Heat jumped in to close that flank, and fast. “Mr. Rook is a journalist. A magazine writer working with us in an unofficial capacity. Very unofficial.”

“A reporter…You’re not going to do a story about my husband, are you?”

“No. Not specifically. I’m just doing background research on this squad.”

“Good. Because my husband wouldn’t like that. He thought all reporters were assholes.”

Nikki Heat said she understood completely, but she was looking at Rook when she said it. And then she continued, “Did you notice any changes in your husband’s mood or behavior recently?”

“Matt did not kill himself, don’t even go there.” Her demure, preppy composure vaporized in a flare of anger.

“Mrs. Starr, we just want to cover all—”

“Don’t! My husband loved me and our son. He loved life. He was building a mixed-use low-rise with green technology, for God’s sake.” Beads of perspiration sprouted under her side-swept bangs. “Why are you asking stupid questions when you could be looking for his killer?”

Detective Heat let her vent. She had been through enough of these to know that the composed ones had the most rage to siphon off. Or was she just recalling herself back when she was the one in The Loss Chair, nineteen years old with her world suddenly imploding around her? Had she really siphoned off all her rage, or merely clamped a lid on it?

“It’s summer, damn it, we should be in the Hamptons. This wouldn’t have happened if we were at Stormfall.” Now, that’s money. You don’t just buy an estate in East Hampton, you name it. Stormfall was beachfront, secluded, and Seinfeld-adjacent with a partial Spielberg view. “I hate this city,” Kimberly shouted. “Hate it, hate it. What is this, like, murder number three hundred so far this year? As if they even matter to you people after a while.” She panted, apparently finished. Heat closed her notebook and circled around the coffee table to sit beside her on the sofa.