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traffic lane was Cassidy Towne’s gurney. It was empty.
    Detective Heat returned to the bull pen from dropping off Cassidy Towne’s phone message cassettes and datebook for analysis by Forensics. Raley strode to her as soon as she walked in. “Got an update on Coyote Man.”
    “Do you have to do that?” Heat objected to giving victims nicknames. She understood the economy of it, the shorthand it created for a busy squad to quickly communicate, sort of like naming a Word file something that everyone could easily reference. But there was also a dark humor component to it she didn’t like. Heat also understood that—the coping mechanism on a grim job was to depersonalize it by making light of the dark. But Nikki was a product of her own experience. Recalling her mother’s murder, she didn’t want to think the homicide crew on that case had had slang for her mom, and the best way to respect that was not to do it herself. . . . And to discourage it in her squad, which she had always done, albeit with spotty success.
    “Sorry, sorry,” said Raley. “Re-set. I have some information on our deceased male Hispanic from this morning. The gentleman who you speculated may have been attacked by the coyote?”
    “Better.”
    “Thank you. Traffic found an illegally parked produce truck a block from the body. Registered to . . .” Raley consulted his notes, “Esteban Padilla of East One Hundred and Fifteenth.”
    “Spanish Harlem. You sure it’s his truck?”
    Raley nodded. “Positive match to the vic in a family photo taped to his dashboard.” Just the sort of detail that always made Nikki’s stomach take an elevator plunge. “I’ll do a follow-up.”
    “Good, keep me up on it.” She gave him a nod and started to her desk.
    “So you really think that was a coyote, huh?”
    “Looked it to me,” she said. “They do get into the city every now and again. But I have to go with the ME on this one. If it was a coyote, it came after the fact. I can’t think of any coyote that would steal a man’s wallet.”
    “Wile E. Coyote would have.” Rook. Smart-assing from the old desk he used to sit at. “Of course, he would have gotten some ACME dynamite first and blown his nose and hair off. And then stood there blinking.” He demonstrated. “I watched a lot of cartoons as a youngster. Part of my unsupervised upbringing.”
    Raley looped back to his desk and Heat stepped over to Rook. “I thought you were going to write a statement and go.”
    “I wrote it,” he said. “Then I tried to make an espresso out of this machine I gave you guys and it’s NG.”
    “We, um, haven’t made a lot of espresso drinks since you left.”
    “Clearly.” Rook stood and dragged the machine from the back of the desk toward him. “God, these things are always heavier than they look. See? It’s not plugged in, the water reservoir is down . . . Let me set it up for you.”
    “We’re good.”
    “OK, fine, but if you decide to use it, don’t just put water in. It’s a pump, Nikki. And like any pump it has to be primed.”
    “Fine.”
    “Do you want some help with that? There’s a right way and a wrong way.”
    “I know how to—” She ended that thread of conversation right there. “Listen, let’s forget all about . . .”
    “Steamy deliciousness?”
    “. . . coffee, and look at your statement. Deal?”
    “Done.” He handed her a single sheet of paper and sat on the edge of the desk, waiting.
    She looked up from the page. “This is it?”
    “I tried to be concise.”
    “This is one paragraph.”
    “You’re a busy woman, Nikki Heat.”
    “All right, look.” She paused to collect her thoughts before she continued. “I was left with the distinct impression that your weeks—weeks—in the company of our murdered gossip columnist would mean you had more knowledge than this.” She dangled the page at its corner between her thumb and forefinger so that it sold flimsy. The air-conditioning kicked on and it even waved