Heat Gauge

Chapter Eight

“This has opened a whole new can of worms,” Nikki said, savagely capping her marker and taking a step back from the murder board to admire her handiwork. There was a lot more information on there now, most of it illegible because she'd had to write it with her left hand, unable to grip the pen with her right.

“I feel like I should insert a fishing pun, but that's more Rook's job,” Ochoa said from where he leaned against her desk.

Nikki didn't say anything. She had meant to call Rook after interviewing Sidorov, but the information he'd given them had infused her with a savage desire to hunt down Petrov. For the past five hours she and Roach had been on the phones, tracking his movements as best they could. What they had gathered so far was sketchy, but it meant they were one step closer to finding Natasha's killer.

“Well,” Heat said, nudging Ochoa out of the way so she could put the marker in her desk drawer, “I'm going home. It's late, and my head is killing me. Call me if there are any updates on Petrov's whereabouts.”

It had been a warm day and the snow had melted into slurry. But now that night had fallen and the temperature had dropped, the slush had frozen over into a treacherous slippery slide. Nikki walked carefully, not wanting to hurt herself, but still almost fell numerous times before she managed to hail a cab.

Just before she got in, something made Heat pause. With her gloved left hand on the top of the door she turned and faced up the street, away from Central Park. Aside from a few cruising cabs the street was empty. Uneasy, Nikki got into the vehicle and gave the driver her address in Gramercy Park. As the yellow car pulled slowly away from the kerb, Heat twisted in her seat and peered out the back window.

Someone stepped from the shadows of an alleyway and into the stark pool of light thrown by a streetlamp. He was enormous, with shoulders as wide as a refrigerator and bulging boa constrictor arms that terminated in ham-sized hands. He paused in the cone of light, the short brim of his newsboy cap casting an inky shadow over his eyes so that Nikki couldn't make out all of his face. She could, however, see his mouth, a thin slit that bridged two sunken cheeks darkened with stubble. When he noticed her watching the fridge raised one of his massive hands and waved once, the corners of his lips turning up in a humourless smile.

Nikki's blood ran cold.

Halfway home, Heat had a change of heart and directed the cabby to instead head for Tribeca. She could have had him take her to the subway and ridden the R to Canal Street, it would have been quicker at this hour when all the night owls were taking to the tarmac and the traffic was clogged up, but Nikki needed the time to think. She watched out her window, occasionally checking to see if anyone was following the cab, but mostly just absent-mindedly watching the play of neon and streetlight on the glass. After a while the colours blurred together, punctuated only by the empty black edifices of stores closed for the night.

The journey didn't take as long as Nikki would have liked. Once they rolled off Park Avenue South and onto Broadway the traffic moved steadily along without lengthy stoppages. Too soon for her comfort the cabby was pulling up against the curb outside Jameson Rook's building. She paid the driver and quickly found herself riding the industrial strength elevator to Rook's penthouse apartment. As she counted the floors slipping past she fiddled with the ends of her sleeves.

Finally the car halted. Nikki paused for a moment, trying to sense where he was in the apartment. All of the lights were on in the kitchen, but she couldn't hear any movement. Carefully and quietly Nikki wrapped her long, slender fingers around the accordion mesh doors and opened them, taking a cautious step forwards. For a fleeting moment the desire to call out crossed her mind, but instinct kept her tongue. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.