Crashing Heat

by Richard Castle

  Her English background occasionally came back to her in bits and pieces, usually because Rook triggered something that made her remember. “Chaucer,” she said. “Right?”

  “Right you are. It’s a passage that always stuck with me. The simplicity of the idea that minor changes will render a tale new, thereby meaning it will no longer belong to the original author, struck me as ludicrous. This was, of course, before intellectual property rights. Now those minor changes would not equal a new tale. Now it would be plagiarism.”

  Over the years, Nikki had learned that Jameson Rook’s brain held untold amounts of random information. He could pull facts and tidbits as if from thin air, which often annoyed Nikki, but also never ceased to amaze her. “Kudos to you for remembering something like that from college. I don’t remember any of my professor’s names, let alone the material they taught.”

  The moment passed and they stared up at the building. Rook tilted his head as he looked at the facade. “I kind of liked the old 1950s look.”

  “But it’ll be much nicer when it matches the look of the original structures,” she said. “It’ll make things look more cohesive.”

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  She tilted her head, considering him. “You’re usually gung ho about anything historic. What gives?”

  He gestured toward the remodel construction. “That was original. It might not have matched the original original buildings, but to pretend that it wasn’t built sometime in the middle of the 1900s is a lie. I am gung ho about authenticity first and foremost. Just like you, I’m always after the truth, whether that means seeking justice for Chloe Masterson or maintaining the integrity of a building even if it doesn’t fit,” he said, doing air quotes on the last word.

  Nikki stifled a smile. “Well, okay, then. I had no idea you were such a stickler for a piece of architecture’s provenance.”

  Rook swept his hand in the air from his head to his torso. “Untold depths, Heat. Untold depths.”

  They walked on, spotting another cordoned-off building. This one looked ancient and, from the looks of it, the university was working to restore it to its original grandeur. “I guess I can see your point,” Nikki said. “It would feel different living in a 1900 Victorian versus a brand-new house with a Victorian look. The history would be gone.”

  “Exactly. No creaky floors. No shiplap walls. No double-hung windows. It would be like lipstick on a pig.”

  That sounded like a down-home southern saying. Another random thought in Rook’s endlessly fascinating mind.

  They finally ended up in front of a nondescript square six-story red-brick building. A double glass door entrance was cut into the center. Windows ran across the front in symmetrical rows. A few trees peppered the green lawn, and a plain cement walkway led to the entrance. It was disappointing. It was the home of the Cambria Journal, but the heart and soul of the university looked soulless. Rook, as so often happened, seemed to read her mind. “Not much to look at, I know. But it’s what’s inside that matters.”

  She ran her hand over his back, letting it slide up under his tweed sport coat. He was embodying the professorial look with gusto. “That is most definitely not your problem. You’re pretty nice to look at and have the insides to go with the package.”

  His mouth quirked up on one side and he waggled his eyebrows. “I do have quite the package, don’t I?”

  This time she didn’t hold back her laugh. “Uh-huh.”

  He held the door open for her and she passed through. They rode the elevator to the fifth floor. As the doors slid open, they were greeted by a flurry of activity. Young adults speed-walked or jogged this way and that, talking into Bluetooth earpieces or turning and walking backward to talk to someone they’d just passed without actually stopping to have a conversation. Directly across from the elevator doors was a wall with THE CAMBRIA JOURNAL emblazoned across the paneling in large gold letters.

  Once again, Rook led the way and Nikki fell in beside him. Heat had always prided herself on being prepared for anything, but as they rounded the corner and entered the lion’s den of the college newsroom, she was thrown. The cacophony that greeted her was unexpected. She hadn’t been in the New York Times newsroom, or the Washington Post’s, or any other major—or minor—newsroom, for that matter, so she had nothing to compare to, but the level of activity was intense. She stopped to absorb it all. The university, or whoever had designed the newsroom space, seemed to have done it with post-millennials in mind. They’d eschewed traditional offices and cubicle farms, opting instead for an open design. People were working at standing desks, and the low walls, while defining spaces, allowed people to talk to one another. To collaborate. On the periphery, Nikki noticed a few small rooms. For the times privacy was needed, she guessed. They’d considered everything.

  She would have thought that each workspace would have its own printer, but it looked as if the office was primarily paperless. With email and Dropbox and Google Docs and the cloud, there was no need to print drafts for red ink. “It’s very team-oriented,” Rook said. “Very different than it was in my day. And my day wasn’t so long ago.”

  “I bet.”

  A young man strode toward them. His blue oxford button-down tucked into his Dockers gave him a dressed-down casual look, which seemed appropriate given his student status, yet he carried himself with an authority that belied his age. He had his shoulders thrown back, his chin up, and a serious, but not off-putting expression on his face. “Mr. Rook. I didn’t expect to see you—”

  “Just Rook is fine,” Rook said, interrupting him. “The Mr. thing...”

  “It makes him feel old,” Nikki said, finishing the thought for him.

  Rook lifted his eyebrows and gave an affable shrug acknowledging Nikki’s assessment. “No need to age faster than necessary. It’s Mike, right?

  A feathery lock of hair fell onto the young man’s forehead. “Michael, actually. Warton.”

  “Michael Warton. That is a very Upper West Side name.”

  “Given to me by my very Lower East Side parents,” he promptly quipped, and then added, “Before the gentrification, that is. Can I help you with something, Rook?”

  “I always get a thrill coming round my old stomping ground. Things have adapted to the times, but a newspaper’s energy never fails.”

  “So true,” Michael said, affecting a wizened tone. “Especially the fact that the editor in chief has a very full plate—”

  Rook hooked his thumb at Michael, but he looked at Heat. “That’s him, editor in chief,” he said, in case she hadn’t put it together.

  “Sounds like you are a very busy man,” Nikki said, reading between the lines. This guy, this Michael Warton, didn’t want to be spending his time with them. She gently ran her hand down Rook’s arm. “We don’t want to take your time. My husband just wanted to show me his humble beginnings.”

  Rook picked up the thread. “Everyone has to start somewhere. This is where I paid my dues.” He laughed. “The first payment, anyway. Michael, my good fellow, get ready. Journalism, especially in this new era, is no picnic.”

  Apparently Michael Warton didn’t want to discuss the future dues he’d have to pay in his chosen career. He did, however, have something else on his mind. “We’re all in shock about Chloe,” he said. He looked pointedly at Rook. “You must be devastated.”

  “It’s a tragedy, but why would Rook be devastated?” Nikki asked.

  “Because they were working on a story together,” Michael said. “Chloe was very excited to have him as a collaborator.”

  Nikki looked at Rook. To Michael, or to anyone who didn’t know him well, it wouldn’t seem as if his expression had changed; but Nikki noticed the infinitesimal shift. It wasn’t an Oh shit, I’m busted movement. It was more You don’t know what you’re talking about.

  Rook cleared his throat. Loudly. “You do both know that I am standing right here, don’t you?”

  Michael looked chagrined, but he stayed the course. �
��She was excited to be working with you, sir.”

  Rook was mollified. Slightly. But he shook his head. “Here’s the thing. I was not working on anything with Chloe.”

  “That’s not what she said. Or thought. She said you had information that was going to help her bring it home.”

  “Bring what home?” Nikki asked. So far, there had been no specific connection between Chloe and Rook. Michael might be the one to provide one.

  “Her article. She was incredibly stubborn about it,” Michael said, shaking his head. His feathery hair flopped down over his forehead. “Normally I don’t tolerate that sort of thing. I need to know what my people are working on, but Chloe was stubborn. She wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but she assured me that it would be worth it. Now that she’s gone, the paper would like to honor her memory. I’d like to publish her last piece posthumously. As a tribute to her.”

  “A nice idea,” Rook said, but Nikki looked in his eyes and saw the wheels turning. Her mind was racing, too. If what Michael Warton was saying was true, whatever story Chloe Masterson was working on could have led to her death. That still didn’t explain Rook’s connection to it all, however. Why was she found in his house, in his bed? Why would she say she and Rook had been working together?

  Michael gave Rook a pointed look. “So, do you have her notes? Or the file with her article? She said it was almost finished—”

  Rook cut him off. “Why would I have her notes?”

  “She didn’t leave anything here, and from what I understand, it wasn’t found in her apartment. Her laptop hasn’t been found. But she said you had some information that supported her research and that was going to help prove everything.”

  Rook stared at Michael, complete bewilderment on his face. “Prove what? I met Chloe Masterson exactly three times.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Once at the awards dinner in Manhattan. Once right here. She showed me around. And once in the lecture hall.”

  This last one was news to Nikki. “Why in the lecture hall?”

  “She caught me after class.”

  “When was this?” Nikki asked.

  “Day before yesterday.”

  “Which was the day before she was murdered,” Nikki said. “Kind of important information, Rook.”

  Rook’s face fell. “Right.”

  “What did she say?”

  He closed his eyes for a beat, thinking back. “It wasn’t a big deal. She wanted to know if we could get together for a drink. She said she had an idea that needed rekindling.”

  Odd choice of phrasing, Heat thought.

  Rook continued. “I told her I’d be happy to meet her for coffee sometime.”

  Heat mentally thunked Rook’s head. How could he not have told her this? She wanted to berate him. To tell him he should know better. Instead, with Michael Warton still looking on, she asked, “Did you make a plan to meet?”

  “No. She came up after I dismissed the class. There were a few other kids there, too. She flagged me down. I must have zeroed in on her amidst the throng because I remembered her.”

  Makes sense, Nikki thought. When faced with the known or the unknown, the majority of people would choose the known entity.

  “She said she’d love to talk, and could we get a drink. I had no reason to think it was anything more than a student admiring a professor. You saw her,” he said to Nikki. “She was googly-eyed. Starstruck.”

  She couldn’t disagree with him. “So you talked to her that night.”

  “There were a bunch of kids. I remember she said something, but I couldn’t hear her. Then she left.”

  “And you have no idea what she said?”

  He moved his mouth, muttering. Scratched his head, thinking. Then he snapped out of it. “I couldn’t hear her, but I saw her mouth move.”

  “Could you tell what she was saying?”

  He closed his eyes, his face clenching as he tried to recall. “The shape of her mouth—”

  “What about it?” Nikki prompted.

  “Lip reading. There are only a few letters in the alphabet where your lips press together, did you know that? The shape your mouth forms when you speak can reveal what is being said even when you can’t hear it.”

  “I never thought about it.”

  “It’s true. Try it. Say the alphabet and see how often your lips meet.”

  “Rook...” Nikki didn’t hold back the irritation in her voice. Rook rarely gave a simple response to a question. Usually it came with some long-forgotten historical fact, or a grammar lesson, or, as was the case at this moment, information on the alphabet. Which was something neither of them had time for. “How does this help us?”

  He tapped his temple. “I’m thinking. Or more accurately, I’m remembering,” he said. Then he snapped his fingers. “Yes! She put her hand up to the side of her head with her thumb up and pinkie down—”

  Now they were getting somewhere. “Like she was making a phone call?”

  “Exactly. And she mouthed something. I’ll call you. Wait. No. Her lips pressed together at the end. I’ll call you tomorrow. That’s it. It didn’t register at the time, what with so many people around, but now, looking back, I’m pretty sure—no, I’m positive—that’s what she was saying.”

  Nikki said the words aloud. “I’ll call you. I’ll call you tomorrow...That would have been yesterday—”

  “Which was the day she died,” Rook said.

  From behind Nikki, Michael Warton cleared his throat. “In your house.”

  For a moment Nikki had forgotten the editor in chief was there. He’d unobtrusively stepped back so he was behind her field of vision.

  “She may have wanted to call me. Or even intended to,” Rook said. “But she never did.”

  “Maybe she decided she didn’t want to talk about whatever was on her mind over the phone,” Nikki suggested. “If that was the case, she’d just show up. Wait for you if you weren’t there.”

  “Which I wasn’t.”

  “So she’d waited.”

  “Looks like someone else showed up to wait with her,” Michael commented.

  “Showed up, yes, but not to wait,” Rook said. “To kill.”

  “How did she—or they—get into your house without a key?” Michael asked.

  Nikki knew the type. He was playing it casual, but he was in reporter mode. “This is off the record, by the way, Michael,” she said. The last thing she wanted was for the Cambria Journal to print something about Chloe planning on calling Rook. A story like that would ignite the community and Rook would be guilty before he had a chance to be proven innocent. “This is an ongoing investigation into the death of Chloe Masterson.”

  She waited for acknowledgment, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Nod if you understand,” she said.

  Finally, he did. “Off the record.”

  “To answer the question, I have no idea how anyone would get in without a key,” Rook said.

  It was what Nikki expected, but it was a question that still needed answering at some point.

  Michael broke the ensuing silence. “Feel free to show your wife around, Rook. Let me know if you need anything.”

  “I have a question before you go,” Nikki said. Michael stopped and waited, so Nikki continued. “Rook said he witnessed you and Chloe have a heated conversation in your office the day she gave him a tour. What was that about?”

  “I remember that very clearly,” Michael said. “Chloe was, mmm, single-minded, shall we say? When she got something in her head, she was like a dog with a bone.”

  “A good quality in a journalist,” Rook commented.

  Michael nodded. “Sure, but you have to have your editor’s blessing—”

  “How well I remember. I had my own stories killed thanks to an overzealous Journal editor. Not that you are overzealous,” Rook said, realizing he might have offended Michael. “My point is that, while it can help, you do not have to have an editor’s blessing in the real world. Writers write on spec al
l the time. No prior approval needed.”

  “Chloe didn’t like having to answer to anyone. She wanted to write what she wanted to write.”

  “And what exactly did she want to write?” Nikki asked.

  “It’s not that I killed whatever story she wanted to write,” Michael said. “It’s that she refused to write what I needed her to write. I told her she had to get with the program or I couldn’t use her anymore.”

  “That’s rough.”

  Michael shrugged. “Look, Mrs.—”

  “Captain,” Rook corrected.

  “Captain Rook—”

  “Heat,” Nikki said. “Captain Heat.”

  He dipped his head. “Captain Heat. This is a cutthroat business.”

  “And you’re still students,” Heat murmured under her breath. “Imagine what it’ll be like after graduation.”

  Michael and Rook both looked at her. Her muttering hadn’t been as quiet as she’d thought. “So you told Chloe she had to do the stories you wanted her to do, and she refused?”

  “She dug in and argued. Said she had something hot and I’d be sorry if I passed on it.”

  “But she didn’t tell you what it was about?”

  “I asked her, believe me. That’s probably the discussion you saw. Me asking her about this major story, and her refusing to share.”

  Rook paced the lobby. “Why was she so against telling you?”

  “There’s no secret. She told me straight-up.”

  Nikki stared. “Chloe told you why she wouldn’t come clean about the story she was working on?”

  “I had to practically beat it out of her—not literally, of course—but she finally told me. She said some high-level people were involved and she had to have absolute proof.”

  Rook balked. “And that wasn’t enough for you to give her some leeway? Jesus, Michael, you’re going to have to loosen the reins if you’re going to make it. Your writers have to have some autonomy. If it weren’t for supportive editors, Nixon might still be president, we’d all still be smoking cigars and not worried about blue dresses, and, well, there’s plenty more that we probably shouldn’t talk about.”