“Tell me something, Dad. Everyone says Mom and this Nicole Bernardin were such good friends. But I never heard of her.” His expression remained neutral, so she said, “Kind of strange, don’t you think?”
“Not really. I never liked her, and your mother knew it. Bad influence, let’s leave it there. After we moved back here to the States about a year before you were born, Nicole Bernardin was out of our lives. Good riddance.”
Nikki filled him in on the visit to the New England Conservatory and described the video of her mother’s recital. “I knew Mom could play, but jeez, Dad, I never saw her like that.”
“Wasted gift. That’s why I nagged her the whole time we were in Europe that she was squandering her talent.”
“So you two knew each other a long time over there?” Rook asked. “When did you and Cynthia meet?”
“1974. At the Cannes Film Festival.”
“Were you in the film industry? Nikki never mentioned that.”
“I wasn’t. After business school I got hired by a big investment group to be their man in Europe. My job was to find small hotels to buy and remodel as elite boutiques, basically copying Relais et Chateaux. I’ll tell you, it was a plum job. In my twenties, full of my own bullshit, bopping around Italy, France, Switzerland, West Germany—that’s what they called it then—all on an expense account. You sure you don’t want a soda? Beer, maybe?” he asked hopefully.
“No, thanks,” said Rook. He noticed the wet ring on the coaster beside Jeff’s chair and it saddened him to see how badly he longed to put a fresh glass on it.
“Anyway, one of our investors also put money in films, and he took me to this incredible cocktail party the famous director Fellini threw. There I was with big movie stars like Robert Redford and Sophia Loren. I think Faye Dunaway was there, too, but all I cared about was the hot American girl near the bar, playing Gershwin while everybody ignored her and drank free champagne. We fell for each other, but Cindy and I were both traveling a lot. We got more serious, though, and I started to work my itineraries around wherever she was doing her thing.”
“Playing at cocktail parties?” Rook asked.
“Some. Mostly she’d be spending a week here or a month there as live-in music tutor for rich families at their ritzy vacation homes. Like I said, a waste of a gift. It all would have been so different …” A somber quiet fell, punctuated by a rattle of thunder and rain plinking on the windowsill.
Nikki said, “We should probably head back.” She started to rise, but Rook had other ideas.
“Was she scared of the spotlight, maybe?”
“No way. I blame Nicole. The party girl. Every time I felt like I’d finally convinced her to get serious again, Nicole showed up like the devil on her shoulder, and, next thing I know, Cindy’s off to St. Tropez, or Monaco, or Chamonix, paying her way by selling her talent cheap.” He turned to his daughter. “Things got better when you came along. We had the place in Gramercy Park, your mom settled down into raising you, and loved that. She loved you so much.” When he said that, some of the old Jeffrey Heat found his face and Rook could see in it the same jawline he saw in Nikki’s whenever she smiled.
“It was a very happy time,” she said. “For all of us.” Then she reached for her keys.
“Those things don’t last, though, do they? When you turned five she went back to the old habits. Tutoring kids of rich New Yorkers, sometimes gone weekends with their families or keeping strange hours, nights even. And never talked to me about it. Said she needed her independence and just did her thing. Shut me out.” He paused as if making a decision, then said, “I never told you this, but I even got paranoid your mother was having an affair.”
Nikki shifted the keys to her right hand. “OK, well, maybe this isn’t the time and place to get into this.”
Rook asked, “Did you ever tell the police you suspected that?” and caught a slight elbow from Nikki. He ignored it. “Seems they’d want to know.”
“I didn’t mention it.”
“Because you had already divorced?” This time the elbow came a little sharper.
“Because I already knew she wasn’t.” He closed his mouth and sucked in his cheeks. Then he continued, with his lower lip trembling. “This is awkward for me, especially after what happened.” Nikki slid forward on the couch and reached a hand to rest on his knee. “I’m ashamed now—but I hired a private detective to, um, follow her.” And then, regaining himself a bit, he added, “Came up with nothing, thank God.”
Lightning struck with a simultaneous cannon crash in the woods behind the condo complex, hurrying their jog back to the car. When they got in, Heat checked her cell phone and found a text invitation from Don, her combat trainer. “Whip yr ass 2nite? Y/N.”
Rook asked, “Something new on the case?”
She shook her head, texted, “N,” and fired up the ignition. He must have read her mood, because, for a change, Rook respected her silence the whole ride back to Manhattan.
The squad worked the case diligently, but their results still didn’t move the needle on the case. The French consulates in both New York and Boston had no recent dealings with Nicole Bernardin, she had no record of a landline, and her cellular calls were mundane take-out orders and mani-pedi appointments. Ochoa came back with confirmation of two, uncharacteristically last-minute color-and-cut cancellations made from the cell. Her stylist, who grieved the loss of one of his best clients, said she was a very nice, albeit private lady who seemed scattered lately. Neither of much use in furthering the hunt for her killer. Rook took a cab back to his place, leaving Heat to update the murder boards. Unfortunately, that amounted to writing check marks beside each bullet instead of entering new information.
The elevator doors opened for Nikki in the lobby of Rook’s building that evening and a massage table rolled out on two wheels followed by Salena, the rehab babe. “Hiyee!” she said, finger waving with her free hand, making her triceps ripple. “He’s all yours.”
“Gee, thanks. Appreciate that.” The last thing Heat saw was that row of perfect white teeth as the door shut, making her ruminate the whole ride up about Cheshire cats and how she’d seen grins without airheads but never an airhead without a grin.
By the time Rook came out from his shower, she had plattered the antipasto ingredients she had picked up at Citarella and poured them some wine at the counter. “Thought we’d stay in and do some grazing tonight,” she said.
“Fine with me.” He looked at the wine label and said, “Ooh, Pinot Grigio.”
“Yeah, perfect accompaniment to tea tree oil and pheromones.” They clinked. “I passed your naughty nurse on the way up. How was your ‘rehab’? And yes, those were air quotes.”
“Sadly, my last one. But I needed it after those rib shots I took from your elbow this afternoon.”
“Really?” She forked a slice of prosciutto and rolled it around a ball of bufala mozz. “It didn’t seem like you were even aware of them. Remember, you were supposed to be the rodeo clown, keeping my dad from getting mired?”
“Yes, it was quite a role reversal, wasn’t it?”
She set her food down and dabbed her fingers with her napkin. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, I was prepared to run interference for you, but you weren’t asking any questions. So I did.”
“Rook, we didn’t go there to ask questions. I went as a courtesy to my father to fill him in on the case because it ended up in your old girlfriend’s tabloid.”
“Let’s ignore that second jealous comment you’ve made in under a minute and focus on the visit with your dad.” He nibbled the meat off an olive and placed the pit on the side of his plate. “Yes, we went there for one purpose, but he kept sharing things that made me want to know more. His suspicion about the affair was too big to just let pass. When you didn’t say anything, I assumed you were too busy absorbing it emotionally and I picked up the slack. He never mentioned it to you?”
“You heard him. He said no.”
“And you had no clue?”
She took another sip of wine and watched the ripples on the surface as she swirled the stem. “Can I share something with you?”
“Anything, you know that.”
She paused to ponder, mirroring her father’s tortured expression, hours before. “Yes. I suspected my mom might be having an affair, too.” She took another drink from her glass. “Not until I was older, in my teens, but I started noticing the same things my dad brought up today. Gone a lot. Sometimes a weekend or nights, out late. You know, when you’re in high school, it’s all about you, and you feel angry and lonesome. And then I started to wonder if there was more to it. Also the tension between my parents was a big elephant in that apartment. I even started trying to get to our mail before she did so I could look for any letters from men or anything. It’s crazy, but it’s what it became.”
“Was she seeing someone?”
“I never knew.”
“And you never talked to her about it directly?”
“Like I’d do that.”
“And she never confided in you? Not even a hint?” Nikki gave him a derisive sniff. “Hey, just asking. I got the impression you and your mom were close.”
“In our own way, yes. But my mother had this very private side to her. It was a bone of contention between us. Even the night she was killed. Know the reason I was gone from the apartment for such a long time before I went to the market? I needed to take a walk because things were tense between us about her … what should I call it …? Separateness. Don’t get me wrong, my mom was warm and loving to me, so I’m not invalidating that. But … there was a part of her that she kept totally to herself. As close as we were, she had this wall that divided us.”
Understanding now why Nikki had balked at digging into her mother’s past, Rook said, “There’s no shame here. We all have our private areas, right? Some people erect a little more protection around theirs than others. What did my man, Sting, call it, ‘A Fortress Around Your Heart’?” He ate a marinated artichoke with his fingers and added, “You, of all people, should know that.”
Nikki frowned and studied him. “Meaning?”
He swallowed wrong, coughing on some vinegar as he realized his mistake. Trying to contain the damage, he said, “Nothing. Forget it.” But it was out there.
“Too late. What exactly should I know that you have now somehow become an expert on from listening to Classic Rock?”
“Well … OK, look, we all have aspects we inherit from our folks. I have my mother’s brash theatricality and adorable impulsiveness. As for my dad, I have no clue. Don’t even know who he is.” He hoped that sidetrack would end that thread of discussion, but he was wrong.
“Spit it out, Rook. Are you saying I’m inaccessible?”
“Not at all.” He felt himself trapped in a sparring match he didn’t want to be in and that everything he said was the wrong thing. Such as stupidly adding, “Not all the time.”
“And at what times am I inaccessible?”
He tried to dodge. “Not most of the time.”
“When, Rook?”
Seeing no way out, he chose the Robert Frost path and went through. “OK, sometimes, when I want to broach certain subjects with you lately, you do ice me.”
“You think I’m cold?”
“No. But you do know how to freeze me out.”
“I freeze you out, is that your point? Because that’s ridiculous. You’re the first person I’ve ever heard say that about me.”
“Actually …”
She had started to take another sip of wine, but the color left her face and she clanked the glass down on the cold stone countertop. “You’d better finish that.” Already feeling up to his neck, Rook’s brain clawed for a way out, but all the passages were marked “No Exit.” “I mean it, Rook. You can’t lay something out there like that and retreat. Finish it.” She fixed him with that unblinking X-ray stare he’d seen her melt bull-necked sociopaths with during interrogation.
“All right. The other night in Boston, Petar and I were talking and—”
“Petar? You were talking to Petar about me behind my back?”
“Briefly. You went to the loo, and I was just minding my own business—I mean, what do I have to say to Petar? Anyway, he brought up the notion—Petar did—that—his words, now—that you had a protective wall.”
“First of all, I think it’s cheap of you to throw Petar under the bus like this.”
“He brought it up!”
She ignored him, swept up in her anger and the release it was giving her. “And second, I would rather have a slightly cautious, slightly controlled side that values privacy and discretion than be a reckless, immature, self-centered jackass like you.”
“Look, this came out all wrong.”
“No,” she said, “I think it just finally came out.” She grabbed her blazer off the back of her bar stool.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m not sure. I suddenly feel the need to have a wall between us.” And then she left.
Don took the brunt of it. Seeking an outlet to subdue the riot coursing through her veins, Heat had texted back her combat training partner, and thirty minutes later the ex-Navy SEAL landed facedown on the gym mat with the air knocked out of him. He drew himself up on all fours, gasping, but Nikki smelled the fake. He sprung at her shoulder-first, his long arms octopussed out to wrap up her legs for a takedown. Before he got there, she dropped to a crouch and hooked the inside of her elbow into his armpit, then kicked herself upward off the mat, lifting and flipping him midair. Don crash-landed on his back with her on top of him for the pin. Nikki hopped to her feet, panting, blowing sweat droplets off the tip of her nose, as she danced side to side, ready for more. No, craving more.
At the close of the hour, both drenched in sweat, they bowed and shook hands, center mat. “What got into you?” he asked. “Fierce tonight. Did I piss you off somehow?”
“No, it’s not you. Got a lot on my mind. Sorry if I made you my punching bag.”
“Hey, anytime. Keeps me sharp.” He dabbed the perspiration off his face with the belly of his shirt and said, “Got enough energy left for a beer or something?”
Nikki hesitated. The “or something” meant bed, and they both knew it. He made it sound casual because it was. Or had been once. Before she met Rook, Nikki and Don had no-strings sex on a semiregular basis for two years. They both got the same thing out of it, which amounted to a full-contact, no-commitment, physical relationship without the emotional hangover or jealous inquiries when one or the other passed. When they both wanted to, it was fine. When not, same deal. It never interfered with their jujitsu sessions, and Don hadn’t pressed or sulked once in the months since she’d chosen to remain exclusive to Rook, who knew nothing about her arrangement with her combat TWB. “Beer would be nice,” she said on impulse, feeling a flutter in her rib cage that might be guilt. But hell, it’s just a beer, she decided.
“Wouldn’t mind a shower first,” he said, plucking the wet shirt from his skin. “No hot water here. They shut it off after the earthquake, and I guess the city’s backed up on inspections.”
The flutter rose again, but she ignored it and said, “You can get a shower at my place.”
Heat stayed in her gym clothes but changed into a dry tee shirt while Don hit the shower. She checked her cell phone again for case updates from the squad and got nothing but three more voice mails from Rook she didn’t listen to. In the refrigerator she found a six-pack and tried to decide whether to drink there in such proximity to the bedroom or go out to the Magic Bottle after Don made himself presentable.
She washed her face in the kitchen sink to rinse the sweat salt from her eyes. As she dried herself with a paper towel, Nikki tried to figure out what she was doing with Don back in her apartment. Was she seeking escape? The mere company of a friend? Or was she testing the old waters of independence again to see what that would feel like? She told herself, if any more did com
e of the evening, that it would not be to spite Rook.
Then why did she take that extra step to invite Don over? Was it because their relationship was shallow enough that he wouldn’t be asking her too many questions or try to go deep when she didn’t want to? Was she looking for mind-numbing sex as an escape?
What bugged her about Rook wasn’t so much that he had pushed a hot button with the accusation about her wall—and then hidden behind her old boyfriend. It was that he insisted on poking around in places he had no business. Dragging her back over family secrets she wanted to be done with. Quizzing her father like he was in the interrogation box up at the precinct … And then, tonight, pushing her to talk about her relationship with her mother. How could Nikki explain something like that—and all it encompassed—to him or to anyone? And why should she have to? Did she have an obligation to share with Jameson Rook the way her mom made her feel when she bandaged her skinned knees? Or how she dropped everything and took her right out to a Broadway show when her junior prom date stood her up? Or how she taught Nikki the joys of Jane Austen and Victor Hugo? And that practice, whether it was for the piano or anything else in life, should be a journey of discovery. Not just about the music but about herself.
She couldn’t tell him all that. Or wouldn’t. These, and the hundreds of thousands of other random memory slideshows, were journeys to the places Nikki seldom ventured herself. Like the lid of the piano across the room, those were doors too painful to open. Maybe Rook was right. Maybe her defenses did constitute a fortress wall.
Was it one just like her mother’s?
And if so, was that really a character deficit, or simply one more valuable life lesson Cynthia Heat taught her daughter by example? Like demonstrating how to let the spaces between notes breathe, because they are music, too.
The shower water shut off, forcing Nikki to ask herself what this moment was all about, because she could not deny she had put herself at a crossroads. Why? But, as the bathroom door opened, Heat knew that wasn’t the most pressing question. The immediate issue was what she would do on this night full of risky impulses.
Frozen Heat (2012) Page 11