardboard box and a shopping cart?”

Prescott stepped in to quell the storm. “We have a nice service level that includes a suburban mortuary near his home and an escorted ride with several motorcycles to the plot near his late wife.”

“And this is the last word?”

Zach said, “It is unless someone else foots the bill.”

“This is an affront.”

“This is what happens when you take the coward’s way out.”

“Mr. Hamner . . . ,” cautioned the lieutenant, but Nikki wouldn’t be stopped.

“That’s it,” said Heat. “I know how to deal with this. I’m going public.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” said Hamner. “If you go to the press, do you realize the damage that would do?”

“I can only hope so,” she said and then left.

Back in the bull pen, Nikki was still fuming. She had unloaded over the phone to Rook on her way uptown to the precinct and thought she had calmed down, but announcing the slap against Montrose to the squad only rekindled her anger. The words of the monsignor from that morning about having faith in a family despite its flaws did little to quell her upset.

So Nikki Heat did what she always did under those circumstances: immersed herself in work. “I want Lawrence Hays the minute he gets back in New York,” she said to Detective Raley. “He made a specific threat against Graf in writing and I want him, now.” She gave him copies of the e-mail threat to distribute to the squad.

Raley read the e-mail. “Whoa. . . . On it.”