Naked Heat Read Free

least until two weeks ago, when the issue hit the newsstands and Rook sent her a sonar ping in the form of a signed copy of the magazine plus a bottle of Silver Patrón and a basket of limes.
    Nikki recycled the First Press and re-gifted the booze at a party that night for Detective Ulett who was taking advantage of the early retirement buyout to trailer his boat to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, and start drowning worms. While everyone got lit on tequila shooters, Nikki stuck to beer.
    It was to be the last night of her anonymity. She had hoped that, as Mr. Warhol predicted, her fame would only last fifteen minutes and be done, but for the past two weeks, everywhere she went, it was the same. Sometimes stares, sometimes comments, always a pain. Not only was the recognition aspect unpleasant for her, but each sighting, each comment, each cell phone picture, became another reminder of Jameson Rook and the busted romance she wanted to put behind her.
    Temptation had gotten the better of a giant schnauzer, who started licking milk and sugar from Nikki’s hem. She smoothed its forehead and attempted to steer T. Michael Dove back to the mundane. “You walk the dogs around this neighborhood every morning?”
    “That’s right, six mornings a week.”
    “And have you ever seen the victim around here before?”
    He paused dramatically. She hoped he was just beginning his Juilliard drama work, because his acting was all dinner theater.
    “No,” he said.
    “And in your statement you said he was being attacked by a dog when you arrived. Can you describe the dog?”
    “It was freaky, Detective. Like a little shepherd but sort of wild, you know?”
    “Like a coyote?” asked Nikki.
    “Well, yeah, I guess. But come on. This is New York City last time I looked.”
    The same thought Nikki had had. “Thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Dove.”
    “You kidding? Am I ever going to blog about this tonight.”
    Heat stepped away to take a cell phone call. It was Dispatch reporting an anonymous tip on a home invasion homicide. She made her way to Raley and Ochoa as she talked, and the other two detectives read her body language and started to get ready to roll before she even hung up.
    Nikki checked the crime scene. Uniforms had started their canvass, the remaining stores wouldn’t open for a couple of hours, and CSU was busy running a sweep. There was nothing more for them to do there at the moment.
    “Got another one, fellas.” She tore a page off her notebook and handed the address to Raley. “Follow me. Seventy-eighth, between Columbus and Amsterdam.”
    Nikki got herself ready to meet a new corpse.
    The first thing Detective Heat noticed when she pulled off Amsterdam onto 78th was the quiet. It was just past seven, and the first rays of sun had cleared the turrets of the Museum of Natural History and were beaming golden light that turned the residential block into a placid cityscape begging to be captured in a photo. But the serenity was also odd to her.
    Where were the blue-and-whites? Where was the ambulance, the yellow tape, and the knot of gawkers? As an investigator, she had grown accustomed to arriving on scene after the first responders.
    Raley and Ochoa reacted, too. She could tell by the way they cleared their coats from their sidearms as they got out of the Roach Coach and then clocked the surroundings on their walk over to meet her. “This is the right address?” Ochoa said without really asking.
    Raley turned a swivel to scope out the homeless guy picking through the uncollected trash for recyclables up at the Columbus end of the street. Other than that, West 78th was still. “Kind of like being the first one to a party.”
    “Like you get invited to parties,” came the jab from his partner as they approached the brownstone.
    Raley didn’t come back at him. The act of stepping onto the curb put an end to the chatter, as if an invisible and unspoken line had been crossed. They single-filed between a gap somebody had