Crashing Heat

by Richard Castle

  Castle © ABC Studios. All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2019 ABC Studios. All rights reserved. Published by Kingswell, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  For information address Kingswell,

  1200 Grand Central Avenue, Glendale, California 91201.

  Editorial Director: Wendy Lefkon

  Executive Editor: Laura Hopper

  Cover designed by Alfred Sole

  Cover artwork © 2019 ABC

  ISBN 978-1-368-04093-8

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Also Available

  About the Author

  To games played in the dark.

  You know who you are.

  Marriage. It was a double-edged sword, or at least it was for Nikki Heat. Her husband, Jameson Rook, infuriated her in a way no one else in her entire life had ever done. He also took her to heights of pleasure she’d never experienced. But most of all, she loved the man with all her heart and she’d do anything to protect him. Which is just what she had done not so long ago. It had almost cost them everything. She’d beaten herself up over pushing Rook away during her last big case. In the end, she’d done what she had to so he’d be safe. But at what cost? Working with Derrick Storm had taken her away from the things she loved. The man she loved. But it had also brought her to her mother. She’d gained, but she’d lost. Why was life so complicated?

  Her mind swirled back to a single word—Reykjavík. It invoked titillating memories of the earliest days of her marriage to Rook. Their honeymoon had taken them from the green hills of western Switzerland, to terraced vineyards and remote fishing villages in Italy, to Buddhist temples in Tibet. Reykjavík. It sent her mind on a vivid reenactment of every blissful moment she and Rook had spent together exploring wondrous parts of the world. And of each other. Warmth spiraled through every part of her body. In short, their code word, Reykjavík, set her on fire.

  For a short time, they’d been in a good place again. Back where they belonged—together. But now there was another word just as powerful as Reykjavík, and far less metaphoric. Actually, it wasn’t one word, but three hyphenated words. Three very literal hyphenated words that, instead of igniting passion for her husband, turned her body stone cold.

  Writer-in-residence.

  She only had to think writer-in-residence to have a layer of Arctic ice form inside her. And not even a Hudson River barge full of his cavalier charm could melt it. In fact, for once, she almost felt immune to that charisma, focused as she was on the fact that Rook would be leaving. It wouldn’t be for very long, but still...

  She chastised herself. She was a captain, for Christ’s sake, and a damn good one. She’d paid her dues to get to where she was, starting where everyone did, as a rookie, and climbing the proverbial ladder. Patrol. Sergeant. Squad leader. Lieutenant. Detective. And now she led New York City’s Twentieth Precinct detective squad.

  It was a damn good squad. And she was damn proud of it.

  The fact that her husband taking a stint as a writer-in-residence at his alma mater could rub her so wrong was her failing. He was her Achilles’ heel. Depending on someone was something she was not comfortable with. And falling in love with Jameson Rook hadn’t changed her fundamental wiring. But it did make that wiring zip and zing and go haywire sometimes. They hadn’t even gotten to the down and dirty details of the thing. She’d shut him down each time he’d started to tell her. If she didn’t know the specifics, it wasn’t real.

  “The coatroom,” Rook whispered in Nikki’s ear. “We’ve never, mmm, explored our passion, to put it delicately, in a coatroom.”

  She came back to the moment. Her skin tingled from the heat of his breath on her neck, but she kept her body still. Her voice steady. It was a game she liked to play: pretend that her husband didn’t move her as much as he did. It thrilled them both. “Does this place even have a coatroom?”

  “If it doesn’t, it should.” He took her hand, tugging gently to rouse her from her seat. “Inquiring minds want to know. Shall we investigate, Detective?”

  “Captain to you, Mr. Rook.”

  “Does that mean you’ll wear your captain’s hat for me? Just that, and nothing else.” He stroked his chin. “On second thought, maybe your tie.”

  She pulled her hand free, shaking her head at him. “Rook,” she said, making her tone take on a trace of warning to hide the saucy response she wanted to give. My hat, my tie, and my handcuffs. “Tonight you need to be a grown-up. It’s an awards ceremony—”

  He sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “My idea was so much more fun,” he said, pouting.

  “And you’re nominated.”

  There was a gleam in his eyes, a light that never ceased to amaze her. Jameson Rook was a kid at heart. Tragedy and death had been left on her doorstep, obliterating the lighthearted side of her, but Rook had grown up in a loving household with a mother who indulged him far too much. He had saved Heat from the tragedy of her own story, and the glint she saw in him now reminded her how much she loved him. How much she needed him.

  “If we leave now, you’ll miss the chance to hear your name called,” she said. His mouth quirked just the tiniest bit and she knew she had him. “You might even win.”

  This rattled him. He spun his head to face her. “Might win? If I don’t win, it’ll be the crime of the century. No other journalist has done as much for this city as I have.” He started ticking off the list of his journalistic credits on his fingers. “I mean, this year alone, I put the spotlight on corruption at the hands of the New York and New Jersey crime families, I uncovered a scam of the highest level at only the most elite Upper West Side preschool, I stopped—”

  “Exactly. You deserve this award,” Nikki said, and she meant it. Jamie worked hard, digging deep for a story. He was not afraid of getting his hands dirty, and he always sought the truth. “All the more reason not to go in search of the—probably nonexistent”—she whispered that last part to herself—“coatroom. You need to be here when they announce your name.”

  He rubbed his hands together before placing them palms down on the tops of his thighs, leaning forward in anticipation. All thoughts of a coatroom encounter had been wiped from his mind, at least for the time being. She nodded with satisfaction. Her job was done. Rook would wait with bated breath until his category was announced. It really was an honor, and she was proud to be on his arm. To be his wife.

  They’d both dressed for the occasion. He was dapper in a pin-striped bespoke suit from Nolita’s exclusive Duncan Quinn store. Its classic cut made him look like a secret agent, à la James Bond. Which brought no complaints from her.

  She had opted for a just-above-the-knee sleeveless sweetheart dress with a dark pink background and intricate black flowers
embossed in velvet. In her experience, it was always cold in venues like this, so she’d brought along a lightweight black shawl to keep her bare shoulders covered, if necessary.

  So far, she hadn’t needed to use it, and Rook suddenly seemed to notice. “Did I tell you how stunning you look?” he said, his eyes scanning her appreciatively.

  “Once or twice,” she said, the heat she suddenly felt making her think maybe she’d been too hasty in dismissing his coatroom idea.

  Like happened so many times when they were together, he seemed to know just what she was thinking. “Rethinking the coatroom rendezvous, aren’t you?”

  She shrugged noncommittally. “Am I?”

  “Oh, you definitely are. You forget how well I know you, Heat.”

  She met his gaze, upping her level of nonchalance. She wanted to turn the tables. To drive him to distraction instead of the other way around. “Just how well do you know me?”

  “I know your mind,” he said.

  “You do, huh?” she said, schooling her face to keep him from seeing that she wanted to find that coatroom, and pronto.

  He flicked his eyebrow up. “I do.”

  “Okay,” she said, challenging him. “What am I thinking right now?”

  He lightly pressed his fingers against his temples as if he were a clairvoyant, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why, Nikki Heat, you are a naughty, naughty woman. I can’t wait for you to get me alone.”

  She scoffed to hide the fact that he’d been dead-on. “That was a lucky guess,” she said.

  The angle of his head told her he didn’t buy that. “I don’t do lucky guesses.”

  “So what am I thinking now?” she challenged.

  He rubbed his hands together. “I’m liking this game, Heat.”

  “Quit stalling, Rook. Give me your second sight.”

  “I know your body,” he continued, speaking slowly. Suggestively. “Every square inch, and every firing neuron.” He gave her a playfully salacious grin and let his gaze travel up and down her body. “I know your toes. Your calves. Your shoulders.” He paused, his eyes lingering on the rise of her breasts.

  She fanned herself with her hand. “Where’s that coatroom?”

  “Oh, but Heat, there’s more.”

  She closed her eyes for a beat. Her body and her mind—God, she was dying inside. What more could he do to her from across the table?

  He leaned toward her, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I know your heart, Nikki Heat. I know your heart like no other, and you melt mine.”

  She was melting, too. She’d had plenty of men in her life, but none that made her feel the way Rook did. “How’d I get so lucky, Jamie?” she asked as she leaned in and kissed him.

  She felt his smile against her lips. “How did I?”

  They parted and he raised his hand to summon an imaginary waiter. “Garçon, if you please. The coatroom! The coatroom! My kingdom for a coatroom!”

  “Ah, but sadly, there is no coatroom. Now is the season of our discontent.” Although she’d graduated from college with a degree in criminal justice, she’d had enough time as an English and then theater major to learn the classics.

  They sat at a ten-person round table in the center front of a historic nineteenth-century Brooklyn rope factory. The exposed brick and original woodwork carried the history of two hundred years. They’d had a drink on the roof-deck before the ceremony began, and those thirty minutes, with a picture-perfect view of the New York City skyline, had made the evening more remarkable than it already was.

  Now, as the low buzz of the room died down, they directed their attention to the stage at the front of the room. Suspended from exposed beams and perfectly centered behind the stage was the event’s signage: THE NELLIE BLY ANNUAL EXCELLENCE IN JOURNALISM AWARD. The emcee, an old college chum of Rook’s, spoke into the microphone clipped to his lapel. Instead of standing behind the protection of the podium, he worked the stage, as if he were about to give a TED Talk.

  “Freedom of the press,” he began. “That concept, first adopted in 1791, at a time when ‘press’ meant only books and newspapers and pamphlets. It was more than a century later that the first radio was invented...”

  Rook leaned back in his chair, drawing in a deep breath, the smile still gracing his lips. “Settle in, my love. Raymond Lamont is nothing if not long-winded.”

  Nikki could have pegged Raymond Lamont as a blowhard, even without Rook’s pronouncement. His stick-straight back; the casual way he put his hands in his pants pockets, as if he was going to be up there for a while; the slow storytelling tone of his voice laced with awareness of his own self-importance.

  Rook continued. “We are about to get an entire lesson about the significant import of ethical journalism, holding government accountable, the founding fathers—” Here Rook pointed toward the ceiling, dropped his voice an octave, and launched into a dramatic speech: “‘A government without newspapers or newspapers without government, I should not hesitate for a moment to prefer the latter.’”

  Nikki could appreciate Rook’s embodiment of one of the founding fathers of the country. “Jefferson?” she asked.

  “Very good.” Rook nodded approvingly. “A-plus to your high school history teacher. He—or she—did a good job.”

  “A-plus to me for studying hard,” she amended, “but really, it wasn’t that difficult to figure out. ‘The founding fathers’ was a pretty big clue.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?” He leaned close to her, the sides of their heads touching. “I adore how you hang on my every word, Detective.”

  “Captain,” she corrected.

  “Right.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Do captains still get to have handcuffs?”

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “With a key to the supply room.”

  “Ah, unlimited. Excellent.”

  The room broke into spontaneous applause, once again drawing Nikki’s and Rook’s attention back to the stage. “What’d we miss?” Rook’s face had fallen, making him look more like a toddler who’d dropped his cupcake than the seasoned journalist he was. Whatever had struck a chord with the crowd was in the past. Raymond had moved on.

  “Fake news has been the bane of the media,” he said, “but like the founding fathers intended”—Rook shot Nikki a knowing look—“the media is a check-and-balance system for our government. We must work hard, and with integrity, ensuring that the good citizens of the United States stay informed on topics of importance and of interest, presented to them with honesty and integrity.”

  After another round of applause, Raymond Lamont finally got to the nominees. “The Nellie Bly Award may not be the Pulitzer, but it is, nonetheless, a valuable and important award within journalistic circles. For those who don’t know, Nellie Bly managed to insert herself as a patient at a mental hospital, ultimately revealing the deplorable conditions and the mistreatment of the other patients there. It was the first exposé of its kind—a true commitment to discovering and revealing the truth, no matter the cost.

  “Although we can have only one winner for the prestigious Nellie Bly Award, tonight we honor four outstanding journalists.” Nikki heard and promptly dismissed the first three names Raymond Lamont spoke, but then he said, “And for his revealing exposé on corruption in local government, Jameson Rook.”

  Rook smiled sheepishly, as if he were shy of the spotlight. He played his part effortlessly. When he graced the room with a royal wave, Nikki couldn’t hold in her laughter. “You missed your calling,” she said once she’d caught her breath. “You could be up for an Oscar instead of a Nellie Bly with your acting ability.”

  He turned his roguishly handsome face to Nikki, looking like a hurt puppy. “Are you implying that I am not sincere? I am honored”—he pressed his palm to his chest—“truly honored to be nominated and—”

  “The winner is...Jameson Rook!”

  Once again, the room broke out in applause; this time, however, people rose to their feet.

  “I won?” Rook said w
ith disbelief. “I won.” This time it wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement of fact. And then, finally, he jumped to his feet. He looked down at her, his grin gleeful. “I won!”

  Nikki nodded, clapping and smiling. His enthusiasm was contagious. “Of course you won. You’re the best. Now go give your speech.”

  He quickly withdrew a stack of notecards from the inner pocket of his suit coat, blew her a kiss, and ambled up to the stage. He and Lamont hugged, the latter patting Rook on his back. “Well deserved, you son of a bitch,” he said, not realizing that his mic was still hot. “Well deserved. Sure hope I don’t have to share office space at Cam U with you and your big head.”

  Rook stepped back and put his hands on Raymond Lamont’s shoulders. Even from where she sat, Nikki could see the giddiness in her husband’s smile. “Double the honor to be presented by you,” he said for the whole room to hear. “And me and my big head will always make room for you, Ray.”

  The room erupted in applause and Lamont spun around. “Shit,” he said, then looked horror-struck. “Erm, sorry, folks.” He scanned the crowd, looking for whoever was supposed to be on top of the technical side of things. Rook, for his part, brushed down his lapels and stepped up to the floor mic, not looking the least bit put off by the malfunction. “What’s a little colorful language between friends and writers?” he asked to more applause. And then he launched into his acceptance speech. “Conspiracy theories,” he began. “They inspired my love of investigation...”

  Nikki crossed her legs, sipped from her glass of chardonnay, and sat back. If she knew anything about Jameson Alexander Rook, it was that this might take a while.

  Rook was 100 percent in his element at the awards ceremony. Whereas Nikki preferred to live her life privately, Jameson Rook liked to live his out loud. Screaming out loud, sometimes, if she was being honest. This fundamental difference between them made life interesting, to say the least.

  He worked the room; she surveyed it. Such was their dynamic. She’d learned long ago, after losing her mother—only not, since, of course, her mother was back from the dead—that it was foolish to let her guard down. You never knew what maelstrom was brewing just off scene.