Frozen Heat (2012)

by Richard Castle

  If she had been in the other detective’s shoes, she would be asking the same questions—as he put it, covering the bases—but Heat wholeheartedly believed she was the target, not Don, who had fulfilled the wrong-place-and-time maxim in the most tragic fashion. The awkward part of the interview for her had been filling her colleague in on what she knew about Don, which amounted to so little, it might have come off like a dodge of the question: ex-Navy SEAL; single, so he said; they’d met at her gym two years ago when she signed up for hand-to-hand combat training; he was her instructor; the two began meeting outside formal classes for one-on-one workouts and then a beer after. And then a casual … physical … relationship. The other detective paused, frowning at his notepad, either processing, judging, or fantasizing, she couldn’t tell. Nikki knew it wasn’t the sort of thing easily explained to a disinterested third party, and his reaction made her worry anew how Rook—a decidedly interested third party—would react.

  Nikki had moved things off Don and filled Detective Caparella in on the twin murder cases she was working and her belief the killing was meant to shut her down. “Any idea who would do that?” he asked.

  “Detective, I’ve spent ten years trying to answer that question. Trust me. My life is about nothing else but finding that out and bringing him down.” Appearing satisfied, he made a few more notes, asked her to e-mail him a copy of the case files that were relevant, and that was that.

  Lauren Parry wrapped her exam in record time and managed to get Don’s body removed before Rook could emerge from the back bedroom and be confronted again by the nude mystery man on the floor. “How did it go?” Nikki asked when he finally appeared.

  He gave her a cool, appraising stare. “Only tough as hell.” He bit off the words. Rook’s initial relief had been joined by an anger that floated a mere inch beneath the surface. “You know how hard it is to find fifty different ways to say, ‘I don’t know’? And I’m a fucking writer.”

  A ballistics technician passed by to flag a hole where lead shot had bored into the oak bookcase beside them. Heat drew Rook over near the piano to find as much privacy as she could in a room full of detectives and evidence collectors. Even though he went along, Rook’s arm felt stiff to her, and she said, “I know this is a big piece to swallow.”

  “Big? For once, Nikki, I am speechless.”

  “I get that, but …”

  “But what?” His hurt, confusion, apprehension, and—yes, anger—came all rolled up in two small words.

  “This isn’t what it looks like.”

  “That’s usually my line.” But he wasn’t amused. “What is it, then?”

  “Complicated,” she said.

  “I can do complicated.” He waited, but she didn’t speak. Nikki was flat-out at a loss as to where to begin and anxious about where it would likely go once she started. Instead, she looked over at the red stain on the entry rug where Don’s head had landed and he’d bled out—and she said nothing. Rook’s patience gave. “OK, look. You’ve got your keys to my place, right? Best thing to do now is to let Raley and Ochoa take you over there for a shower and some sleep.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  He didn’t have a cop switch, so he hid in logistics. “I’ll hang out here to make sure the place gets locked up when all this is finished.”

  She repeated, “You’re not coming?”

  “I’ll call your super. Jerzy should be able to cover that hole in the door.”

  “Thanks,” she said but laced it with edge and sarcasm. “Comforting.”

  “What do you want, Nikki?” Wading one step deeper into dangerous waters, he said, “I don’t know what the hell to do just now. You’re giving me nothing, and frankly, all I’m doing is getting more pissed off.”

  “So this is all about you? After the night I just had?”

  “No,” he said, “the one thing I can be sure of is that this is all about you.”

  “Very glib, Rook. Excellent. Jot that in your cute little Moleskine. You can use it later. Or maybe refer to it someday when you want to remember exactly what you said to me that tore the fabric.” She reached in her gym bag and came up with the keys to his loft. “Catch.”

  He snagged them on the downward arc. They bit into his palm when he closed his fist around them. “You’re kicking me out?”

  “My mess. I’ll clean it up.”

  Rook felt the full gravity of that statement. And its broad exclusion. He searched her face but saw only a cold mask. So he pocketed the keys and left.

  Nikki made it a point not to watch him walk out. Or to notice Raley and Ochoa, who would have absorbed their encounter from across the room like it was some scene from a silent movie requiring no subtitles, and would pretend not to be gawking, even though they were.

  As she flopped into the easy chair beside the piano, Nikki found herself reliving a night ten years before, in fine detail. Just like back then, dazed, empty, and terribly alone, she watched a Forensics team work that same apartment from the same perspective. Surrounded by broken glass and toppled furnishings, Nikki felt as shaken as any earthquake could cause her to feel, making the very ground under her feet suspect and untrustworthy.

  The twin Murder Boards gave her no better sense of grounding as she sat alone in the bull pen before sunup, on her second cup of coffee, studying the dual case displays from a chair in the middle of the room. Nikki had been there almost three hours. Unable to sleep after ECU and Forensics wrapped and Jerzy had screwed a square of plywood over the blast hole, Heat showered and hitched a ride uptown to the Two-oh in the blue-and-white the commander of the Thirteenth Precinct had posted outside her building as a courtesy.

  The boards read exactly as they had when Heat left the squad room the night before, except she had updated them with a new section for a third homicide: Don’s. It took massive emotional effort for Heat to push aside—for now—the pain of his death so she could concentrate on solving it. She drew a separate box in green marker to delineate Don’s area. Beneath his name and time of death, the bullets were: “Shotgun.” “Unknown Male Shooter,” with the sketchy physical description of height and weight, “Taxi Escape,” and the words she despised writing, “At Large.”

  Evidence did not connect Don’s killing to the others. Common sense did. That’s why she put Don up there with her mother and Nicole Bernardin. Experience had taught the detective to mistrust coincidence. She knew she was the target and that the attack had come after she started digging into the other two murders. That answered one of the questions still posted up there, “Why now?” The bigger one that remained preceded it: “Why?”

  That would lead to “Who?” Or so she hoped.

  Nikki heard the rumble of a subway, but there was none nearby. The venetian blinds clanked against the metal window frames and the fluorescents began to sway gently in the overheads. She heard an auxiliary secretary up the hall go “Whoo!” and someone else called out, “Aftershock!” Nikki watched the blinds settle and turned back to the boards, wishing that somehow the mini-quake had made something shake loose.

  This exercise of hers, patiently waiting out the Murder Board to reveal a solution or, at least, a connection, usually paid off. Far from metaphysical, there was no incense or any incantations involved. And it wasn’t like playing Ouija, either. The practice was simply a means of quieting her mind and studying the puzzle pieces to let her subconscious find a fit. And, indeed, something up there was trying to speak to Nikki, but it eluded her. What was she missing? Heat began to blame herself for not having a quiet mind, but she stopped. “No self-reproach,” she whispered. If Nikki Heat had one ally she needed to rely on and keep positive, it was herself.

  Heat needed to keep her focus, even amid the storm.

  That was the beauty of the wall Rook derided. Rook, grousing about her ability to compartmentalize when that very skill was what made her so successful at clearing cases in a whirlwind. She tried to put Rook out of her mind. What she did not need right then was distraction. Want
to know what a real wall is, Mr. Rook? Check this out.

  Her solitude got broken by a loyal squad. Detective Feller rolled in an hour and a half early, just behind Raley and Ochoa, whom she had said good night to at her apartment at two that morning. Randall Feller had already put out personal calls and texts to his undercover pals in the NYPD Taxi Squad to be extra vigilant looking for the missing cab with the front-end damage and two bullet holes in the windshield. So far, no sighting. Roach checked for any call backs on the advisory they had posted overnight to hospital ERs, walk-in clinics, and pharmacies about gunshot victims or bleeders purchasing first aid or painkillers in quantity.

  Soon the entire squad gathered for an early showing; everyone except Sharon Hinesburg, who was late again. As they assembled around the boards for an update, Heat checked out the glass office but found Captain Irons inside, going over CompStat sheets with a red pencil. Maybe, she decided, the Iron Man had dropped off his punch at a farther corner that morning. Nikki began without her, knowing they’d manage.

  Heat began with Don’s murder, which they all knew about, so she gave it a quick summary. Nobody asked questions. They all knew the sensitivities and, like Nikki, were eager to move on to other matters.

  Uniforms working Nicole’s Inwood street said neighbors saw a carpet cleaning van there recently. “The eyewits couldn’t recall a company name, but since it coincided with the search and time of death, I want Feller and Rhymer to go there for follow-up interviews. Just get what you can. Color of van, lettering, anything.

  “Still waiting on toxicology,” she continued, putting another question mark on the board beside it. Underneath, she erased “Fingerprints” (which was still blank, but moot now that they had positive ID) and printed “Inwood Carpet Cleaners.”

  Raley reported no leads off Nicole Bernardin’s headhunter business. “The NAB Group is registered with Better Business and a few trade organizations, but aside from fully paid dues, not much to say. No complaints against her about executive searches and placements mainly because there seems to be no record of any. The woman gives discreet a whole new meaning.”

  Malcolm and Reynolds reported no fencing or stolen property receipts for a laptop belonging to Nicole Bernardin. Nikki told them to send e-mails to pawnshops and check eBay. Detective Rhymer said he was still working with the IT geeks on her Web data storage. “No hits, but they emphasize ‘yet.’ IT is totally intrigued by the challenge. Plus they want to know if you’ll autograph your cover shot of Rook’s First Press issue to hang.”

  “Sure,” she said. “As long as it’s not in the bathroom.”

  Rhymer smiled. “No, I’m pretty sure these guys will take turns bringing it home.”

  Nothing new from the French consulates, according to Detective Reynolds, who had also run Nicole Bernardin through Interpol. But her name didn’t light anything up there. However, he did say that Nikki was right, he did get a green light on her at the New York Road Runners Club. “She had a lifetime membership.”

  “Ironic,” said Feller, who couldn’t resist.

  “Nicole participated in their summer evening training runs in Central Park, did the Fifth Avenue Mile, and a lot of 10Ks, but had no social profile there,” said Reynolds. “Basically, she was a bib number.”

  And so it went through all their reports. Information, but nothing that led anywhere. Even Rhymer, who on his own had checked with amateur orchestras and the musicians union to see if Nicole, the former NEC violin prodigy, had any affiliations there, came up empty. All the work they did just took them nowhere; like Nicole’s summer loops around the park, it all ended right back where they’d started.

  As the group dispersed, Nikki found herself, by reflex, turning to Rook’s empty chair to get his off-the-wall take. Before the thought of him pushed her into a tar pit of vulnerability, she got busy at her desk. In all, she counted herself fortunate that the hour had passed without gossipy whispers or needing to confront the controversy of her personal life in that bull pen. Then Detective Hinesburg breezed in and a new hour began.

  “I heard all about last night. You OK?” asked Sharon, standing over her more than a bit too much. But respecting personal space was not her thing. “Had to be awful, right there in your place.” She leaned down and lowered the volume only slightly. “And it was your boyfriend. Nikki, I am so sorry.”

  “He was not my boyfriend.” Heat wished she hadn’t even engaged.

  “Sure, whatever you say. It had to be so traumatic. Truthfully, I didn’t think you’d be in.”

  Heat drew back her watch cuff. “Clearly, you didn’t. Where were you?”

  “On the assignment Captain Irons gave me.” At first, Nikki thought she was lying, but that would be too easy to check, so she moved on to annoyance that the precinct commander had gone around her, poaching squad members without consultation. But then Heat considered which one he had poached. And hadn’t it been a better morning without Sharon there? Hinesburg crossed over to her desk to thunk down her monstrous purse and said, “I would have been in earlier, but you know how he’s watching OT. So since I had to drive last night to Scarsdale, he told me to come in late today to make up.”

  Nikki’s breath caught. She strode over to Hinesburg’s desk and invaded her space for a change. “What were you doing up in Scarsdale?”

  The other detective let out a low whistle. “Hoo boy. Honest. I really thought he told you.”

  It hit Nikki like a backdraft and made her reel. “You went to see my father? On assignment?”

  Before she could answer, Heat was already on her way to the captain’s office. Hinesburg called out, feebly, “Yes, but not as a suspect. Purely a person of interest.”

  Heat slammed his door with such force, half the building must have thought they were witnessing another big aftershock. And if they had been inside Irons’s office, they would have been.

  “Holy crap, Heat, what the hell?” Wally Irons had not only jolted upright in his chair Roger Rabbit-style, he’d retreated on his rollers, heels kicking at the plastic floor mat, eyes wide and mouth slack. They were good instincts to follow. Detective Heat advanced on his desk as if she intended to come right over it at him.

  “What the hell, is right. What the hell are you doing, sending Sharon fucking Hinesburg to my father’s home?” Heat seldom swore, and if the entrance wasn’t sufficient to indicate her upset, the f-bomb was. “My father’s home, Captain!”

  “You need to settle yourself right down.”

  “The fuck I do. Answer my question.”

  “Detective, we all know about the stressful night you had.”

  “Answer me.” When he just stared at her, she picked his half cup of cold coffee off the coaster and poured it on his CompStat printout. “Now.”

  “You are totally out of line.”

  “I am just starting—Wally.”

  She loomed there, panting as if she had run a sprint. But he could see she could easily go a few more laps, and he said, “All right. Let’s talk it out. Have a seat.” She didn’t budge. “Come on, will you sit?”

  While she pulled a chair up, he took out his handkerchief to dam the flow of creamy decaf rolling off the desktop into his trouser cuffs, all the while keeping an eye on her. “All right,” she said. “Sitting. Start talking.”

  “I made a determination … as commander of this precinct,” he added weakly, “to open a new line in this investigation in order to get things moving.”

  “With my dad?” She side-nodded to the bull pen through the glass. “With her? Come on.”

  “You’ll show some respect, Detective.”

  She slapped her hand on the desktop. “Person of interest? My father? A: That man was cleared ten years ago. And B: In what world is it OK for you to send someone—anyone—to interview him without letting me know first?”

  “I am the precinct commander.”

  “I am the Homicide Squad leader.”

  “Leading a stalled investigation. Look, Heat, we talked about this yest
erday after this ended up in the Ledger. After a decade, it’s time for a fresh champion.”

  “Uh-huh … Have you been polishing that quote for the next article? While you compromise my case and damage my relationship with my family?”

  “My determination is that you are too involved. You have a potential conflict of interest. I think what I’m seeing here bears that out.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I sent Detective Hinesburg because I feel her talents are underutilized.”

  “Hinesburg? Five bucks says she spent more time at Westchester Mall last night than she did with my father.”

  “And,” he held up a finger as if hitting an imaginary pause button on her, “I felt we needed some objectivity, not some lone wolf on a vendetta.”

  “We don’t need a witch hunt, either. Witch included.”

  “You’re out of control.”

  “Trust me, you’d know that if you saw it.”

  “Like the other night in Bayside when you violated procedure and entered the hatch to that basement alone because of your obsession with this case?”

  “You need some time in the field, Captain. You might understand actual police work.”

  “You know what you need? Some time out of the field. I’m benching you.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Nothing personal. Even after this … encounter. In fact, I’m a big enough man to see all this as your reaction to post-traumatic stress.”

  “Like you’re qualified to know that.”

  “Maybe not. But the department has psychologists who are. I’m enforcing your mandated psychological evaluation following the murder of your boyfriend and your shooting of the fleeing suspect.” He stood up. “Get yourself shrunk, then we’ll talk about putting you back on duty. This meeting is over.” But he was the one to leave. And he got out of there in a hurry.