“Glad to know my name’s still alive at One Police Plaza,” she said, keeping her side light; feeling anything but.
“Oh, you know it is,” he said cheerfully. Guess Zach could keep the weasel out of his voice as well as Nikki could keep the dread out of hers. “Got your hands full, I know. We’re all glad it’s you on point with this serial killer. That’s from the Commish on down.” Zach knew the value of rank dropping.
“We’ll get him.”
“If anyone can, Heat, it’s you. Now…” His pause must have lasted five seconds, a deliberate technique to suck in her attention. Superfluous. He had it. “Been getting calls from Greer Baxter over at Channel 3. Media requests usually kick over to Public Information, but Baxter has a relationship with this office, so here I am. You know what this is about.”
“I do, Zach. But you must know what it’s like running a case like this. If you’re doing the investigation properly, the last thing you have time for is media.”
“Which is why we’re seeing fucking Wally Irons’s face on every screen. Listen to me while I count fingers. One: Greer Baxter is a friend of the commissioner. Two: Her newsroom lost one of its own to this creep. Three…” He worked another pause. Heat knew what was coming before he said it. “You owe me this.”
Nikki sank deeper in a quicksand of gloom. Earlier that year Hamner had championed her to become a captain and the precinct commander of the Twentieth, only to have her embarrass him by publicly rejecting the promotion at the last moment. And just within the past month, she had come back to him for a favor when Captain Irons gave her an unfair medical suspension, citing a phantom concern for her mental state following a shooting. The Hammer got her badge back but warned her his bill would come due.
Today was payday.
“I’ll bring you out to Greer’s set in two minutes, Detective,” said the stage manager, who then left the small room backstage at WHNY. Rook moved over to stand behind Nikki’s makeup chair. The mirror framed them both. One of them looked unhappy.
“For somebody who wanted to be an actress once upon a time, I’d think you’d be enjoying this,” he said. “People rushing in saying, ‘Two minutes, Detective,’ ‘Bottle of water, Detective?’ ”
“Touch up your makeup, Detective?” asked the woman who appeared at the door.
“See?” said Rook. “Magical.”
“Thanks, I’m still good.”
The makeup artist left. Rook asked, “You sure? Almost a million people watch this newscast.”
Nikki said, “I just want to get this over with. I don’t care how I look.”
“Mm, OK…”
“What?”
“Forget it,” he said. “Well. You’ve got a little… Never mind.” Heat sprung out of the chair and moved close to the mirror. She saw nothing of concern except the reflection of him behind her, laughing. When she sat back in the chair, Rook composed himself and said, “Have you decided what you’re going to say?”
“Don’t you see, that’s the whole problem with this. I’m being forced to go on live TV when I can’t release anything they don’t already have without screwing our case.”
The stage manager came back. “We’re ready, if you are.”
During an arthritis pain commercial, someone clipped a wireless microphone on Nikki’s collar and the stage manager showed her to a leather chair that would have been right at home in an airport first class lounge. It angled toward an identical seat in the tiny interview area off to the side of the stage, away from the anchor desk. Three video cameras glided in to block Heat’s view of the rest of the studio, which she couldn’t see anyway because of the brightness of the lights. “Thank you for coming,” came a familiar voice. Then Greer Baxter materialized from inside the glare with an extended hand. Nikki shook it and was about to lie about how it was her pleasure when the anchorwoman sat and said, “Pretend the cameras aren’t there; focus on me,” and then looked into one of the lenses herself.
“Tonight I go straight to the source about a serial killer. We are live. We are ‘Greer and Now.’ ” A short theme played under animated graphics and a montage of Greer Baxter interviewing Al Sharpton, Daniel Moynihan, Whoopi Goldberg, Sully Sullenberger, Donald Trump, and Alec Baldwin. When the intro finished, the stage manager used his rolled script to point to the middle camera, which Baxter addressed. “She may be New York’s most famous cop. Homicide Detective Nikki Heat has been written about in national magazines, received decorations for valor, and has the highest rate of case clearance of any investigator in the NYPD. Welcome, Detective.”
“Hello.”
“There’s a serial killer out there. He’s claimed three victims so far. An employee of the Health Department, an insect exterminator, and, tragically, News Channel 3’s own Maxine Berkowitz.” On the monitor, Nikki saw photos of the victims superimposed behind her and Baxter. “What can you tell us about the case?”
“First of all, I want to express my sorrow to you and your colleagues for your loss, as well as to the families of all the victims. As for the status of the case, there’s very little I can contribute beyond what is already known in the media.”
“Is that because you haven’t made enough progress?”
“To me, there’s no such thing as enough progress until a killer is captured and taken off the streets. Obviously we aren’t there yet.”
“What about some of the things that haven’t been reported in the press yet? Is there anything you can share that will make us feel better?”
“Greer, if sharing inside information would help capture this individual, I’d be the first to do it. The fact is that there are some details that only we can know because we don’t wish to harm the progress of the case, either by tipping off the suspect or helping create copycat scenarios.”
“So that’s all you’re giving up.” Greer leaned forward slightly, a pose of cross-examination. “Not to be rude, but why did you come on if you weren’t willing to share more?”
“I think I made it clear in advance I couldn’t go beyond what’s been released. But if you have any questions, I’ll certainly-”
“OK, here’s one. We know the killer leaves colored string behind.” She held up the cover of the Ledger. “According to this, the first two strings were red and yellow. My source tells me that there are additional colors now. Like purple? And green?”
Her source? Nikki wished she had worn more makeup to hide the blush that began filling her cheeks. “Again, I can’t comment on that.”
“Red, yellow, purple, and green. Sounds like the colors of a rainbow. Let me ask. Have you given this killer a nickname?” Before Heat could respond, she rolled over her. “Know what I would call this killer? The Rainbow Killer.” She turned to the camera and repeated for effect, “The Rainbow Killer.” Satisfied she may have coined a nickname, Baxter said, “Detective Heat, you’re a woman of few words. If you can actually share something with our viewers, I hope you’ll come back.”
“Most definitely,” said Nikki, but thinking, Only in a straitjacket and wheeled in on a dolly.
“This is a first. We have thirty seconds left. Seen any good movies, or can’t you talk about that, either?”
“Actually, I haven’t,” said Nikki. And then she decided to take a leap. “I could talk about another case we are working. We apprehended the killer but are still looking for his accomplices.” The stage manager began a ten-second countdown. Heat reached in her blazer pocket and took out a page with double head shots of Tyler Wynn and Salena Kaye and held it to the camera with the red light. “I’d like to invite the public’s help, asking if they have seen either of these two. The female was last observed around Coney Island.”
“And we’re out of time, Detective,” said Greer Baxter. “Good luck with that, and good luck apprehending… the Rainbow Killer.”