“You are totally out of line.”
“I am just starting-Wally.”
She loomed there, panting as if she had run a sprint. But he could see she could easily go a few more laps, and he said, “All right. Let’s talk it out. Have a seat.” She didn’t budge. “Come on, will you sit?”
While she pulled a chair up, he took out his handkerchief to dam the flow of creamy decaf rolling off the desktop into his trouser cuffs, all the while keeping an eye on her. “All right,” she said. “Sitting. Start talking.”
“I made a determination… as commander of this precinct,” he added weakly, “to open a new line in this investigation in order to get things moving.”
“With my dad?” She side-nodded to the bull pen through the glass. “With her? Come on.”
“You’ll show some respect, Detective.”
She slapped her hand on the desktop. “Person of interest? My father? A: That man was cleared ten years ago. And B: In what world is it OK for you to send someone-anyone-to interview him without letting me know first?”
“I am the precinct commander.”
“I am the Homicide Squad leader.”
“Leading a stalled investigation. Look, Heat, we talked about this yesterday after this ended up in the Ledger. After a decade, it’s time for a fresh champion.”
“Uh-huh… Have you been polishing that quote for the next article? While you compromise my case and damage my relationship with my family?”
“My determination is that you are too involved. You have a potential conflict of interest. I think what I’m seeing here bears that out.”
“Bullshit.”
“I sent Detective Hinesburg because I feel her talents are underutilized.”
“Hinesburg? Five bucks says she spent more time at Westchester Mall last night than she did with my father.”
“And,” he held up a finger as if hitting an imaginary pause button on her, “I felt we needed some objectivity, not some lone wolf on a vendetta.”
“We don’t need a witch hunt, either. Witch included.”
“You’re out of control.”
“Trust me, you’d know that if you saw it.”
“Like the other night in Bayside when you violated procedure and entered the hatch to that basement alone because of your obsession with this case?”
“You need some time in the field, Captain. You might understand actual police work.”
“You know what you need? Some time out of the field. I’m benching you.”
“You’re what?”
“Nothing personal. Even after this… encounter. In fact, I’m a big enough man to see all this as your reaction to post-traumatic stress.”
“Like you’re qualified to know that.”
“Maybe not. But the department has psychologists who are. I’m enforcing your mandated psychological evaluation following the murder of your boyfriend and your shooting of the fleeing suspect.” He stood up. “Get yourself shrunk, then we’ll talk about putting you back on duty. This meeting is over.” But he was the one to leave. And he got out of there in a hurry.
The shrink said, “You certainly didn’t waste any time making this appointment, Detective.” Department psychologist Lon King, Ph. D., had a friendly, low-key manner that reminded her of gentle surf somewhere tropical. “I only got your precinct commander’s referral ticket this morning after your, uh, meeting.”
“I wanted to get through this and get back to work, if you don’t mind my being blunt.”
“Blunt works here. Honesty is even better. I’ll take both.” He took a quiet moment in the soft chair facing Nikki’s to study her intake questionnaire. She watched him for reactions but got none. His face had such a flat affect and natural calm she decided never to play poker with Dr. Lon King. Primarily, Heat considered herself fortunate to have been able to make an appointment on the same day as her stupid mandate from Irons. She hoped this meeting would be short because one of Detective Feller’s pals from the Taxi Squad had just come through and located the cab Don’s shooter had commandeered. It was parked under an entrance ramp to the Bruckner in the Bronx. Parts scavengers and vandals had picked it clean overnight, from medallion to copper wiring, but Forensics had it now, and she was eager to get back to see if it offered any clues to his identity. Like, did he take off his gloves and leave prints? It was then that Nikki realized King was asking her something.
“Pardon me?”
“I just asked if you have experienced any loss of concentration lately.”
“No,” she said, hoping the first question wasn’t pass/fail. “I feel sharp.”
“I deal with a lot of post-traumatic stress disorder, and I’m accustomed to police officers who are wired to prove they’re invulnerable. So please know that there’s no shame in anything you are experiencing or in what you share here.” Heat nodded and smiled enough to signal her acceptance of that, all the while worried this man could sideline her indefinitely with the stroke of a pen. “And, to be clear, I have no interest in keeping you in treatment,” he said, as if reading her mind. Or just knowing it. He continued to ask her questions, some of which she’d already covered in writing on the intake. About her sleep habits, alcohol consumption, whether she felt jumpy or frequently startled. If the shrink felt satisfied or troubled by her responses, Lon King displayed no tells.
He said, “I suppose we can stipulate the answer to one question is a yes-that you have, in your life, witnessed life-threatening events.”
“Homicide detective,” she answered, pointing at herself with both hands.
“What about personally, though? Outside the job?” She shared as briefly as she dared, without disrespecting the process, events of her mother’s murder. He paused when she finished, then, mellow as a smooth jazz announcer, said, “At nineteen, that can be formative. Do you ever experience things that make you feel you are revisiting or reliving that tragedy?”
Nikki wanted to laugh and say, “Only all the time,” but feared she might bury herself in months of off-duty shrinkage, so she said, “In the most positive way. My work puts me in contact with victims and their loved ones. Whatever intersection there is with my own life, I try to utilize to help them and my investigative work.”
King didn’t race over to slap a gold star on her crown. All she got was an “I see” before he asked, “And what about things that you associate with your mother’s murder? Do you ever find yourself avoiding people or things that remind you of it?”
“Huh…” Heat slumped back against the cushion and looked at the ceiling. A second hand ticked softly on a clock behind her, and through the closed window behind him, she could hear the reassuring flow of York Avenue twelve stories below. Nikki’s only answer was her avoidance of the piano in the living room. She told him that she couldn’t bring herself to play it and explained why while he just listened. Another aversion, one that hadn’t occurred to her until then, was the arm’s length relationship with her father. Nikki had always attributed that distance to him, but to raise it in that session could unseal Pandora’s box, and so she left it at the piano, and even asked if that was a bad thing.
“There’s no good or bad. We’ll just talk and let a whole picture emerge.”
“Great.”
“Is your father still living?” Was this guy a psychologist or a psychic? Nikki filled him in on the divorce and painted a distant but cordial relationship, shading the arm’s length part as coming from her father’s shoulder, not hers, which was partially true anyway. “When was the last contact you had with your father?”
“A couple of hours ago. I called him to do damage control on a mess created by my captain, who sent an investigator to question him about my mom’s murder.”
“So, you reached out to him.” Heat gave a strong yes, mindful of the PTSD warning sign of avoiding people linked to a trauma. “And how did your dad receive it?”
Nikki recalled his bluster and the jangle of ice cubes. “Let’s just say he could have been more present.” The therapist didn’t dwell on that but moved on to ask her about her other relationships, and she said, “Because of my work, it’s hard to maintain one, as you probably know.”