Deadly Heat

by Richard Castle

  A surreal view greeted her as she made the turn. The bomb sergeant, still cloaked in his bulky armor suit, knelt on the floor, applying direct pressure to the wound gushing red from Tyler Wynn’s neck. Heat made a flash assessment of the damage. All of the old man’s wounds were from the torso up on one side of his body, the side that had been exposed to the blast, which she could see—quite graphically—had come from the dining table on the other side of the counter. The eating area had been ripped by the explosion: leather dining chairs shredded; glass from the solarium-style windows gone; vertical blinds—those that remained—wagging back and forth in the breeze, mangled, sawed-off, and powder-charred; the thick glass table shattered into bits. Some of the glass was spread across the floor like fractured bits of ice. The rest of the jagged shards had been broadcast around the place, blending with the shrapnel packed inside the bomb: a mix of screws, nails, and ball bearings that peppered the ceilings and walls.

  Wynn had taken the blast while in the kitchen. The granite counter had blocked his lower half from injury; meanwhile, his upper body resembled tartare. Heat knelt beside the man from the bomb squad and reached out to plug another ugly pumper on Wynn’s chest. But she had to pull her hand back. Something sharp etched her palm. She lifted the sopping tatter of his shirt and saw the broken blade of a bread knife the concussion had shot out of the wood block on the countertop and into his ribs.

  “Heat,” he coughed out, making it almost sound like “hee.”

  “Help’s coming. Hang on. Just hang on.” She found a dish towel on the floor and made a wad to press around a gash on his forehead. The skin had been so flayed, she could see skull. The chest wound still flowed prolifically, so she carefully fit the bread knife blade between two fingers and applied what pressure she dared around the metal.

  “Was it…?” He coughed again.

  “Don’t try to talk,” she said.

  “Was it… Salena?… Did Kaye… find me?”

  “Breathe. Don’t talk. Just breathe and stay with me. Look, here come the paramedics.”

  In truth, Nikki wanted him to talk. But she wanted him to live first, so he could talk a whole lot. When the EMS crew took over, she stood by, bloody to her elbows and knees, not wanting to leave his side, in case he said anything more. It didn’t seem likely. Even without medical training, Heat had been around enough trauma scenes to know from a paramedic’s tone of voice, when the medic verbalized vital signs, when things were dire. They were having trouble stabilizing him. The paramedic said, “We gotta transport, and now.”

  Heat rode down with the gurney and got in the back of the ambulance for the ride. If Tyler Wynn were going to die, she wanted to be there when he did. And, yes, she also wanted to make sure he didn’t get away again.

  No sooner had the double doors closed than he rolled his head to her. He raised the hand on his good arm, the one without exposed tendons and bone showing, and beckoned her close. She held the rail of the gurney to steady herself and leaned forward inches from his shredded, monster face. “I’m sorry,” he said. She could see him whimpering a cry and put a hand on his good wrist. “I loved your mom. I…” He choked a sob back and closed his eyes, which made her think he’d died, but then he flashed them open, and they were wild, full of some found strength and determination.

  “I sold myself. They made me rich.” He sucked in a gulp of air. “But they made me do awful things. So damn sorry. They made me…”

  “Who?”

  “Him!” The old spy coughed the name out on frothy blood: “Dragon.”

  Heat remembered. The person Salena Kaye had called from the stolen helicopter. “Who is Dragon?” she asked. “Aren’t you Dragon?”

  He wagged his head vehemently and moaned a no. The effort drained the fight from his eyes and he blinked. Then in a sudden exclamation, he shouted, “Terror!” And then he sucked more air. “Death, mass death here in New York. Worse than…” He shuddered down a breath. “… Worse than 9/11.” He gagged and labored to swallow. “I’m cold.”

  “My mother found out about it? Is that why you—”

  “Yes!” he blurted. “I am so sorry.” He sobbed again and said, “She almost stopped them.”

  “Who did stop them? Nicole?” she asked. It felt logical that her mom’s friend and fellow agent intervened—and then ended up a frozen body in a suitcase.

  His head wagged urgently side to side on the sheet. “Nobody stopped them.”

  “I don’t understand. When was it supposed to happen?”

  “Not was.” His neck wound gurgled and red froth formed around it. Then he grunted out, “Is!”

  “What is? Tyler, what?”

  Nikki had to put her ear to his lips to hear him, his voice had grown so weak. “Mass death. It’s coming.” She rose up a few inches to see his face, to try to comprehend. And to believe. With a gaze fixed on hers from under flayed eyelids, he nodded with a message of certainty and warning. “You, Nikki. You stop it.”

  Another shuddering, labored breath. Heat could see him slipping away, and the injustice of his exit enraged her. “Talk. Tell me.” She put her face right up to his. “You killed her, you goddamned bastard, and it’s not going to be for nothing. Talk. Tell me what’s coming. When?” The old man didn’t answer. He reached for her cheek, but his hand never got there. It dropped lifelessly to his chest.

  The paramedic swept in to try to revive him. For the second time in a month Nikki watched Tyler Wynn paddled by cardiac jolts on his deathbed. And, as before, a shrill flatline tone from the cardiac monitor called it a day.

  The difference this time: Tyler Wynn was really dead.

  The paramedic switched off the monitor and knuckled the glass behind the front cab. The ambulance driver killed the siren and slowed for the remainder of the trip past Columbus Circle to the ER. Nikki looked at the old spy’s body then out the window as they pulled up to Emergency at Roosevelt Hospital. If Wynn had told her the truth, a terror group was somewhere out there right now—busy making other plans.

  ELEVEN

  Heat stayed with the body until Lauren Parry arrived to do the preliminary postmortem. The medical examiner had been at Jersey Boys when she saw the text alert after the show and responded that she would handle it herself, since she was merely seven blocks from Roosevelt Hospital. But the real reason didn’t need to be articulated, the part about knowing the deep significance to her friend, Nikki.

  “Dr. Parry, now, you double check to make sure he’s dead,” said Rook as the ME pulled a surgical gown over her evening dress. “Use a wooden stake if you have to. This one has a nasty habit of coming back from the grave.”

  While the medical examiner went to work, Heat closed the door to an empty exam room and briefed Agents Callan and Bell on what she had been told on the ambulance ride.

  Bart Callan asked the same questions they all had. “Was he specific? Did he say what kind of terror event? Did he say when? Or where? Did he say who was behind it?”

  “It’s not like I’m holding back,” said Heat. “Wynn flatlined before he could give it up.”

  Rook chimed in, “So annoying. This guy always does that. Gets you all sucked in and then dies before he finishes the story.”

  Callan began texting as he spoke. “This just popped to a new level. I’m getting NYPD Counterterror in on this right now.”

  “Is Tyler Wynn even credible?” asked Agent Bell. “I mean, come on, look at this guy’s history.”

  “Really?!” Heat whipped her head to Yardley. Maybe it was the stress of it all. Or the raggedness of this ending and its denial of closure. But something roared inside Nikki. “Are you really going to stand here and pretend to tell me—tell me—about this guy’s history?”

  Instead of pushing back, Agent Bell gave her a passive stare. Then she broke it off and sauntered to the door, speaking coolly. “Agent Callan, I’ve got work to do.”

  When she walked out, Callan said, “Let’s take a breath. It’s been a crazy day. I’m going to set up
a task force debrief down on Varick Street first thing in the morning. I want you there with us.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Come on, don’t let some petty friction keep you outside.” They both turned and watched Yardley Bell thumbing her BlackBerry outside Triage. “Nikki, I could use you.” And then, reading her reaction to the personal tone of his appeal, he added, “Oh, and as far as that other thing I mentioned? That’s off the table. This is a new game.”

  Nikki said, “Thanks, anyway. But I’ll be in touch if I learn anything. You do the same.”

  On their way to the exam bay to check with Lauren Parry on Wynn’s prelim, Rook said, “Nikki, a task force. We could be on an actual task force.” When she didn’t acknowledge him, he asked, “What was Callan talking about? What other thing?”

  “Rook, do you really want to help me?”

  “Name it.”

  “Blow that off, OK?” Then she tugged a Velcro strap loose from his body armor. “And lose the stupid vest.”

  Heat never went home. She kissed a reluctant Rook good night, caught a radio car uptown to West 82nd, and napped on the cracked leather couch in the bull pen break room. After a brief but deep slumber, she made some coffee and drank it sitting in her rolling desk chair in front of the Murder Boards. Her grogginess actually helped her think. Before the snooze, her brain had been a primate house at the zoo, chattering with details; rowdy thoughts slinging on ropes and jumping from high to low. The solitude of the bull pen helped Nikki shoo the monkeys. By the time Raley, Ochoa, Rook, and the others gathered for their early roll call, she had some new ideas to share with her crew. One of them felt big.

  “Tyler Wynn is dead,” she began, then had to pause when Detective Hinesburg thought it would be cute to applaud. She did so alone, then stopped in the nakedness of silence and stares. Heat continued, “This time, it’s verified, but we are far from resolved. In fact, a dying declaration he made to me not only leaves this case open, it kicks off a new phase that’s going to require doubling our efforts.”

  While they stirred their first cups and bit off bagels, they also made notes as Heat recited the last words of the dead spy. “As frustrating as it is to get left with more questions than answers, at least he gave us something. It’s up to us to turn that into enough.” Preemptively, she voiced the questions she knew they were asking—the same ones Bart Callan had asked her in the ER a few hours before—the same ones she had been asking herself all night. They were already numbered on the whiteboard behind her: (1) What kind of terror event? (2) When? (3) Where? (4) Who is behind it?

  “Let’s start with what we know, starting with where.” She block-printed the initials “NY” beside number three. “Pretty general, but it’s a start. As for the type of event, calling it bigger than 9/11 and involving mass death broadens the scope beyond shooters, a car bomb, or the like, although nothing can be ruled out. I have a notion here that I’ll come back to.” She made eye contact with Rook, who smiled slightly, knowing she was percolating something.

  “Who’s behind it? Who knows? I’ve already briefed the counterterrorism unit, which tracks foreign and domestic groups. They are on it, but we can’t kid ourselves. We have our work cut out for us there.” She capped the marker.

  “You didn’t address when,” said Rhymer.

  “And that is the part that scares me. Let me share some thinking I’ve been doing.” She came around to sit on a table in front of the boards and dangle her legs, looking to each of them as they looked back in rapt attention. “It’s safe to assume the death of my mother came as a result of her uncovering two deadly things: the existence of some terror plot, and Tyler Wynn’s involvement as a traitor to the CIA.” She paused to allow the predicate sink in. “Although she was killed, my mother’s efforts must have been disruptive because it appears she turned a mole in the terror group, a biochemist, who himself died suddenly weeks later. We’re awaiting a new autopsy on him, but I’m working from the assumption of an execution. Everyone on board the ride so far?” They assented. She slid off the table and walked to the front of the room. “So this plot got derailed for years. We don’t know why or how.”

  Rook said, “Maybe Ari Weiss’s death put a freeze on things. He was definitely a key man if he’s having secret meetings in cars with Tyler Wynn’s cronies like we saw in that PI’s picture. That happened a lot in revolutionary groups I’ve covered. One of the leaders dies or goes to prison, and they have to shut down to regroup or re-recruit.”

  “Quite possible. Especially if it’s a small terror group, infighting and membership changes can knock them off balance.” Heat saw Ochoa’s hand. “Miguel?”

  “So can scrutiny. I saw it tons when I worked gangs and rackets. You bring some surveillance, do a little nosing around, the bad guys go into sleep mode.”

  “Yes.” Nikki pointed at the detective with fervor. “That’s exactly where I am going. I know we’ve all worked this together, but indulge me while I bullet-point: My mother’s killed, but she has a close friend and fellow CIA agent named Nicole Bernardin.”

  “The frozen lady in the suitcase,” said Raley.

  Nikki relived the successive shocks: being on Columbus Avenue that day, thinking she was investigating a routine homicide, a body in a suitcase; then reeling when she recognized the suitcase as one that had been stolen from her mother’s apartment the night she was killed; then feeling stunned again when the victim turned out to be her mother’s best friend… and CIA spy partner.

  “That’s correct. Like my mom, Nicole Bernardin was part of Tyler Wynn’s network. And something that Nicole had discovered got her killed, too. Also by Tyler Wynn. But recently. After a decade-plus gap.”

  Heat walked back behind the table and picked up a manila folder. “Let’s look at some highlights from Nicole Bernardin’s case file. First, residue found on her body came from a potent medical lab solvent. Next, we never got a tox report on Nicole because Salena Kaye—Tyler Wynn’s accomplice—sabotaged her toxicology lab test. And before the medical examiner could rerun the test, some mystery person ordered Nicole Bernardin’s cremation.”

  Nikki looked up as she turned the page. She had their total focus. “Wynn had another accomplice. A crooked cop named Carter Damon. When we located Damon’s van, Forensics not only found a blood match to Nicole Bernardin, they also found traces of the same lab cleaning solvent.” She paused, marking her place in the folder with a finger.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about a murderer cleaning a dead body with lab solvents. Why? To clean what? And going to such lengths as to sabotage a toxicity test. Then destroy the body so no test can ever be run. Why would somebody do all that?” She scanned the room, seeing everyone’s eyes locked on hers. “It suddenly dawned on me that Nicole Bernardin must have come in physical contact with something while she was investigating Tyler Wynn’s secret activities. And I can only think of one reason to erase all traces of it so rigorously.”

  She closed the file and turned to the whiteboard. She had just uncapped her marker when she sensed the group behind her back drawing the same conclusion she had. Somebody—it sounded like Roach—muttered a long “Fuuuck.”

  And then she caps-printed her hypothesis beside “Type of Event” in a single, horrifying word: BIOTERROR.

  When she turned from the board, Captain Irons spoke from where he stood at the back of the room. “Heat? A moment?”

  The precinct commander closed the door when she stepped into his office, but he didn’t bother to waddle around behind his desk, so neither of them sat, which suited Nikki’s preference for a drive-by meeting. “Good briefing,” he said. “I was a fly on the wall for most of it.”

  “Yes, sir, I noticed.”

  “Be nice to get a heads-up next time, so I don’t have to be lucky.”

  “Absolutely,” she lied.

  Thinking that was that, she took a step to go, but he said, “Tough going on Tyler Wynn. You got your man, but he still left a bucket of worms to claw thro
ugh. However, on the sunny side, now that that’s closed, I can have you full-time on Rainbow.”

  “That’s far from closed, Captain. You were at my debrief. It’s a bioterror case now.”

  “Which DHS is running. Got to tell you, Detective, if Rainbow was tying colored strings to my picture, I’d be all over it.”

  “Sir, let me reassure you, I am capable of handling both.”

  His ears reddened and plum blotches mottled his cheeks. “I am anything but reassured. Now, you may have all the big magazines and primo TV interview shows courting you, but this is still my precinct. And my order is, you got Wynn, this now goes to the feds. If not, well, I suspended you once before. Do we need to revisit?”

  Heat flopped at her desk, barely containing her temper. Strictly speaking, Wally Irons stood on solid ground. The scale of her case had escalated beyond a murder. The skipper’s demand that she attend to the police work of his precinct—of the homicide squad she led—made sense. But Nikki didn’t want to make sense; she wanted to see it through. Thousands of lives in New York City were at stake. Heat asked herself which motivated her more, her obligation to stop the terrorists or the responsibility she felt to finish her mother’s work?

  She decided they were one and the same, then went to her desk to make the call she didn’t want to make.

  “Nikki Heat, I couldn’t be more pleased,” said Bart Callan. “On behalf of DHS, I am so glad you decided to join us after all.”

  “Well, you sure put the home in Homeland, Special Agent Callan.” Nikki hoped using his title would quell the effusiveness before things got out of hand.

  “Whatever I can do,” he said. And then Heat told him what that was.

  Soon Nikki heard the muted phone ring across the bull pen and watched through the glass of the precinct commander’s office as the federal card got played. Wally Irons nodded like a dashboard doggy to his caller, but he didn’t appear happy. That was all right by her. She’d try to be happy enough for both of them.