“It’s raining men.”

Nikki Heat didn’t even turn. She just sighed his name. “Rook.”

“Hallelujah.” He held onto his smile until she finally looked at him, shaking her head. “What? It’s OK, I don’t think he can hear me.”

She wondered what sort of karma payback it was for her to be saddled with this guy. It wasn’t the first time that month she had wondered it, either. The job was hard enough if you were doing it right. Add a reporter with a mouth playing make-believe cop and your day just got a little longer. She backed up to the long flower boxes that defined the perimeter of the outdoor café and looked up again. Rook moved with her. “I would have been here sooner except somebody didn’t call me. If I hadn’t phoned Ochoa, I would have missed this.”

“It’s just tragedy upon tragedy, isn’t it?”

“You wound me with your sarcasm. Look, I can’t research my article on New York’s finest without access, and my deal with the commissioner specifically states—”

“Trust me, I know your deal. I’ve been living day and night. You get to observe on all my homicides just like real-life detectives who work for a living.”

“So you forgot. I accept your apology.”

“I didn’t forget, and I didn’t hear any apology. At least not from me.”

“I kind of inferred it. You radiate subtext.”

“Someday you’re going to tell me what favor you did for the mayor to get this ride-along pushed through.”

“Sorry, Detective Heat, I’m a reporter and that’s strictly off the record.”

“Did you kill a story that made him look bad?”

“Yes. God, you make me feel cheap. But you’ll get nothing more.”