Frozen Heat (2012)

by Richard Castle

  “Tyler, I am sorry to have to tell you this,” said Nikki. “Nicole is dead.”

  His eyes flashed wide and his jaw fell. “Nicole …? Dead?”

  “She was also murdered.”

  “No.”

  Heat grew alarmed at his growing distress. “Maybe we should discuss this later.” She started from her chair.

  “No, tell me, tell me now.” He struggled to get himself up on an elbow. “Don’t go, tell me. I need to know.”

  “All right, but please, settle back.”

  He didn’t. Wynn’s shock and disbelief got swept away in rage. “Who killed her? How? When?”

  “Tyler, please,” said Nikki. She moved closer to rest a hand on him, and Rook came around the other side of the bed to ease him back onto his pillows. He complied and seemed outwardly more calm, although his breathing remained labored.

  “Just tell me. I’m fine. See?” He smiled a disconnected smile and dropped it. “Fair trade. I opened up for you.”

  Heat said, “Nicole was stabbed to death last week in New York City. The day after your attack.”

  Tyler Wynn squeezed both eyes shut in a full-face wince. “No …” he rasped and wagged his head deliriously on the pillow. Then his eyes shot open and he coughed. Between coughs he said, “No … They’re … still … after it.”

  “You have to keep yourself calm now,” said Rook. And then to Nikki, “Which one’s the nurse call button?”

  “No, not Nicole, too!” hollered Wynn, bolting up on his elbow again, gasping, the whites of his eyes visible around frantically darting pupils. The cadence of the heart rate monitor began to increase.

  “I’m getting the guard,” said Nikki, but when she turned, the drape billowed as the door opened and a nurse entered.

  Upon seeing the patient, she hurried to him. Heat and Rook stepped back, letting her go to work, but even as the nurse attended him, Wynn moaned hoarsely and drifted backward, holding his chest. The audio alarm screeched on the monitor and the green electronic display of his heart rate spiked and fell erratically even as it gained tempo. The nurse pushed a call button. “Code bleu, salle deux-zero-trois, rapidement. Code bleu, salle deux-zero-trois.”

  Urgent voices and the sound of small rubber wheels skittering on linoleum drew closer. An arm reached out to claw the privacy drape aside. The cardiac team rushed in, a doctor and a nurse pushing the crash cart. The arriving nurse gestured an arm sweep at Heat and Rook indicating they should stay back where they stood against the window. “Reculez vous, s’eloignier.”

  The two of them stayed there, hugging the wall as the medical staff responded to the emergency. The doctor checked vitals. “Vingt cent joules,” he said. The cardiac nurse threw switches and twisted a dial on the cart. They heard an ascending, barely audible tone signaling the charging of the defibrillator paddles. In a measured voice, the doctor said, “Au loin.” All stood clear of the patient as the jolt was delivered to his chest. Tyler’s entire body bounced on the mattress.

  Rook kept a fixed grimace, the proximity of this event to his own mortality episode hitting home. Beside him Nikki whispered, “Come on,” and then, when the screen flatlined and the signature monotone of no heart activity filled the room, she urged him again. “Come on, Tyler, come on.”

  But the flatline tone continued stubbornly. The doctor ordered more joules of electricity. “Au loin.” The team cleared. Tyler jerked on the mattress again. Nikki watched the tiny screen for any spike in the green line. Nothing.

  Another shock was administered to his chest. The medical team didn’t talk, but their eyes spoke of diminishing hope. Heat realized her fingernails were digging into her palms and unballed her fists. The doctor increased the joules again, but the next shot did nothing. As did the one after that.

  Heat and Rook looked on sadly and helplessly as the man they had just met and were growing to like remained unresponsive, with the key answers to Heat’s most significant questions locked inside the head he had so playfully finger-tapped just minutes before.

  Following multiple attempts, first the doctor, then his team, glanced up at the wall clock. The doc wrote down the exact time. One nurse switched off the defibrillator and wound the cords of the paddles. The other reached out for the heart monitor and flipped down a toggle.

  The piercing tone ceased and the flatline disappeared, leaving behind a green, horizontal ghost fading from the screen. The nurse regarded Heat and Rook sympathetically, no translation needed. Then she turned to cover the corpse of Tyler Wynn.

  Slowly, delicately, the nurse drew the sheet over him. For Nikki, it felt like the steel door to a vault slamming in her face.

  ELEVEN

  “It seems that Paris is also the City of Lights Out,” said Rook as they got into their taxi outside the hospital.

  “Nice. Mr. Sensitivity strikes again.”

  “What? I didn’t kill him. You did. You killed him.”

  “Would you please stop saying that?”

  “But you did. You killed Uncle Tyler.” He arched a brow at her. “I hope you’re happy now.”

  Heat turned away and stared out her window at the grove of blooming horse chestnuts across the highway in Bois de Boulogne. The smooth acceleration of the Mercedes pulling onto the A-13 back to Paris created the illusion that it was not the car that was in motion but the flowering orchard of trees with their sunlit white blossoms seeming to roll past her like radiant spring clouds.

  Of course she hadn’t killed Tyler Wynn.

  Of course part of her thought she had. The nag of responsibility tugged at her. She envisioned some Notre Dame gargoyle coming to life, and could hear its devilish voice rasping, “He died because of your visit. It was too much for him. You should have ignored the old man when he begged for more.” The plainclothes detective who had arrived at Hopital Canard to interview her in the aftermath had dismissed that notion. Naturally, he asked her what had transpired before the cardiac arrest, and Heat, avoiding specifics about her mother, shared the detective-to-detective version: Tyler Wynn knew the victims of two murders she was investigating. He engaged voluntarily, which the uniform on post had corroborated. When Wynn started showing agitation, she had tried to break it off, but that made him even more upset, so she thought the better course was to give him the information he pleaded for and then end the interview, ASAP.

  “Who knew?” the French inspector said with a shrug, and handed back her credentials. “I have already spoken to the doctor, who says it was not your visit but three bullets and something called aortic valve stenosis that killed Tyler Wynn.”

  But Rook picked on her. Why? Because he knew Nikki well enough to short-circuit her guilt reflex with false scorn. One of the first things he had picked up on his ride-along the summer before was how cops deal with emotion by going against it with sarcasm. The first thing he had said to her after he came out of his recent coma was how pissed he was for not catching the bullet in his teeth, like the superhero he was, and spitting it back at the bad guy. Now, in the back seat of the E-320, Rook was lightening her up by accusing her with his tongue firmly in his cheek.

  On the Avenue de New York they passed by the Alma Tunnel, and as Heat gazed at the perennial scattering of bouquets and melted candles offered in memory of the princess who met her fate there, she ruminated on secrets—especially the ones that died with those who were privy to them. Her reflection brought her to remind herself that in her world, every event had a cause, and coincidence was simply cause and effect, in hiding.

  Until she exposed it.

  The death of Tyler Wynn was, foremost, a tragedy for him and, for her, one too many deaths to witness in one week. Beyond that, its acutely untimely nature sealed a door that had only half opened to Nikki. Fulfilling the cruelest—and truest—definition of the word “tantalizing,” Heat had learned just enough to torment her about everything else that remained out of reach.

  Rook said, “I guess my wack job conspiracy theories aren’t so wack, after all.”

>   “Listen, pal, before you spike the ball and do your end zone salsa dance, may I remind you of what they say about broken clocks?”

  “You mean that they’re not only right? But beautifully right twice a day?”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Riiight. That’s such a refreshing word, isn’t it? Come on, Detective, admit it. I called it. Uncle Tyler was a spy.” The driver’s eyes suddenly appeared in his rearview. Rook leaned forward, playing with him just like he goofed with cabbies in New York. “Tell her to admit it.” The driver averted his gaze and quickly adjusted his mirror so all they could see was the widow’s peak of his jet-black hair.

  Rook slid back and shifted in the seat to face her. “I don’t get the gloom, Nikki. Especially now. This is definitely a glass-half-full moment—unless, of course, you’re Tyler Wynn.” He observed a brief pause to acknowledge him but then got right back to it. “Look at all the answers you got this morning. I’d think you’d be ecstatic to learn that not only wasn’t your mom’s double life just your imagination, but it wasn’t because she was having an affair. And—how cool is this?—she was a spy in the family like Arnold in True Lies. No, even better: Cindy Heat was like Julia Child in World War Two when she spied for the OSS.”

  “I agree, that is something.”

  “Damn right. The way I see it, we did Dickens one better. Paris gave us a tale of two Cindys.”

  This time it was Nikki who scooted up to the driver. “You want to put him out right here?”

  Across the Atlantic, New York had awakened for its day by the time they got back to their hotel, and Nikki worked her phone while Rook hit the streets to forage for lunch. Detective Ochoa took her call solo. His partner Raley was tied up checking on one of the dozens of anonymous tips the squad had received since Hinesburg’s leak to the Ledger. “It sucks, I gotta tell you,” he said. “We have enough legitimate stuff to check out on our own, but since this hit the media, we’re choking on tip pollution. That article slowed the whole case down.”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Miguel.”

  “I know, but you’re in Paris with Rook and I want to do what I can to screw with your good time. Hey, maybe I can get Irons to bench me, then Lauren and I can go somewhere fun. There’s an Elvis convention in Atlantic City. I could rock my whole Elvez gig.”

  “Well, before you put on your gold lame jumpsuit, I need you to check something out for me.” She swore him to silence, then gave him the short version of Tyler Wynn’s connection to her mother and Nicole. After Ochoa muttered his third “Fuuuck …,” she said, “Wynn’s shooting came the night before Nicole’s murder. I want you to get on Customs and the airlines for names of passengers arriving from the Paris airports to JFK or Newark last Wednesday. Don’t forget connections through London and Frankfurt, and wherever. Run the manifests through the database for any names that are on the watch list or show priors for assault or weapons busts. Do the same with Interpol.”

  “You think it could be the same killer?”

  “I don’t know what I think, but if there’s any chance it was a hit by one person, it’s worth clearing. I don’t love the different MO, but he may have used a knife on Nicole because he couldn’t travel with a gun.”

  “Yeah, and a gun is so hard to find in New York,” said Detective Ochoa. “But I’ll get rolling on it.” He cleared his throat and said, “Now I guess it’s on me to tell you some not so good news.”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “It’s the glove.”

  “No fingerprints?”

  “Worse. No glove.”

  “What?”

  “Captain Irons just called in from the lab. He went there this morning to bang on doors for results, and somehow, it got lost.” The vacuum of silence on her end was so complete he said, “Detective Heat, you still there?”

  All she said was “Somehow?”

  Rook said, “Somehow?” with the same shading of disbelief when he got back to the room and she told him about it. “I don’t think somehow is the reason. I think it’s more like someone.”

  “And he’s off.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because I knew this would propel you into Area Fifty-one. Rook, for once, can you try doing what I do for a living and deal in hard facts instead of indulging in wild speculation?”

  “Want to talk facts, Nikki? All right, fine. Exactly how often does key information go missing in an important homicide investigation?” She just stared at him. “OK, forget I even asked that. But come on, this is different. This has spook written all over it.”

  “Or incompetence.”

  “When I hear that word, I only think of one man. The man of Iron.”

  “Guess I’ll have to wait until I get back to suss that out.” She unwrapped the paper around one of the ham and cheese baguettes he’d returned with. But Rook’s brain crackled too much to eat. He set aside his sandwich after a single bite and paced the room. When Nikki saw him tapping madly on the screen of his iPhone, she said, “I hope you’re playing Words with Friends with Alec Baldwin, because if you’re still in foil hat mode over this lost glove, let it rest.”

  “I’m off the glove—for now. I’m searching my contacts.”

  “What for?”

  “You may like to play it fast and loose with the facts,” he said, teasing her with her own words to him, “but as an investigative journalist with not one, but two, Pulitzers on his mantel …”

  “Two, you say.” She took another bite.

  “… I like to verify facts independently.” He stopped scrolling. “Ah, here we go.”

  “All right, Mr. Woodward—or is it Bernstein?—what are you planning to verify?”

  “I want to confirm what Tyler Wynn told us about being CIA and running your mother through his Nanny Network. To me, everything he said made perfect sense. In fact, I felt a certain vindication in his story. I don’t know if you could tell that or not.”

  “I had an inkling. So whom are you going to verify this with?”

  “An old deep-cover source of mine from when I was researching my Chechnya piece for First Press. His name’s Anatoly Kije. This guy’s incredible. Straight out of Tinker, Tailor. An old school Russian spook for SVR—which is what the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service calls itself now instead of KGB. Everybody’s rebranding. KGB, KFC …”

  “Rook.”

  “Sorry. Anyhow, my boy Anatoly lives here in Paris, and if anyone would know about Tyler, your mother, and anything else going on in that network, he would. In fact, he may be able to shed light on those questions Tyler Wynn had the bad manners to die before he answered. May he rest in peace.”

  “All right. Assuming this KGB guy—”

  “SVR guy.”

  “—knows anything, why would he share it with you?”

  “Because during the course of our meetings here in Paree, let’s just say Anatoly and I spent a lot of time together closing bars. We were like this.” He crossed two fingers then tapped the call icon on his phone. “To this day, I can’t get a hangover without thinking of him.” He held up a palm to quiet her, as if she were the one doing all the talking.

  “Hello, is this Imports International?” He gave Nikki a knowing wink. “Yes, hello. I would like to speak to your branch manager, please, Mr. Anatoly Kije. Yes, I’ll hold.” He whispered to Nikki, “Transferring to his assistant.” Then he said into the phone. “Hello? Let me see, is this Mishka? … No? Oh, you must be new. It’s been a while. My name is Jameson Rook and I’m an old friend of Anatoly Kije’s. I happen to be in town and I was wondering if he—Rook. Jameson Rook, that’s right. I’ll hold—”

  Rook got kept waiting on hold long enough for Nikki to finish her baguette. Long enough for him to weary of pacing and sit in the corner chair. Then he stood suddenly. “Hello? Yes?” And then a frown crossed his brow. “He did? Really. Are you sure? I’m so sorry. Yes, good-bye.” He hung up and flopped back in the chair.

  Nikki said, “Don’t tell me h
e got shot, too.”

  “Worse. He said he never heard of any Jameson Rook.”

  With answers that solved at least one part of the mystery of her mother’s life and no new leads to follow in Paris, Heat and Rook reserved seats for a flight home the next morning. The chaos and incompetence visited upon her elite squad had much to do with Nikki’s drive to get back to New York. Captain Irons embodied the worst aspects of civil service. He always had been a paper pusher with a badge, but now, with his own command and Detective Heat out of the mix, the Ironman’s blundering ways ran unchecked. Sure, sometimes evidence like gloves got lost. And media leaks wreaked havoc on cases. And occasionally, the worst detective in a squad slept his or her way to a level of responsibility that surpassed competence. But these things rarely converged all at once in a perfect storm of serial bungles. Even if her leave remained in force, Nikki reasoned that proximity would at least give her a fighting chance to stem the damage before the case of her life got trashed.

  True to form, Rook suggested that they try to unplug from work for their final night in Paris. Nikki asked, “You mean, like try not to be too mindful of the fact that we watched a key witness die before our eyes this morning?”

  “There ya go,” he said. “And if it helps, I’m not above digging up the old ‘Tyler would have wanted it that way’ chestnut. And judging from those photos in that keepsake box, he wasn’t one to let a good time go to waste.”

  Heat agreed to the mental night off. In fact, she welcomed it—but only if Rook let her treat him to dinner for their REWOTC (Romantic Evening While Off The Case). “Even for me, these acronyms are starting to blur,” he said. “But you’re on.”

  She took him to Le Papillon Bleu, a hidden treasure on a side street in Le Marais where locals dined by candlelight on fresh mussels and clams from Port du Belon while they listened to accented American jazz performed live. A stunning young French reincarnation of Billie Holiday sang “I Can’t Give You Anything But Love” with a voice that almost made them forget Louis Armstrong’s version. Well, almost.