Crashing Heat

by Richard Castle

  She nodded.

  “To a guy named Ian Cooley?”

  “I was still undone at that point. A little broken and lost.”

  He knew she was talking about the years following her mother’s apparent death. Sometimes, looking back, she was amazed she had recovered at all.

  “Ian Cooley was your—”

  “Husband.” She spoke the word he couldn’t. “He was my husband.”

  The silence that followed felt thin, as if it were deprived of oxygen like the Colorado air high up in the Rockies. Finally, after a solid minute, maybe two, Rook glanced at her. “Who’s more handsome, him or me?”

  Classic Rook. She laughed. “You are, Jamie. No contest.”

  He seemed satisfied with the sincerity of her response. “So marrying Barney Fife was a fleeting moment of you being young and dumb, as they say.”

  “I suppose that’s one way to put it,” she said, not bothering to take umbrage at the “young and dumb” comment.

  He waved his hand as if he were casting a spell. “Once this mess is finished, your former husband will be banished from our minds.”

  While she probably couldn’t completely eradicate his memory, the truth was that she hadn’t really thought of Ian in at least ten years. After she and Rook left Cambria, there would be no reason to think of him ever again. “You’re not mad?” she asked, a little surprised but greatly relieved.

  He responded without missing a beat. “Why would I be mad? I win in the handsome category. There is no question that I have superior intellect and am the better catch—”

  She smirked. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

  He turned his head and arched a brow at her, then put both hands out, palms up, as if they were the scales of justice. He lifted his left hand so it rose higher. “Chief of police in Cambria, New York.” He lowered it, and then raised his right hand. “Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist.”

  Finally, he moved both hands up and down, up and down, ultimately letting his right hand claim victory by raising it high above the other. “Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner.”

  She laughed. “Okay. I see your point. You are brilliant, and before I snagged you, you were quite the eligible bachelor.”

  “Thank you. Now, if you will, I do have a question, Heat.”

  She watched the road, glancing at him for just a moment. “Okay.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She’d been asking herself the same question. The answer was complicated, but she whittled it down as concisely as she could. “I guess because I don’t think about it. It’s a part of my past I wish I could forget.” She paused before asking her own question. “Can you forgive me for not telling you?”

  He took her hand. “Nik, there’s nothing to forgive. I get it. The past is the past. I’ve loved you since the moment I laid eyes on you. Through thick and thin, for better or for worse, and whatever other English idioms you can think of. We’re in this thing together.”

  The way he squeezed her hand sent an unspoken message. They were a team, even in the face of murder.

  Nikki hadn’t gotten around to telling her husband where they were meeting Chloe’s father. She finally filled him in when they were less than a quarter of a mile away, and then she braced herself for what she knew was coming. “A Freemason? How perfect! And how serendipitous.” Rook spoke with unbridled enthusiasm. He was a conspiracy theorist of the highest order, and the Masons had a reputation. He suddenly looked like a kid on a free shopping spree in Willy Wonka’s factory.

  “Why is it serendipitous?” Heat asked, almost afraid of the answer.

  Rook rubbed his hands together. “Because, my dear wife, an insider’s look into fraternal organizations, including the Freemasons, has been something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. I’m taking this as an omen. Now is the right time to revisit the idea.”

  “Great, but Rook. That is not why we’re here. You have to stay focused on the investigation. Do your research later.”

  Rook scoffed. “I am the world’s best multitasker.”

  She had to disagree. Vehemently. “You are so not the world’s best multitasker. In fact, you may be the worst. I used to read my niece, Sarah, a book called If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. After the cookie, the mouse wants milk. Then he has to check the mirror for the milk mustache, but he’s sidetracked and has to trim his whiskers. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. In this scenario, you’re the mouse,” she said.

  He clutched his chest as if his heart were breaking. “Heat, you wound me deeply, comparing me so callously to a mouse with a cookie.”

  She shrugged apologetically. “Just calling a spade a spade.”

  “Heat, a young woman lost her life and I know full well that the police are looking at me. I want to find out what happened to Chloe more than anyone. That is my priority.”

  She sensed a “but” coming.

  “But if I get a little insight about an interest of mine along the way, who am I to turn a blind eye?”

  “Just focus on the case,” she said.

  “The case, and nothing but the case.”

  Ian was sitting in his cruiser in front of the Masonic Temple of Cambria. It was a nondescript building with pink bricks, a white triangle roofline, and four white pillars, but Rook did not look disappointed. “It’s what’s happening inside that’s important,” he said, as if he’d read her mind.

  Heat pulled in along the curb behind Ian and parked. They all opened their car doors and stepped out like synchronized swimmers emerging from the water in perfect unison. The two men instantly moved toward each other. Not only did Ian consider Rook a potential suspect, but their current encounter also had a personal twist to it. Rook extended his hand. Ian stepped forward, grasping it tightly. “You’d better watch yourself,” he said, “because I am. Your wife may believe your little stories, but I don’t.”

  “Enough,” Nikki said. They were behaving like two territorial preening birds, sizing each other up and thrusting their chests out. Rook winced slightly at the intense pressure of Ian’s hand, but he was not going to break the handshake. “My wife’s belief is all I need to get me through the night.”

  Ian gave his own equally tense smile. “I didn’t know you were tagging along, Mr. Rook. Unusual, given the circumstances.” He spoke through his teeth, the veins in his temples pulsing.

  Heat answered before Rook could pop off with a flippant remark that might piss off Ian. Right now they needed him. “Rook is invested in finding the truth.”

  Ian answered her, but he didn’t cut the intense stare he held with Rook. “Or burying it.”

  “Come on, guys,” she said briskly. “Cut the pissing match.” To Ian, she said harshly, “Objective, remember? Are you capable of that?”

  For a moment, neither man broke eye contact, but finally, after she touched Rook’s arm, he released his death grip.

  Instead of answering her question, Ian worked to get under Rook’s skin. And hers. “Guess you know that Nikki and I were married once upon a time.” He clenched his hand into a fist—to mask the pain he had to be experiencing.

  Rook, she noticed, didn’t try to hide his discomfort. He stretched out his fingers, then curled his knuckles, rubbing his right hand with his left to work out the strain and to un-crunch the bones. “Tragically short-lived, from what I understand.”

  Ian shrugged. “Some things are fun while they last, but aren’t meant to be.”

  Nikki felt Rook’s biceps flex beneath her hand. “Some things are fun all the time, and meant to be.”

  And so the pissing match continued. Heat left them at the curb and walked up the short wide path to the front door. A moment later, she heard their rapid footsteps behind her. Ian quickly moved in front of her and pushed open the door to the lodge. “After you,” he said, stepping aside. Heat moved past him into the building. Before Rook could follow, however, Ian cut in front of him. He let go of the heavy door. Without a pneumatic closer attached to it, the door swung
quickly. Rook caught it with his hand before it slammed in his face, grumbling under his breath.

  Heat chose to ignore Ian’s passive-aggressive actions, instead absorbing the lodge’s interior. It was as plain on the inside as it was on the outside. She’d imagined it would be more like a church, but it reminded her more of a simple town hall.

  Rook saw her expression. “Don’t be fooled,” he said. “I hear the ceremonial rooms are heavy with symbolism.”

  A middle-aged man wearing an ill-fitting gray suit appeared from a hallway off to one side. “That they are.”

  Rook pumped his proffered arm as if in victory. “Yes! I knew it.”

  The man smiled congenially. With his gunmetal hair, a pronounced gap between his two front teeth, and sagging jowls, he looked like someone’s frumpy grandpa. A Grand Poobah à la The Flintstones rather than a grand master, Heat thought.

  “What can I help you folks with?” His gaze dropped to Rook’s hand, and then to Ian’s uniform, giving her only a cursory glance. She had heard that women were not welcome in the order, but the overt exclusion seemed to validate that rumor. And it riled her up.

  “I’m Chief Cooley, and this is Detective Heat,” Ian said. “We’re looking for Christian. Is he here?”

  The man gave a quick glance at Rook, whom Ian had omitted from his introductions. “And you are... ?”

  “Jameson Rook. Writer and interested party.”

  The man paused in thought before recognition dawned. “The Jameson Rook? With First Press?”

  Heat watched her husband with amusement. He had a sensitive disposition and could get his feathers ruffled pretty easily, but that mildly neurotic nature meant the slightest unsolicited compliment could make him preen like a peacock. “That’s right. You’ve heard of me.” He turned to Heat, hooking his thumb at the Mason. “He’s heard of me, Heat.”

  She nodded, stifling a smile. “So I see.”

  The man took Rook’s offered hand again and shook vigorously. “It’s a real pleasure. I’m a big fan of your work. That article you did in National Geographic on the Romani in France was fascinating.”

  Rook nodded. “It is a national tragedy for the Roma.”

  Ian’s irritation at the man’s attention to Rook was obvious. “Hate to break this up, but we need to talk to Christian Foti about his daughter’s murder,” he told him.

  Heat bristled. Even that little bit of information was more than she would have given, but she had to remind herself that she was not leading the investigation.

  “Of course, of course. They’d only recently reunited, but he’s taken it hard.”

  Heat noted on her pad that he’d corroborated what Tammy had told them about Chloe and her father.

  The man focused on Rook. “I read about what happened. You found her, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” Rook said, his demeanor instantly morose. He was as good as she was at compartmentalizing when it suited him, but one could not erase the image of a dead body. The people she’d seen over the years, the life drained out of them, haunted Heat sometimes. Rook had seen his share, too, tagging along with her, but this one was personal, and she knew it would stick with him forever.

  The Mason seemed to understand the trauma of it. “Chris was in a bad way when he first found out. It’s a real tragedy.”

  “I can only imagine,” Rook said.

  Heat met Rook’s gaze and kept quiet. Even Ian withheld comment. The man was engaged with Rook, which meant they needed to take a backseat for the time being.

  “I didn’t catch your name,” Rook said, and Nikki thought, Finally.

  The man threw his shoulders back. “Bill Holz, at your service. I’m one of the lodge officers with the Order.”

  Heat jotted down the man’s name as Rook continued. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be part of a fraternal order like the Freemasons. The ancient orders were fascinating.”

  “Rook,” Heat said in a harsh whisper from behind him. She didn’t want him to go off on a tangent, but he batted his hand behind his back and she stopped. She could give him a minute to get his fill.

  “It’s an inclusive organization,” Holz said. “Our members are from all walks of life. I have to say, we’d welcome a man of your caliber...”

  Holz rambled on, but Heat rolled her eyes. Rook’s head was bloated enough without this guy blowing it up some more.

  “The ceremonies and the insignia, of course,” Rook was saying.

  Holz agreed. “Exactly.”

  “Is the Worshipful Master here?” Rook asked, his voice reverent.

  Holz was clearly impressed. “For an outsider, you do know your stuff.”

  Rook looked sheepish. “I admit, I’ve always wanted to be an insider.”

  Heat stared at her husband. Had he? He’d certainly never mentioned his desire to be part of a more than two-hundred-year-old group like the Freemasons, although, if she was honest, if didn’t surprise her. The lore surrounding almost all fraternal organizations was exactly the type of thing Rook lived for. To be part of one had to be on his bucket list.

  Before they launched into another discourse on fraternal orders, Heat jumped in. “Mr. Holz, where can we find Mr. Foti?”

  “Right, the reason you’re here. I told him he should stay home, but he wanted to come in.” The Mason flipped his wrist, reading the time on his watch. “He should be on duty now, actually. He’s just running late.” He gestured to one of two benches along the left wall of the lobby. “Feel free to wait.”

  Heat opted to remain standing and Ian moved to sit down, but Rook wasn’t done. “Mr. Holz, you said Mr. Foti is supposed to be on duty. I’m curious—is he, by any chance, a Tyler?”

  Heat was pretty sure Rook wasn’t referring to Stephen Tyler or Tyler Perry. His enthusiasm—and apparently his knowledge of the Freemason member hierarchy—was boundless. How he held so much random information in his head astounded her.

  “You know our internal structure. My God, but you are good,” Holz said.

  The way Rook smiled and hung his head, he might as well have said, Aw shucks. “I was just talking to my...to Detective Heat, here, telling her that I’ve always wanted to do a piece about fraternal organizations. The Freemasons, as you know—I’m a fan—are at the top of my list. What a civic-minded group!” He lowered his voice, once again infused with reverence. “Could I...Could we...Would you show us your ceremonial room?”

  Holz hesitated, but only briefly, before giving Rook a gap-toothed grin. “This is highly unusual, Mr. Rook, but because you’re you, I will give you a quick look.”

  Rook lit up like a Christmas tree, but Heat had to give him credit for the modicum of restraint in his reaction. “Excellent.” He looked at her, nodding enthusiastically. “Excellent,” he repeated, and then held out his arm in a broad gesture that encompassed both of the two hallways leading out of the lobby. “After you, good sir,” he said to Holz. “After you.”

  Ian, who looked decidedly disgruntled, followed Holz. Rook winked at Heat as she passed, and then he brought up the rear. He was like a kid in a candy store. Sometimes she loved Rook just a little bit more than she had the moment before. This was definitely one of those times.

  A moment later, Heat, Rook, and Ian stood at the threshold of the first-floor temple, Ian’s own temples pulsing from anger at Rook’s presence. But Rook was his mother’s son, which meant he could act his way out of a paper bag if need be. He was aloof, completely ignoring her ex-husband. “This is where all the ceremonies take place,” Mr. Holz said as he ushered them into the gathering room.

  The space was eclectic. Chairs ran around the perimeter. Medieval-looking tools hung on the wall in the front of the room, where an ornate chair sat like a throne. It seemed to Heat that everything in there held some sort of significance. Rook didn’t know where to look, so he looked everywhere. His gaze skittered here and there, trying to take it all in. Even the floor in the ceremonial room, with its black-and-white checkerboard pattern, demanded
attention. His brain, she knew, was on overload.

  “The floor makes me dizzy,” Heat said, averting her eyes.

  “Oh, but it’s symbolic to the Order,” Rook said. “It represents the dark and the light in all of us. In life.”

  She was noncommittal to that, answering only with a pondering “Huh.” She saw plenty of the dark side of life. She didn’t need a floor to remind her of it. She pointed to the ancient tools. “What’s the deal there?”

  Rook gently touched her arm, slowing her down so he could whisper in her ear. “Everything has meaning in the ceremonial room. Those are the tools of the Craft.”

  “The craft?”

  “Not witchcraft, Heat. I know where you think my mind goes, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. I mean the Craft. Capital C. The tools of the medieval stonemason.”

  Neither Heat nor Rook had noticed that Holz and Ian had both stopped and were listening. “You’re absolutely correct again, Mr. Rook. Everything has meaning.” He pointed up at the images painted on the walls. “Those are most important symbols. The first is what we call the square of morality. The compass next to it marks what we call due bounds. And the line—”

  “A plumb rule,” Rook interrupted.

  “Exactly. The plumb rule represents our need to be upright at all times, figuratively and literally.”

  Heat pointed to two stones on a display stand in the front of the room. One was rough and bumpy, while the other was completely smooth and polished. “And what are those?”

  Holz gestured to Rook. “Can you answer that, Mr. Rook?”

  Rook thrived in the spotlight, and Mr. Holz was doing a fine job of shining it right on him. “They both symbolize man,” he said, looking at the Mason for approval before going on. Holz nodded, just once, and Rook continued. “The one on the left, the rutted stone, represents what the Freemasons call the raw apprentice. That is the first level of membership in the order. The polished stone on the right is the improved version of man.”