“No surprise,” Heat said. “But it was fun to see how fast he was willing to drop his pants.”

“Fun for you,” said Rook.

She smiled. “Yeah, definitely one of the perks of the job watching sweaty clods shimmy out of their knockoff jeans.”

Ochoa rushed in, speaking as he crossed to them. “I’m late, it was worth it, shut up.” He pulled some printouts from his messenger bag. “I just finished the background check on Kimberly Starr. Or shall I say Laldomina Batastini of Queens, New Yawk?”

The unit drew close as he read bits from the file. “Our preppy Stepford Mom was born and raised in Astoria above a mani-pedi salon on Steinway. About as far from the Connecticut girls’ schools and riding academies as you can get. Let’s see, high school dropout…and she’s got a rap sheet.” He handed it to Heat.

“No felonies,” she said. “Juvie busts for shoplifting, and later for pot. One DUI…Oh, and, here we go, busted twice at nineteen for lewd acts with customers. Young Laldomina was a lap dancer at numerous clubs near the airport, performing under the name Samantha.”

“I always said Sex and the City fostered poor role modeling,” said Rook.

Ochoa took the sheet back from Heat and said, “I talked to a pal in Vice. Kimberly, Samantha, whatever, hooked up with some guy, a regular at the club, and she married him. She was twenty. He was sixty-eight and loaded. Her sugar daddy was from Greenwich old money and wanted to take her to the yacht club, so he—”

“Let me guess,” said Rook, “he got her a Henry Higgins,” drawing blank stares from Roach.

“I speak musical theater,” Heat said. Right up there with animated films, Broadway was Nikki’s great escape from her work on the other streets of New York—when she could swing a ticket. “He means her new husband got his exotic dancer a charm tutor for a presentability makeover. A class on class.”