High Heat

by Richard Castle

  “And, I’m sorry, you’re Legs Kline’s…press secretary?” Heat asked.

  “Well, that and his daughter. I know I shouldn’t talk about that too much. Professionally, I should stick with the more official title. But around Jamie I just seem to revert. He really is so good at breaking down the barriers between reporter and subject. It’s like I forget he’s even got a pen in his hand. Everything feels so cozy and personal with him.”

  Heat was already fighting the urge to allow her fist to get cozy and personal with Lana’s face. Heat had made peace with Rook’s old flings prancing in and out of his life, whether it was Department of Homeland Security Agent Yardley Bell or New York Ledger Senior Metro Reporter Tam Svejda.

  To see a new contender for his affections was something else entirely. At least Heat knew what she’d be seeing the next time she worked the heavy bag at her gym.

  Rook had this goofy grin on his face. Maybe it was because Heat was so glad to see him, but she was only slightly annoyed that he appeared to be eating out of Lana’s hand. Rook was ultimately a prisoner to his gender. Men are helplessly susceptible to flattery and congenitally incapable of detecting when it’s false.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners?” Rook said. Then he swept his hand toward a pair of tallish young men, dressed in nearly matching dark suits, their hair parted identically to the side. They looked like they were days away from the last meeting of their college chapter of the FYMA—the Future Yes Men of America.

  These two were clearly fawning over Lana. But not in a sexual way. More in a her-daddy-might-make-them-assistant-to-the-undersecretary-to-the-ambassador-of-Peru kind of way. To Heat, something about them brought to mind a pair of palace eunuchs.

  “These are two of the press office interns. This Justin and this is Preston,” Rook said. “Or…wait. Is it Preston and Justin?”

  “No, I’m Justin,” said one.

  “And I’m Preston!” the other said.

  Justin continued, pointing to a spot on his suit jacket. “You can tell easily, because I have my American flag pin here, on my lapel—”

  “While I have American flag cufflinks,” Preston said, holding his wrists out for Heat to inspect.

  Justin added, “People only get us confused—”

  “Because we have the tendency to complete each other’s sentences,” Preston finished.

  “All right, that’s enough now, boys,” Lana said, clapping her hands twice.

  “Yes, Miss Kline,” said Preston. Or was it Justin?

  “Whatever you say, Miss Kline,” said the other one.

  Obediently, they stepped into the background.

  “Aren’t they just adorable?” Rook said, tenting his fingers over his mouth, shaking his head, and looking at them like they were puppies who were just days away from being paper-trained. “I’m thinking about getting two of them myself.”

  “What, as decorations?” Heat asked.

  “No! As interns!”

  “Rook, what does a journalist possibly need interns for?”

  “Everyone in this world needs interns now and then,” Rook said. “Anyhow, I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. As I was saying, we were in the air.”

  “Daddy knows how important this First Press piece is,” Lana added, “so he was letting us use one of his jets.”

  “The one with the king-sized bed in it?” Ochoa interjected.

  “That’s a big bed for an airplane,” Raley added.

  Heat glared at them.

  “What?” Ochoa said. “I’m just asking.”

  Rook continued as if Roach hadn’t interrupted. “We were coming back from Colorado. Did you know that Kline Industries has developed a new method of forest management that is actually good for the trees and for humans?”

  “We use drones to identify trees that are at the end of their life cycle then carefully extract them,” Lana explained. “So the forest only loses what the forest was going to lose anyway, which then leaves room for new growth.”

  “And they do it in a way that is both sustainable and actually makes the land less prone to forest fires, which in turn helps nearby communities that live under the constant threat of fire,” Rook continued.

  “Then we donate a portion of the profits to forest management research, ensuring that in the next generation, Kline Industries techniques will be even more refined and ecologically sound,” Lana finished.

  “Wait, wait,” Heat said. “I thought you were fracking in North Dakota.”

  “No,” Rook said. “Fracking was Sunday.”

  “That’s when Jamie learned that the majority of our fracking proceeds are actually reinvested in Kline Industries’ solar division,” Lana said. “So the petroleum we still need today is not only fueling our cars and homes, it’s also creating a future that is less reliant on fossil fuels.”

  “But I have to say,” Rook volleyed back at her, “what I found even more impressive than that was your smelting operation on Lake Erie.

  “Did you know,” Rook continued, now aiming his lecture at Heat, “they have devised a technique that is not only completely pollution-free, but it actually collects all of the by-products from the smelting process and turns them into usable goods?”

  “A zero-waste process is really to our advantage, of course, because we’ve developed markets for those by-products,” Lana said. “The engineers are always telling me that humankind has been obtaining metal from ore for thousands of years. And this is, without exaggeration, the most efficient system ever devised.”

  “But that’s not the cool part,” Rook said.

  Lana looked at him curiously. “It’s not?”

  “No, the cool part is that not only does your father have his own planes, he has his own airports.”

  “Well, to be accurate, I would really just call them runways,” Lana clarified.

  “And his own seaports and container ships,” Rook added. “You should see the size of the cranes. The man has the biggest toys of anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “Well, yes,” Lana said, and now she was the one who was lecturing Heat. “Daddy realized that Kline Industries could keep more of the money it made if it expanded vertically so that it controlled more aspects of getting its goods to our buyers. We save a lot of money by doing it ourselves, whether it’s shipping by air, sea, rail, or ground.”

  “Rail? Ground?” Rook asked, almost like he was hurt.

  “I’m sorry, Jamie. I know how much you were enjoying yourself. We just ran out of time before I could take you to the truck and train depots,” Lana said, then turned back to Heat. “The point is Kline Industries has a profit potential far beyond any of our competitors. Or, when we feel like increasing market share, we can beat our competitors on price, knowing none of them can match our costs.”

  “Those trains…they have king-sized beds, too?” Ochoa asked from the sidelines.

  “You could definitely fit a huge bed on a train,” Raley said.

  Heat glared at them some more.

  Lana kept ignoring them. “And Kline Industries has never outsourced a single operation. One hundred percent of our business is run by Americans. Even when we extract resources in other countries, we do it with American workers. Every dollar we spend strengthens America, and every dollar we reinvest goes back into this country, too. That’s why Daddy takes such a strong stance against immigration. He feels like the best workers in the world are already right here, in the United States of America.”

  She paused. Heat worried she was going to burst into a rendition of “God Bless America” right there, with Justin and Preston singing backup.

  Instead, Lana continued: “What I’ve been trying to convince Jamie of is that when you look at the entirety of Kline Industries, it really represents the kind of independent thinking America needs in the White House—not the kind of failed policies that Lindsy Gardner or Caleb Brown will resort to. The Kline way is unconventional in some respects, but it’s also very grounded in what some people would call
old-fashioned values. My father believes in an America where the rags-to-riches story he experienced is still possible for any kid with a dream. I know it sounds corny sometimes. I tell him that myself. But my father really believes he can take what he’s done for Kline Industries and do it for the rest of the country he loves.”

  “The boats, they must have king-sized beds,” Ochoa said.

  “More than one, I’m sure,” Raley confirmed.

  “Enough with the beds!” Heat screamed.

  Then she turned toward Rook. “Do you have any idea that while you’ve been gallivanting around the country in Daddy’s jet a terrorist group swearing loyalty to ISIS has released a video where they chopped off a journalist’s head and then said that you’re next?”

  Rook immediately brought his hands to his throat.

  “No,” Rook said. “Though I’m glad you gave me a heads up.”

  Heat’s nostrils flared.

  “Such a bad choice of words,” Rook said to the floor.

  “Well,” Lana said, brightly, “I think we should be going now. Daddy has a lunch event that I really should be at. Preston, do you have that press kit for Mr. Rook?”

  “I’m Justin,” said the one Lana was looking at. “Lapel pin, remember?”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  “And, yes, here’s the press kit,” Preston said, producing a slick folder stuffed with paeans to Legs Kline and the company he created.

  “Thank you,” Lana said.

  Then she turned to Rook. She folded his hands around the press kit, holding her own hands there far longer than she needed to.

  “You’ll call me as soon as Legs is free for a sit-down?” Rook asked.

  “Absolutely,” Lana said, still holding his hands, now bringing her face close to his and staring into his eyes. “And can I just say it has been such a privilege to get to spend this time with you and to get to know you so well. I’ve never come across a man of your ability. I can’t tell you how much I admire your skills.”

  “As a reporter,” Rook said, gently separating his hands and easing away with the press kit as he smiled at Heat. “She means as a reporter.”

  “Yes, of course,” Lana said, breathily. Then she winked at him as she headed for the elevator. “Well, off we go. Come along, Justin, Preston.”

  The last thing they heard as the elevator doors closed was, “No, I’m Preston…”

  Heat waited until she was sure Lana Kline and her entourage were gone to address Rook. Her voice was quieter than even she thought it would be.

  “Your mother has been in a panic all morning,” Heat said softly. “I’ve been in a panic all morning.”

  “Can I retroactively have been in a panic all morning?” Rook said. “Because, for the record, I’m quite fond of my head remaining attached to my body.”

  “Then, bro, can I give you some advice?” Ochoa said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You might want to stop hanging out with that blonde there.”

  “Don’t you have something to do?” Rook said.

  “Yeah, but watching you struggle is more fun,” Raley called out.

  “Roach, back to work,” Heat ordered. “Rook, could you please join me in my office?”

  Heat walked away without waiting for a reply.

  “I actually feel bad for those ISIS guys,” Ochoa said.

  “And why is that?” Rook asked.

  “They’re going through a lot of trouble to grab you and chop your head off. But by the time she’s done there isn’t going to be anything left of it.”

  Rook followed Heat into her office, already bracing for the worst.

  As soon as the door was shut, she quickly closed the blinds. By that point, Rook was actually flinching, in anticipation of another slap. Or worse.

  Instead, Heat rushed up to him, cupped his face in both hands, and planted a deep, soul-searching kiss on his lips. Their mouths immediately became one, and Heat ground herself into him. Rook’s body responded. Heat knew what Rook wanted. And she could tell from the way he was breathing that he thought he might finally achieve one of the dearest, longest-held ambitions he had held for their relationship; the thing he had hoped for almost from the moment he first walked into the Twentieth Precinct; the dream within a dream:

  Office sex.

  Heat finished the kiss and drew herself back slightly, a look of pure lust plastered on her face.

  Then she released him and slapped him again.

  “Okay,” she said. “I think we’re just about square now.”

  Rook was again rubbing his chin.

  “That was for Lana, yes?”

  “Oh, what, that thing? God, no. I give you more credit than that, Rook.”

  “You…you do? I mean, yes, of course you should. Thank you.”

  Rook paused. “But just so we’re clear, what, exactly, have I done to earn this credit?”

  “Because after eight years with you, I know your type pretty well. Physically she’s it, sure. Physically I’d want to have sex with her. But emotionally? I bet she’d be delivering sound-bites about your foreplay. It’d be like having sex with a talking blow-up doll.”

  “You’re absolutely correct,” Rook said, then hastily added, “Not that I’d know.”

  “I mean, really, I’d be more worried about you getting drunk and having sex with Flotsam and Jetsam.”

  “It’s Justin and Preston…though extra points for the Little Mermaid reference.”

  Heat sagged into him, allowing herself to be enveloped in the comfort of his arms. She could actually breathe for what felt like the first time since she had seen that horrible video.

  “Now,” Rook said, “can we go back to the part about you wanting to have sex with Lana?”

  When she didn’t reply, he said, “Ha! Totally kidding! I’m such a jokester!” Then he added in a low voice, “I mean, unless you’re considering it…”

  Heat released him, then grabbed both of his hands. She locked her eyes on his.

  “Rook, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said, and she said it in a way that even the perpetually clownish Rook got serious for a moment.

  “And I don’t want you to think I’m crazy,” she continued. “Well, okay, maybe you should think I’m crazy. There are times when I feel like I must be crazy. But I need you to hear me out for a second.”

  “Okay.”

  She inhaled, held her breath for a moment, then exhaled and came out with it: “I think I saw my mother this morning.”

  Rook showed no immediate reaction beyond interested concern. In the all-time husband rankings, Rook easily placed in the top ten when it came to willingness to believe the absurd might actually be true.

  All he asked was, “Where?”

  “Just outside the precinct. She was sitting on a bench in a bus shelter, dressed like she was homeless. I only saw her for a fleeting instant, but…Rook, I know what I saw. And it was her. Almost twenty years older than the last time I saw her, sure, but certain things about a person’s face don’t change. It was Mom.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “I tried. As soon as I registered who it was, I ran after her, but she—”

  “Vanished into thin air? Like only the best spies can?” Rook suggested.

  “Well, yes.”

  Rook released her hands and walked toward the window, which had a view out to 82nd Street. He peered out.

  “That bus shelter? The one up near Columbus?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that would sure seem to point to it being your mother. Anyone else, you would have easily caught up to. How many aged homeless women could outrun someone in the shape you’re in?”

  “I know, but…Rook, how is that possible? She died in my arms. I felt her body going cold. I was covered in her blood.”

  Rook walked away from the window, then sat with one leg on her desk. This was Rook in his element, holding a new theory up to the light and rotating it around so he could look at it from all angles. Especially when it
was a wild conspiracy theory.

  It was a way in which his journalistic training and her police training melded quite nicely. Both involved assembling a narrative of events, and both taught you—often the hard way—what happens to those who don’t continually reexamine and fact-check all the elements of the story they’re trying to tell.

  “Are you sure it was her blood?” Rook asked.

  “Well, yes, I…I mean, I think it was. It was coming out of her body.”

  “Did you ever see the entry wound?”

  “No,” she admitted to him, as she had admitted to herself earlier. “Just the hole in the sweater.”

  “Did the police do any DNA testing on it?”

  “Of course not. That was seventeen years ago. Those tests took weeks or even months back then and there would have been no reason to. There was never a doubt about what happened in the apartment.”

  “Of course not, thanks to Carter Damon,” Rook said.

  Damon was the cop assigned to the case. He turned out to have been paid off by Cynthia Heat’s killers to thwart the investigation. For years, Nikki had thought her mother’s killer was just a random home-invader—because that’s what Damon, a seemingly straight-up cop, had wanted her to think.

  “Point taken,” Heat said. “But that would still be standard operating procedure even now. We don’t bother to run DNA on blood found at a scene unless we think the perp has spilled some. If it’s just the victim, we don’t waste our lab time.”

  “So, if we’re going on what we can definitively prove, we have no idea whose blood that was leaking out of your mother. Yes, it could have been hers. But it also could have been stolen from the local blood bank. It might not even have been human.”

  Heat gave a resigned nod of her head. “Yeah. You’re right.”

  They both stared at her desk for a moment.

  “But there’s still the matter of her vital signs,” Heat said. “The drop in body temperature. The labored breathing. I mean, she was out of it. I don’t care how good an actress we think she was—or is. How is it possible to fake that?”

  “Oh, that’s actually the easy part,” Rook said.

  “It is?”