Naked Heat

by Richard Castle

  The skipper offered to let her take a few days off to recover, even though she was not going to get put on leave or desked. Nikki gave it to him straight. She felt deeply upset but knew that this case wasn't closed yet. The cop part of her--the part that could compartmentalize the human tragedy and stuff down the trauma she felt from what she had witnessed two hours before--that part viewed Soleil's death objectively as a loose end. Vital information died with her. Heat knew she had cleared the mugging of the book editor, but many questions remained that she could no longer get answers for out of Soleil Gray. And the Texan, Rance Wolf, who was potentially her accomplice and the lead-pipe cinch to have been the killer of three people, was still at large. And as long as the last chapter of Cassidy Towne's book was unaccounted for, there was every reason to believe he would kill again to get it. Unless the need to do so had also died with Soleil Gray.

  "I'm feeling it, Captain, but that part will have to wait." Detective Heat poured her cold coffee out the open door and onto the gravel. "So if that's all, I need to get back to work."

  Back at the precinct, Heat and Rook had a moment alone for the first time since it had happened. Even though a police cruiser had brought them back to the Two-Oh together, she'd ridden up front in the partner seat in silence; he had the back to himself and spent most of the ride trying to shake the image of what he had seen. Not just the grisly death of Soleil Gray, but the anguish he'd observed in Nikki. Both of them had seen their share of human tragedy in their careers. But whether it was Chechnya or Chelsea, nothing prepared you for witnessing the instant life leaves a body. When he took her elbow and stopped her in the hall on the way to the bull pen, he said to her, "I see the brave front, and we both know why. But just know I'm here, OK?"

  Nikki wanted right then to indulge herself in a brief squeeze of his hand, but not at work. And Heat also knew it wouldn't be wise to open the door to her vulnerability just yet. So that was it for sentiment. She nodded and said, "Let's bring this home," and pushed on into her squad room.

  Detective Heat kept herself in motion, not giving anyone an opening to ask her about how she was doing. She became instead all about doing. Nikki knew she would have to deal with what she had experienced at some point, but not yet. And she reminded herself that, by the way, it was not she but Soleil Gray who had experienced the worst of it.

  Detective Hinesburg, ever sensitive and empathic, turned from her computer monitor to ask Heat if she wanted to see the online pics of Soleil's death scene from the Web edition of the Ledger. She didn't. Fortunately, the pictures taken by the two paparazzi at the scene hadn't surfaced yet. They were still being reviewed by investigators as corroborative evidence of the sequence of events. No doubt the moment-of-death shot would go up for bidding and be purchased by some British or German webloid for six figures. People would shake their heads in disgust and then surf to see if they had to register to see it.

  Heat looked at the board, staring at Soleil's name, hearing the plaintive echo of her voice before her death, lamenting "that night." She called Ochoa's cell phone and caught him en route back to the precinct. "I'm revisiting every loose connection I have here," she told him, "and I can't get past the missing limo manifest for the night of Wakefield's death."

  "I'm with you," said Ochoa, "but it's sort of like that last chapter. As long as it's missing, we can only guess."

  "Tell Raley to turn that Roach Coach around. I want you guys to go back to Spanish Harlem. Talk to the family again, the coworkers again. Maybe if you ask more specifically about Reed Wakefield something will kick loose. See if Padilla was in service that night and if he confided anything about what he saw or heard, even from the other drivers."

  Ochoa paused, and Nikki was afraid he was about to offer her some sort of condolence for her ordeal by the tracks. But he sighed and said, "We'll do it, but I have to tell you, me and my partner have had a bitch of a day today. But you wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

  Yep. A gal could get misty.

  It was not quite six, and Rook was sliding the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder. "Knocking off early?" said Nikki.

  "Got a text from my editor at First Press. Now that this Soleil business has kicked the story up to an international scale, they want me to file by tomorrow so they can get a rush edition into production."

  "So you're going to go finish up the article?"

  He laughed. "Hell no. I'm going to go start the article."

  "I thought that's what you had been doing."

  "Shh." He looked around conspiratorially and lowered his voice to a whisper. "So does my editor." Then he added, "Call me later. If you want, you can come over for a beer or something."

  "You have a full night ahead of you, mister. You'll be busy . . . with your toy helicopter and all. Besides, the sooner the new edition is on the newsstands, the sooner mine is off, so don't let me slow you down." He started to go, and as he went she said, "Hey, Rook?" He stopped. "I need to tell you how foolish you were following me like that today. First on the carrier and then with that paparazzo on the motorcycle. So first of all, never pull a stunt like that again. And second? Thanks for having my back."

  "Sorry and you're welcome," he said as he turned and left.

  Roach waited before they got out of the car. They had cruised the block for a space, and when they passed Esteban Padilla's old address, his cousin was just stepping out the front door. "Shall we reach out?" said Raley.

  "Know what?" said his partner. "That dude's just a buzz killer. Let's hang back until he's gone and see if the kid's home. We'll start with him."

  Twenty minutes later, Esteban Padilla's buzz-killing cousin unlocked his front door and, as he stepped in, called out in Spanish, "Yo, Pablo, I'm back. You ready to roll?" Then he stopped short when he saw that the detectives were once again in his living room with Esteban's teenage nephew.

  "You taking some kind of trip, Victor?" asked Ochoa.

  Victor gave Pablo a WTF look and the boy looked away.

  "This is some nice luggage, man. Quality stuff, all brand-new. This is real Tumi, huh, not that knockoff crap."

  "Yeah, well, we're taking some vacation time. Need to chill after the funeral and all," said the cousin, not sounding very convincing, even to Raley, who didn't speak the language.

  "That's a lot of luggage for just a vacation. How long you plan to be gone?" When the cousin just stood there with his door keys in one hand and a CVS bag in the other, Ochoa rose from his chair and walked the line of suitcases. "Let's see, you've got two jumbo sizes here. A garment bag--I guess that's for those new clothes we saw hanging on the door the other day. Another large suitcase. Three carry-ons . . . Homes, you are going to get so hit with baggage fees. And tips. You're going to need to tip that skycap a ton to help with all this. That's going to cost you, my friend. But you can handle that, I guess, right?"

  Victor said nothing, just stared at a dead spot in the air somewhere between himself and Ochoa.

  "Well, I think you can swing it no sweat. Tips, baggage fees . . . I bet you could even get a limo from your cousin's old boss to drive you to the airport and it still wouldn't make a dent. Not in this." The detective nudged a small sport duffel with the toe of his shoe. The skin on Victor's forehead tightened and his gaze slowly descended to the bag. The top zipper was wide open and the stacks of cash were visible.

  "I told you to zip it," Victor said to the boy.

  Ochoa wanted to ask whether he meant his mouth or the duffel, but he didn't want to ice the conversation. They had a lot to talk about.

  Back at the precinct, Heat took a call from Raley, who told her about the carry-on of cash and that they were bringing Victor and Pablo in for questioning. She agreed that since the bag was open and in plain view, spotting the money likely obviated the need for a search warrant, but that he should consult the DA in case any charges came out of this. "How much cash was it?"

  "Ninety-one thou." Raley paused before he added, "In twenties."

 
; "Interesting number."

  "Yeah, and we ran a check, the cousin's straight. No drug busts, no gambling or gang affiliations. That chunk of change smells like some sort of payoff that's light by about nine thousand. My guess is it went to plane tickets, wardrobe, and luggage."

  "A hundred grand just doesn't go as far as it used to, does it, Rales?"

  He laughed. "Like I would know."

  When Heat hung up, she turned to find Sharon Hinesburg hovering around her desk. "We've got a customer coming."

  "Who?" Nikki figured it was too much to hope it would be the Texan, and she was correct.

  "Morris Granville. The Toby Mills stalker? They picked him up in Chinatown trying to get on a Fung Wah bus to Boston. He'll be here in thirty minutes. Or you don't pay." Hinesburg handed her Granville's file.

  "They're bringing him here?" asked Heat. "Why not the Nineteenth Precinct or CPK? Central Park claimed turf on him, we're just cooperating."

  "Except the arresting officers say the guy mentioned you specifically by name. He says he saw you in yesterday's 'Buzz Rush' and has something he wants to talk to you about."

  "Know if he said what?"

  Detective Hinesburg shook her head. "Maybe it's a desperate attempt to bargain." And then she chuckled. "Hey, I know. Now that you're a big celebrity, maybe he wants to stalk you."

  "Hilarious," said Nikki mirthlessly.

  Oblivious as ever, Hinesburg said, "Thanks," and moved on.

  Nikki wondered if she should call Toby Mills's manager, Jess Ripton, to notify him. Ripton had cooperated by providing photos and details about Granville, but the stalker's specific request to see her was unusual enough to make Heat decide to see what that was about before inviting the brutish distraction of The Firewall into the mix. And to be truthful, she had to admit she was annoyed at the manager for being such a ballbuster every time they encountered each other. Making him wait an hour brought an undeniable passive-aggressive satisfaction she wasn't proud of but could live with. Cops are human, too.

  While she reviewed Morris Granville's jacket to prepare for the interview, her phone rang. It was Petar.

  "I heard that was you with Soleil Gray today and wanted to see how you were doing."

  "Holding up," she said. The mental replay of the singer's dive under the train spooled again in the sickening slow motion unique to traumas. Nikki tried to switch it off before the part with the blood on the white leotard but couldn't. Then she realized Petar was asking her something. "I'm sorry, I missed that. What did you say?"

  "I was asking if you wanted to get together on my dinner break."

  "Petar, you know, this may not be the best night."

  "I probably shouldn't have called," he said.

  "No, it's thoughtful of you, thanks. I'm just preoccupied. You can imagine."

  "OK then. I know you better than to push."

  "Smart boy."

  "Hey, if I were that smart, I would have learned that years ago. Anyway, I'm sorry you had to go through what you did today, Nikki. I'm sure you did everything you could."

  "I did. But it was in her head to do this. Soleil had something she couldn't live with and found her way to end the pain."

  "Did she say what?"

  "Unfortunately, no." Heat made it a practice never to discuss details of a case with anyone outside the squad, so she slid by it. "All I do know is there was nothing I could have done." Saying it made her feel a little better, though she knew that if she really believed it, she'd stop the replay and the search for what she could have done differently.

  "Nikki," he said, "I know right now isn't the time . . . but I want to . . . see you again." The weight of that notion and the complication it brought was off the charts for her to even consider, especially after her day.

  "Petar, listen--"

  "Bad timing, sorry. See? I pushed it anyway. When will I learn?" He paused. "What about a coffee or something tomorrow?"

  Across the room, Detective Hinesburg appeared in the doorway and gave her a beckoning nod. Nikki picked up Granville's file. "Tomorrow . . . Yeah, maybe we could do that."

  "I'll call you in the morning. In the meantime, please know that if you want to talk, I'm here for you."

  "Thanks, I appreciate that." After she hung up, she stared at her phone, feeling a little strange about his call and his pushing. Then Detective Heat cleared her head and strode off to Interrogation.

  In the corridor she met up with Raley, who was outside Interrogation 1. "How's it going with the lottery winners from East Harlem?"

  "Ochoa's in there with them now. Nothing yet." He held up a package of peanut butter crackers and a bottle of hideous blue energy water from the vending machine. "The kid's hungry, so I'm springing for dinner."

  "I'll be in I2 with Toby Mills's stalker. But let me know if anything breaks."

  Nikki stood a few moments in the Observation Room to size up Morris Granville through the glass before she went in. His file said he was forty-one, but in person he looked more like he was in his twenties. In spite of his receding hairline and the first strands of gray showing up in his thick brown curls, he had the look of a man-child. Chubby, short, with a pasty complexion and a slouchy posture that made his neck disappear into his double chin. He was alone and kept looking up at himself in the mirror across the room, but sideways, never facing himself. It was as if he kept checking to see if he would still be there when he looked back.

  Granville sat up when Heat entered the room and sat down. His eyes, which had a permanent squint that made him look like he was always smiling, widened and fixed on her in a way that made Nikki feel uncomfortable. Not leered at so much as . . . gawked at with unearned admiration and intimacy.

  "I'm Detective Heat." She tossed his file and a pen on the table and sat. "You wanted to talk to me about something?"

  He stared at her some more and said, "I loved your magazine article."

  "Mr. Granville . . ."

  "So formal. Morris is fine. May I call you Nikki?"

  "No."

  "I saved an issue. Is there any chance I could get you to sign it?"

  "Zero." She watched him tilt his head down. His mouth twitched ever so slightly and his dense eyebrows flicked, as if he was having some sort of inner conversation. While he talked to himself, she said, "If you read that article, you'd know I'm a busy person. Do you want to tell me what you've got to say, or shall I call the van so we can get you to Riker's in time for chow?"

  "No, don't."

  "Then let's hear it."

  "I wanted to talk to you because I saw in 'Buzz Rush' yesterday that you were following Soleil Gray around."

  Coming from a stalker, that put the Ledger item in an entirely different context for Nikki. She thought about The Stinger and understood the enmity celebrities felt for the gossip press. But she came back to Granville and wondered, What was his deal? Was this Hinesburg's insensitive joke coming to pass? Heat knew stalkers had no single profile, but her take from his file was that his "special identification issue" was focused on a single celebrity, Toby Mills. That's where all the complaints derived. And all the trespassing citations and disorderly conducts. At least officially, he didn't have a pattern of obsession with celebrities in general--not Soleil Gray and, hopefully, not cover girl cops.

  "What's your interest in Soleil Gray?"

  "She was an awesome musician. A great loss."

  "That's it? Thank you for the visit, Mr. Granville."

  Nikki gathered up her materials to go, and he said, "No, that's not all." She paused but gave him a look under an arched brow that said he'd better bring it. He blinked and lifted his palms off the tabletop, leaving perspiration ghosts in the shape of hands on the surface. "I saw her once. In person."

  His look of pride at what he thought was the apparent significance of that fact made her reflect on the psychology of these people, the latch-ons. How they defined themselves by proximity to a stranger. In extreme cases, usually in schizophrenics, they even believed the star was comm
unicating uniquely to them through messages embedded in their songs or talk-show interviews. They obsessed about them to the point that they would go to extraordinary lengths to make themselves relevant in their lives--some even to the point of killing the objects of their infatuation. "Go on," she said. Something in his urgency told her there was no harm in playing it out. "So you saw her, lots of people have."

  "She was outside a nightclub one night, actually early morning by then. It was late enough I was the only one out there."

  "Where?"

  "At Club Thermal down in the Meat Packing District. And Soleil? She was dru-unk, loaded. Really loud and waving her arms all over and having this major fight out on the sidewalk, you know where all the limos line up?"

  At the mention of the limos, Heat took the files out of her hands, set them back in front of her, and nodded. "Yeah, I know the place. Tell me what you saw." The irony struck her that, for this shining moment in his twisted life, Granville was relevant, and that she was feeding that very need.

  "Like I said, she was loud and really hot--yelling, you know? And when I saw who she was fighting with, I thought, if I can ever get close enough with my cell phone, this picture would make the cover of People or Us. Or at least the Ledger."

  "Why couldn't you get closer? Was there security?"

  "No. It was past closing. And they were the only other ones on the sidewalk. I didn't get too close because I didn't want them to see me."

  Nikki was drawn in. Assuming he wasn't delusional or grandiose, he seemed credible in his own nutty way. She wanted him to be telling the truth. "Who was she fighting with? Why was it such a big deal?"

  "Because," he said, "she was fighting with Reed Wakefield the same night he died."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jameson Rook glanced up across his office from the screen of his laptop and cast a longing look at the helicopter sitting on the windowsill. His orange Walkera Airwolf had survived the violent room toss by the Texan and now beckoned the writer to take a time-out and come play. He could rationalize a break, too. After drafting for hours, the aluminum body of his MacBook Pro was warm to the touch, bearing witness, he told himself, to his laudible work ethic. It reminded him of the way the helicopter fuselage warmed agreeably after it took flight around his loft.