Frozen Heat (2012)

by Richard Castle

  “Can we move this along?” Heat checked her watch. “I need to be getting back to the squad.”

  “Sorry. Sore subject?” She didn’t respond so he’d ticked off another finger for Rook. “Four. Her mother hadn’t reentered the dating pool yet, so there were no suitors to shake down.” Nikki made an impatient sigh and took a long pull of her mineral water. “Workplace conflicts,” he marked with his pinky finger, “none. Cynthia Heat tutored piano and everyone was very happy with her. Except, maybe, for a couple of eleven-year-olds who hated doing scales.” He went back to counting on his forefinger. “Enemies? Check the box that says ‘none apparent’: no neighbor disputes in the apartment building; no legal disputes pending.”

  Nikki jumped in, questioning him for the first time. “Did you ever get any trace on that speeding blue Cherokee that had the fender bender at the end of our block that night?”

  “Hm. No, I put the word out, but you know how they are. They never got back to me. It’s a crapshoot, no plates and all in a city this size.”

  Then she said, “Mind if I ask when the last time was you checked Property to see if any of the stolen jewelry or antique pieces got fenced or pawned?”

  “Hello. I retired three years ago.” A family at the next table turned to stare. He softened his voice and leaned forward to her. “Look, we all did our best with this. I gave it my shot. So did your old skipper.”

  “Montrose?” The family looked again, and it was Nikki’s turn to tone it down. “You talking about Captain Montrose?”

  “You didn’t know? Your skip reached out to me right after you joined his squad. He asked me to take him through my investigation, and he didn’t find anything, either. But he must have thought a hell of a lot of you to do that.”

  “Captain Montrose was a special man,” she said simply as she absorbed this news.

  “Guess you gave back.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I know all about what you did to clear his name.”

  “It’s what you do.”

  Damon made a side nod referring to Nikki as he spoke to Rook. “And I saw on the news how you took a nine in the chest saving this one.”

  “It’s what you do,” said Rook.

  “I took a bullet my rookie year in uniform.” He tapped the tips of two fingers to his right shoulder. “Getting shot was a picnic compared to the rehab, am I right?”

  “Torture,” said Rook.

  “Hell on a daily schedule.” Damon laughed.

  “With brief moments of purgatory. I have a visiting sadist named Gitmo Joe.”

  “Your therapist calls himself Gitmo Joe?”

  “No, I do. Actually it’s Joe Gittman.”

  “Love that,” said Damon. “Gitmo Joe. Any waterboarding?”

  “Might as well be. He comes over every day and makes me wish I had some sleeper cell to throw in just to make him stop.” That made Damon laugh again, until he caught Nikki staring at him and it withered.

  “Two thousand three,” she said. “The last time you checked Property for those fenced items was 2003. Seven years ago.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Four years before you retired.”

  “If you say so.”

  “February 13, 2003, was your last Property check.”

  When the waiter returned and read the tension, the silence that hung there sent him away without a word.

  At last, Carter Damon leaned forward with something resembling a plea deep inside the red rims of his eyes. “Nikki … Detective … Sometimes the trail runs cold, you know that. It’s nobody’s fault. You move on.” When she didn’t reply, he continued, lowering into a hoarse rasp. “I worked your case. I. Worked. It.”

  “Until you stopped working it.”

  “Do I need to tell you how many people get murdered in this city?”

  “And just how many of my mothers have been murdered?”

  He shook his head and retrenched. His moment of vulnerability hardened into defensiveness. “Nuh-uh, no you don’t. That’s too easy. See, to you it’s one case. To me, it ended up being one case on my list. I couldn’t help that. The job swamps you.”

  “Mr. Damon,” she said, shunning the respect of using his former rank. “You’re talking as if you actually did the job. Seems to me you stopped working about four years before you retired.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Funny,” she said, “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

  “Hey, bitch, if you think you can solve this, then do better.”

  Heat rose. “Watch me.”

  Rook tossed some cash on the table and left with her.

  They splurged on a cab for the twenty-block ride uptown to the precinct so Heat could work her cell phone on the way instead of losing signal underground. After Rook gave the driver the address, he said to her, “You know the doctor said I had to get some weight back on me, and may I point out you are not helping me meet my goal?”

  She scrolled through her messages and said, “What are you babbling about, Rook?”

  “This morning we skipped breakfast, but I suppose that’s OK because it was to have wild sex.” Rook caught a flash of eyebrows in the rearview mirror and leaned forward, framing his head in the plexi window for the cabbie. “It’s all right, she’s my cousin, but my second cousin.” Nikki slouched down in the seat, trying not to laugh, because that’s what Rook did—especially when the grim darkness reached for her—make her laugh and keep on. He turned back to her and continued, “And now what happens? We have lunch with Mr.—not Detective—Carter Damon … and don’t think I didn’t catch the nuance of the omission … and my total nutritional intake from that repast came from a diet soft drink.”

  “Who says repast?” she said, finishing a voice mail and pressing call back.

  “A wordsmith delirious from low blood sucre.”

  Nikki held up her palm. “I’m calling Lauren Parry.”

  “Perfect, the coroner. If I don’t eat, I’ll be seeing her soon enough.”

  Rook dropped her at the precinct and held on to the cab to take him back to his loft in Tribeca so he could do some independent research and read the case file Nikki had promised to e-mail him. After she sent it off, Heat assembled her squad for a midday update around the Murder Boards beginning with the news from Lauren. “I just got word from the ME that our Jane Doe now has a preliminary time of death, which would have been the night before last, in a window of ten P.M. to two A.M.” She paused to let them keep up with their notes, then continued, “They were also able to lift some clean prints that Detective Ochoa has already circulated on the database. So far, no hits, but let’s hope. Forensics news. They found residue on her skin of a cleaning solvent generally used in labs.” Nikki used a capped marker to point to the grime smudge on the knee of the victim’s pants. “Also, early results of this dirt, as well as similar material on her shoes, contained elements linked to train environments.”

  She took a moment to survey her group. “Nice to see Detective Rhymer in the big kids part of the building again.”

  Detective Ochoa led the traditional chorus of “Welcome to Homicide, Opie,” using the Southern transplant’s house nickname.

  “Rhymes, you’ll be partnering with Feller when he gets back from screening security video with Raley. Why don’t you get a head start running a check for missing pharmacists, lab techs, medical professionals, and so forth? Any other profession you can think of that would need to use industrial strength lab solvent, hit them, too.”

  “Like, maybe, Ochoa’s dry cleaner,” said Detective Reynolds, kicking off a string of catcalls aimed at Oach.

  “Ah, yes,” said Heat, “the irrepressible Detectives Malcolm and Reynolds, in the house. Going to put you two right to work checking out the rails and subways to see if she worked for any of them. So, flash her picture around the MTA offices, the Long Island Rail Road, PATH, and MetroNorth. As you can see,” said Nikki, gesturing to the overhead shot of the victim in the suitcase, “she is dressed like
a manager or an executive, so start there with HR, but don’t rule out conductors or yard workers.”

  “Got it,” said Detective Malcolm.

  “And ask railroad security to screen their cams for you. Jane Doe may not be an employee but a commuter who tried to escape her killer on the tracks.”

  In the back of the bull pen, Raley and Feller burst in and then stopped short, seeing the briefing still in progress. She read their excitement and said, “Meeting adjourned.”

  As Heat closed the door to the glorified closet up the hall where Raley tirelessly screened security video, Feller said, “You were right to have us check cams near the delivery drops.” He picked up the truck driver’s route sheet and showed Nikki where he had made ticks in order down the page leading up to a deli address with a Sharpie circle around it. “This footage comes three doors from the driver’s last stop, at a gyro place in Queens, before he left for Manhattan.”

  “Northern Boulevard near Francis Lewis and Forty-fourth Ave.,” added Raley while he keyed some commands on his computer. “We lucked out. I pulled this from a jewelry store that’s had so many smash and grabs, they recently upgraded their video to HD. You won’t be unhappy.” He made sure she was ready and hit play.

  The video showed blue velvet in the store’s empty window display, which had been cleared out at closing for overnight security. The time stamp read just before five-thirty that morning and registered only light traffic with just the occasional taillight rolling by in the darkness. The sidewalk remained empty until a figure appeared from the parking lot behind the P.C. Richard electronics store across the street. He had his head down, and a drape of hair fell across his face, obscuring it. But Heat’s attention focused on the blue-gray American Tourister he rolled behind him by the T-bar through the crosswalk toward the jewelry store. The man turned his back to the camera as he used both hands to tug the heavy luggage up the access incline from the gutter to the sidewalk. The case lost balance on its way up. It would have toppled over, but he flung an arm out to trap it before it could fall, and the shadows defined some major arm muscles pressing the sleeves of his T-shirt. With the suitcase steady now on its two wheels, he continued on, passing directly by the store window, where the bright light inside must have caught his attention because he turned to look in the window. Raley froze the frame and grabbed a crisp, high-def, full-face shot of their man. His deep-set eyes almost looked right into the lens. The frozen glance left Nikki momentarily speechless as she realized she could be looking into the face of her mother’s killer.

  “You OK?” asked Feller.

  She only said, “What do we gather from this shot?”

  Raley looked at notes he had already made. “I make him about forty-five, give or take. I’ll go with five-eleven to six feet, and two hundred, maybe two-ten considering those guns. Some kind of tattoo peeking out the neck of the shirt. Nose broken years ago, and all around a pretty hard look to him.”

  “I’m betting he’s done time,” Feller said. “I know a yard face when I see one.”

  “Wonder if that’s where he’s been for ten years,” added Detective Raley.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Heat cautioned, saying it as much for herself to hear as the other two. “Write up your physical description to accompany the APB. Make a close-up of the tatt, and get it to the ink and scar database at RTCC. Even though it’s a partial, they’ve worked wonders finding matches with less. And, yes, let’s do make sure we get this still frame checked against prison records when we circulate it. Which should be immediately, or sooner.”

  “Already created the JPEG,” said Raley. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. You truly are King of All Security Media.”

  An herbal scent greeted Heat when she opened the door to Rook’s apartment. The entry and kitchen were dark, and she caught the ambient dance of candlelight against the walls and the brushed metal appliances. The flickers came from the great room on the other side of the counter, along with dreamy New Age music. Nikki quietly slipped her keys onto the hook, hoping he wouldn’t be disappointed when she asked for a rain check on the romantic evening. After the wrenching day she’d just experienced, pizza, CNN, bath, and bed held all the allure she needed. Hell, she might even skip the food and TV.

  “I’m in here,” came his voice, sounding a little throaty and disconnected, as if he’d gotten a head start on the Sancerre. Nikki stepped into the kitchen and peered across the counter to discover Rook in the dusky light, prone on a massage table. He had a towel across his ass, and a strikingly gorgeous woman in nurse’s scrubs kneaded one of his hamstrings, her long fingers just a little too close to that perfectly rounded cheek. Rook made introductions without lifting his head from the foam donut. “Nikki, this is Salena. Salena, Nikki.”

  Salena looked up briefly at her, only long enough to show perfect teeth through her smile. She whispered a hello then resumed her interest in the spot where the upper thigh met the hem of his towel. “Mmm,” said Rook.

  Salena said, “This is very tight.”

  “Mm-hm,” he answered.

  “Excuse me,” said Nikki. She left them and found her way up the dark hallway of his loft to the bedroom and closed the door.

  When he came to her afterward in his robe, he found Nikki cross-legged on the bed, working her laptop. “You didn’t have to hide in here.”

  “Well, I wasn’t going to stand out there while you were having your ‘me time’ with your masseuse.”

  “Actually, licensed physical therapist. The agency sent Salena over to replace Gitmo Joe. How cool is that?”

  She closed the lid of her MacBook. “He still sick?”

  “No, he quit. So it’s Nurse Salena for the rest of my rehab. It’s only a few more sessions, but I can live with that.” He did a few twists and bends. “I’m feeling better already.”

  “He just quit?”

  “I think he knew I never liked him. Sadist. Dude probably didn’t like it that I talked back and offered too much resistance.”

  “That wasn’t a problem with Salena. Not from what I saw.”

  “Are you jealous? Seriously? That was a therapeutic session from a licensed professional.”

  She laughed. “Complete with tea tree oil and Enya. Jeez, Rook, I felt like I walked into a porn video.”

  “There is no Enya in porn video.”

  The door buzzer sounded. “I’ll get that,” she said. “I ordered us a pizza.”

  He followed her out of the room. “Ooh, pizza delivery. Now we are talking porn video.”

  They ate camp-style, right out of the box, while she filled him in on the surveillance HD Raley pulled from the jewelry store cam and the forensic news about the lab solvent and train residue on Jane Doe. When they were finished eating, he said he’d do the dishes and did so by dropping the pizza carton into the recycling. “Good call on the pie,” he said. “Although I can’t decide whose I like best. Original Ray’s, Famous Original Ray’s, or Swear to God, Folks, This Really, Really Is Ray’s.”

  They adjourned from the counter to the dining table, where that afternoon he had spread the printouts he’d made of the PDF case file she sent him alongside his typed-up notes from their meeting with Carter Damon. “In case you’re wondering, Detective Heat, that was a very useful exercise for me to be able to sit down with that guy.”

  “I’m glad somebody got something out of it. All I got was pissed.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  She scanned his notes and said, “But I can’t see anything new that you got. Damon was right, it’s all information already in the case file.”

  “What I got is a sense of his laxness. Maybe he wasn’t when he started the case, but this is a detective who dropped the ball when it got hard and the investigation called for some old-fashioned doggedness. To me, Carter Damon is Sharon Hinesburg without the nail extensions and push-up bra. The headline for me is that we have to go back ourselves and dig deeper.”

  “I disagree. Much as
I don’t like Damon’s slacker mentality—”

  “—more cop-out than cop—”

  “—these are dead ends. Captain Montrose always drilled us to follow the hot lead. And that means we focus on the fresh trail off that suitcase.”

  “We can do both.”

  Nikki ignored him, plowing onward. “And when we ID our Jane Doe, we’ll be even closer.”

  “Why are you resisting this?”

  “Beer?” she said, and left him for the fridge. Nikki had just finished pouring them each a perfectly cloudy Widmer Hefeweizen when her cell phone rang. After she listened briefly, Heat said, “Got it. Meet you downstairs from Rook’s in five,” and hung up. “That was Roach. If you want to come, you’d better wear more than a robe.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Queens. They found our guy with the suitcase.”

  FOUR

  The tattoo busted him. As Heat had hoped, the Real Time Crime Center had a match in its computer that connected to a suspect. A week before, the owner of a convenience store in the Bayside neighborhood of Queens had called in a complaint on a shoplifter. The surveillance cam picked him up, and even though the petty crime didn’t have the weight to make the news or light up an All Points, the RTCC logged the tatt into its database, and the hit came within minutes of Detective Raley posting his JPEG on the server. Uniform patrols flashed the picture around Bayside, and a night watchman at a used car lot recognized him as a guy he had seen hanging around lately. The break came when the security guard spotted him again a few hours after the uni visit and tailed him to a nearby house while he put in a cell call to NYPD.

  Heat, Rook, Raley, and Ochoa rode in tense silence under the flashing gumball, shoulders swaying and knees bumping against the doors of the Roach Coach while Detective Raley threaded the needle through evening cross-town traffic to the Midtown Tunnel and onto the Long Island Expressway. The only gap in Raley’s concentration came on the straightaway passing the steel Unisphere at Flushing Meadows, when he side-glanced Ochoa in the shotgun seat and rabbit wrinkled his nose. His partner suppressed a smile about Rook, whose fragrant herbal massage oil had also hitched a ride in back. Heat picked up on it, but all she said was, “ETA?” Her succinct way of urging focus and speed.