Driving Heat

by Richard Castle

  “Are you saying that’s what you did? That you”—Heat made her own air quotes—“‘intervened’ to shut down inquiries into your faulty software system?”

  “That’s a lie. My system is not faulty.”

  “It sounds like you’re admitting you set your fixer loose to fix the problem. Was Fred Lobbrecht a problem? Lon King?”

  “You are not hearing me.”

  “Wilton Backhouse?”

  Swift cast an obvious glance to someone behind her. This time, when Nikki turned, someone was moving toward her. But it wasn’t muscle. At least not in the physical sense. The man with the silver hair gripping his cane so firmly that his knuckles whitened with every labored step was United States Congressman Kent Duer.

  Wary, but unable to fight her instincts, Heat stood out of respect as the septuagenarian representative joined them and, without more than a crisp nod to her, let himself drop with a heavy exhalation into the red leather chair beside Tangier Swift. “Too pretty to be a cop,” said Duer as an aside to his host. The sly wink made it feel like anything but a compliment.

  Heat had grown up in New York seeing the congressman in newspapers, on the TV news, and lately, on the Sunday talking-heads shows from inside the Beltway whenever the subject was military budgets and the powerful head of the House Defense Subcommittee was the Big Get. Congressman Duer looked her in the eye for the first time and said, “I came a long way for what’s going to be a very short meeting. Fine with me, as long as you get the message loud and clear. This ends now.” In the red leather chair beside him, Tangier Swift’s face was etched by a smile. Suddenly finding herself outgunned, rather than cave, Heat did what she would have done in a street fight: buy time to assess the situation for optimal tactics.

  “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, sir.”

  “I believe you know exactly what I mean. Need I spell it out for you?”

  Tangier Swift rested a hand on Duer’s knee. The easy familiarity wasn’t lost on Nikki. “Kent, you don’t have to.”

  “No, it’s all right. I want to make sure the lady understands.” The representative cleared his throat and continued in a quiet but determined way. “Not only are you misguided in following the road you are on but—for reasons you cannot know—you are also creating a potential threat to national security.” He let that rest, then added, “That light up the marquee for you?”

  “So I should just drop it.”

  He chuckled and turned to Swift. “Smart, too.”

  But Heat wasn’t done gauging what she was up against. The invocation of national security seemed like overkill in a double homicide and a probe into auto safety. “Congressman Duer, I’m afraid I’m going to need more to go on than that.”

  “Maybe you’re not as smart as you seem. So let me come at it another way. You think you know what you’re doing, but poking around blind like you are, all you’re going to do is end up sticking your hand in a sack of rattlesnakes.” Satisfied with the picture he had painted and the clear warning he had delivered, Duer studied the burnished eagle’s head on his cane, the one he had been given the day he was released from Bethesda Naval Hospital after losing a foot in the battle of Quang Tri. “That give you plenty to go on?”

  Heat digested all this and said, “Congressman, I have the utmost respect for you, your office, and your committee.”

  The lawmaker shook his head. “Here comes the but.”

  “However, I don’t take orders on conducting homicide investigations from anyone other than NYPD. Surely, you can understand.”

  “Unfortunately, I do. All I’m going to say is I suggest you think long and hard about this.” He turned to Swift, signaling that he was done, then back to her. “And now, since I’m through explaining, why don’t you put those getaway sticks to use and move along.”

  As she stepped onto Greenwich Street, Nikki was too busy pondering the ramifications of that conversation to feel objectified. Or to care. This was one of those moments that came in a case where she wasn’t sure if she was walking out of a meeting with information or disinformation. One thing Heat knew for sure was that there was no such thing as a simple murder. Double that for two. Now, one of Washington’s most powerful players trying to knock her off her investigation had added a new layer of complexity. But it had done something more: fueled her determination to dig even harder for the truth.

  The not-unexpected bad news in the Homicide Squad Room back at the Two-Oh was that Tangier Swift’s fixer had gotten sprung. “Eric Vreeland was not only released,” reported Ochoa. “No bail, no charges.”

  “What happened with your lineup?” asked Heat. “Couldn’t Stallings ID Vreeland?”

  Raley said, “Oh, he picked him out. Right away. But the PI’s bulldog of a lawyer gets to Stallings on the side and plants uncertainty in him about whether Vreeland was out in the public hallway or inside the apartment itself.”

  Nikki said, “But Stallings told us he ran into the guy inside, in his foyer.”

  “You know how it goes,” said Ochoa. “Fog of war, heat of the moment, seeds of doubt. Take your pick.” In fact, Nikki had seen it often, as every cop had. Otherwise-reliable eyewitnesses conflate or confuse details that seem indelible to those not caught up in the trauma of the incident. Criminal defense lawyers have seen it, too, and Helen Miksit jumped at the opportunity she had created.

  “Also, with the backlog of craziness from the cyber attack, the DA’s office didn’t want to spend the effort on an uncertain complainant.” Detective Raley spoke for them all by adding, “Sucks big-time.”

  “Always does,” said Heat.

  But Rhymer was taking it almost personally. “Doesn’t seem right. I pull an all-nighter, nosing through mug books, and the dude’s out of here before I get back to even see what he looks like.”

  “About like this.” Ochoa held up the sketch Rhymer had been working from, and they all got a laugh.

  When Heat filled the squad in on her encounter in Tribeca, the roomful of born skeptics didn’t buy the national-security no-fly zone any more than Nikki did. “If there’s a security threat, it’s from a doucher with a politician in his pocket,” commented Rhymer. “I mean, I can’t say one way or the other whether Kent Duer is crooked, but at the very least, with what campaigns cost now, I’d lay odds the congressman’s getting some major fund-raising done at a one-stop shop.”

  “And what does Tangier Swift get?” asked Raley.

  “Exactly what he got today,” said Ochoa. “Bigfoot comes to call.”

  Heat stepped up to the Murder Board. While she printed Congressman Duer’s name in her neat block letters, she said, “Well, whether we buy national security or not, we have to keep it open until we can get better information.”

  Behind her, Rook said, “I might be able to help with that.”

  Nikki, who hadn’t seen him since she had left for her meeting at The Greenwich, continued her writing and asked, “Let me guess. One of your sources from Area Fifty-one?” She turned to the room with a playful smile that froze when she saw who Rook was standing a little too close to in the doorway.

  “I’m not sure,” he said, turning to the woman in the business suit. “Which black ops agency are you with now? CIA, NSA, NRO, GDIP?”

  “Let’s go with Area Fifty-one,” said Yardley Bell, holding a shush finger up over her perfect grin. Then Rook’s old girlfriend stepped forward with a manicured hand extended to shake. “Hi, Nikki, great to see you again. Jamie says you made captain. Yay!”

  “And look, your own office,” said Agent Bell after Heat had ushered Rook and his ex out of the too-public bull pen. Yardley had what Nikki referred to as a realtor’s smile. Could be genuine, could be for show, could be masking a thousand unkind thoughts or beaming as many points of light. When they had crossed paths on a case a few years before, Nikki had seen the dark side of that cheer and knew there was plenty of toughness and severity accessible at the flip of a switch. Ultimately, the two women had forged a sort of peace after a
bumpy initial experience. They exchanged kinder words, had a lunch once (or was it brunch?), and made promises to stay in touch, vows that represented a fusion of vacant insincerity and politeness. The last time they had spoken was over the phone just after Hurricane Sandy, when Yardley had done Nikki a favor, helping her leverage a case-breaking confession out of a foreign mercenary.

  As she sat across the desk from Heat, blowing ripples across the Americano Rook had made for her, Nikki tried not to be too obvious in her appraisal of the only other woman with whom her fiancé had had a serious relationship. Her hair had changed from brunette to a tasteful light caramel with tawny lowlights. Her slender build seemed fit as before, perhaps from some yoga mixed in with the strength training, to judge from her dancer’s posture—unless that was just to show off her chest for Rook. There was always that possibility.

  Yardley crossed her legs and rested the coffee cup on her knee. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Nikki said. “Thank you…You’ll come—we hope.”

  “Sure thing. When’s the big day?”

  “August—”

  “Something,” finished Rook. “Mark the date. August-something.”

  “We’re still working it out,” Nikki added quickly. Bell just stared at her, taking her measure. Yardley’s eyes were arresting—model gorgeous. But they took everything in, and gave so little back. Heat wondered if Rook had seen something more in them. And under what circumstances. But then Heat let go of that line of thinking. Therein lay self-torture and madness. She advanced the topic to less perilous ground. “So five minutes into a conversation about national security, you materialize. You spies are better than I thought.”

  “A little credit here?” said Rook. “I reached out to Agent Bell this morning.”

  A small gnawing took hold under Nikki’s sternum. “You reached out?”

  “That’s correct. Shined my Batman signal on a cloud.”

  “And here I am.” Bell laughed and held out a fist to bump with Rook. He obliged. The impact of the bump registered in Heat’s stomach.

  “At our briefing this morning, when we learned Timothy Maloney had been stationed at a drone base, I thought I could cut through the process by asking Yards to access his military records.”

  “You didn’t know?” asked Bell.

  Not wanting to appear so out of the Rook loop, which was becoming increasingly more difficult to do, Nikki shrugged and said, “It’s divide and conquer around here.”

  “Nikki’s a captain now,” added Rook. “She can’t be in every conversation, so initiative rules.” Annette, the switchboard operator, came in and handed a folded message slip to Heat. “See?” he said. “Nary a moment to herself.” Nikki unfolded the note. It read, “Zachary Hamner, One PP—3rd call. Insistent.” Only when Annette was sure Nikki had read it did she leave.

  “I can see you’re scrambling, so I’ll just share and be on my way,” Bell said. Without notes or hesitation, Agent Bell recited, “Timothy James Maloney, Basic Military Training, Lackland AFB in San Antonio. Following BMT, stationed at Sheppard, also in Texas, for six weeks of occupational training, then transferred to Creech AFB in Nevada.”

  “And it’s our understanding,” said Heat, “that Creech is a drone base.”

  “Yes. That’s not classified. Creech AFB is a mission site for RPAs—that’s Remotely Piloted Aircraft. The MQ-1 Predators and the MQ-9 Reapers performing recon and tacticals in the Middle East and…Well, the Middle East.”

  Rook groaned melodramatically. “O-o-ow, darn. You almost slipped. You were going to tell us where else the drones fly.”

  “Was I?” she said with a wink.

  Nikki broke up the playfulness. “I’m not that interested in details of our covert ops. Was Maloney trained as a drone operator?”

  “No. Maloney was an enlisted specialist in munitions systems. He might have mounted some Hellfires onto drones, but he wasn’t trained to access what the RPA pilots called the Game Room.”

  Heat’s earlier excitement over connecting Maloney with drones plunged. But she also knew that any information was good information, even if it wasn’t what she had hoped for.

  Rook must have been feeling the same thing. He asked, “But it’s possible he maybe developed an interest in drones.”

  “Anything’s possible, Jamie. We know that.” She toasted him with her Americano and took a drink.

  “Since you’re here,” said Nikki, “mind if I ask you what you know about Kent Duer and a man named Tangier Swift?” Heat bullet-pointed the facts and events of the double homicide they were working, taking the agent right up to the congressman’s intervention an hour before.

  “Interesting,” Bell said, but in a way that Heat felt showed she was masking something. Was Nikki getting better at reading the agent’s tells, or was this just more wishful thinking? “SwiftRageous,” Bell repeated with her eyes closed, as if committing the company name to memory. “I’ll check it out.” Again, this struck Heat as theater, but for now she would have to be happy with that—and for the fact that “Yards” was preparing to leave.

  “Appreciate the help,” said Nikki as she and Yardley clasped hands on the sidewalk outside the precinct. “I assume you are here about the cyber attack. What can you tell me about it?”

  “Not my area of expertise, but we have an army of people at Langley and Fort Meade chasing their tails on it. If I learn anything, I’ll definitely share it with you.”

  Heat chuckled. “Guess by now I should know better than to assume. I thought you were in town because of the hacking.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t in town. I was in DC when Jamie called.” Heat could feel color drain from her face and couldn’t do anything about it. Yardley gave Rook’s arm a squeeze. “You know how it is with this guy. Anything I can do. It also helps that the agency had a G-Four sitting at Andrews, fueled and unspoken for.”

  Rook waved, but Agent Bell had her head canted down in the classic texting pose in the backseat of her Yukon as the driver whisked her off on West 82nd. “That was nice of you to walk Yardley out,” he said. But when he turned back and registered the stony face of Nikki Heat staring at him, he furrowed his brow. “What?”

  “I came out here because I don’t want to have this conversation in a fishbowl.”

  Now it was his turn to turn pale. “We’re going to have a…conversation?”

  She jerked her head eastward and started off toward Columbus Avenue. Within three of Nikki’s long, angry strides Rook was beside her, keeping pace. “What is wrong with you?” she said.

  “OK, less of a conversation and more of an appraisal of my deficiencies. Am I right?”

  “What do you know, Rook? You do have some social radar, after all.”

  “Enough to know we have now transitioned into pre-argument mode.”

  She came to a halt at the corner. “Will you stop? Put a sock in the stupid banter for one second and talk to me.”

  He reflected a moment. “I think I had better just listen instead.”

  “Good idea.” Nikki waited for a twin stroller to go by, a sleeping one-year-old on one side, a grinning pug on the other. “I don’t know what’s going on. You have been pushing every button of mine you can push the past few days. You’re keeping secrets, you’re hassling me about spending one night in my apartment, and now what do you do? Spring a surprise visit on me from your old flame.”

  “Where the hell is all this coming from?”

  “My feelings, exactly.”

  Rook worked his jaw a little. “May I respond?”

  “Love to hear it.”

  “This idea you have that I am keeping secrets is, well, it’s ancient history. I had my reasons, but didn’t I share?”

  “Because I threatened you with jail.”

  “Never the sign of a healthy relationship, to state the obvious, but the point is, I opened up.” His eyes rolled skyward while he retrieved his second point. “Oh, and the apartment. Didn’t I relent
and stay anyway?”

  “It’s not only about that one night.”

  “It was to me. I had plausible safety concerns following the break-in by that stalker you picked up.” He winced. “Wait, that came out wrong.”

  “Are you actually suggesting I chose to have Maloney follow me?”

  “No, no, no, of course not. It’s just something that happened, I get it. You hang out at the circus, you’re going to meet a few bearded ladies.”

  Nikki cocked her head back. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It’s an analogy.” Rook held out one open hand. “Here is Lon King’s shrink practice—aka: the circus.” He held up his other in balance. “Maloney here is the bearded lady.”

  “That not only unfairly characterizes psychotherapy and patients, it’s callous to me.”

  Seeing that he was only digging himself deeper into his hole, he said, “Maybe we should move on to Agent Bell.”

  “‘Yards.’” The nickname had been roiling at the back of her throat and she spat it out. Petty, but sometimes petty feels awfully good.

  “This is the easiest one to defend,” he said. “We are shorthanded and oversubscribed on account of the cyber attack, plus you are taxed to the gills with your new administrative duties. I saw nothing wrong with being proactive and getting a consult from a top intel insider. It’s just the way I work a story.”

  “Revealing choice of words. Your story versus our case.”

  “Semantics. We’re in this together.”

  “Are we? It feels more like parallel play.” Nikki could have left it there. Some instinct told her she was overwrought and should just cool off and disengage. It felt too much like the night when she gave Rook a rooftop baptism with a shot glass of Patrón.

  But then Rook said, “I know what this is. You’re jealous of my old girlfriend,” and a smoldering ember inside Nikki flared as he continued. “Which I sure as hell thought you’d be past by now. And you should be. You may look at Yardley and see hot, dynamic, and fun. I see a disconnect from emotional access that I couldn’t handle. Yards and I are over.”