Crashing Heat

by Richard Castle

“More than you know, Rook. While I’m sitting in here, they’re all going to be knee-deep in their investigation. Hell, I’d even take the needle-in-a-haystack job Roach gave Hinesburg.”

  “You need something to take your mind off things.”

  She picked up a file folder and waved it around. “Reports for One PP. The bane of my current existence.”

  Rook stepped closer to her, taking the folder from her and setting it back down on her desk, then looked over his shoulder through the slats of the blinds. The bull pen was deserted. With clear determination, he strode to the window, slapped the blinds shut, and turned back to her. “I have a few ideas,” he said as he waggled his eyebrows. “Ready to break in your office?”

  Oh, the trouble they could get into, she thought. But the feeling low in the pit of her stomach and the instant aching between her thighs chased those thoughts away. “So ready.”

  The forbidden midday romp in Heat’s office had been followed by a slow burn in their bed that night. The next morning, Nikki had watched her husband drive away. “Thank God for video phone calls,” Rook had said when he called her just an hour outside Manhattan. “Let’s start tonight.”

  Nikki had laughed—and agreed—but after they’d hung up, the reality hit her. He wouldn’t be there with her in person that night. The loft would feel empty without him.

  She’d waved him off and then gone to the precinct to keep her mind occupied. The Joon Chin investigation had yielded nothing except an interview with the kid’s roommate, who’d said Chin had left to go for coffee that night and had never returned. The family lived in California, there didn’t seem to be any obvious motives for his death, so basically, they were nowhere. And One PP was breathing down her neck. The death of a local college student was not something the department relished. It was bad for their public image. They needed murders solved and off the books, not skulking around like vampires in the night.

  She spent the day catching up on paperwork, managing to get outside to stretch her legs and walk around the block, and to get lunch at a food truck. The city heat, unusual for this time of year, emanated from the streets like steam from a locomotive. It was stifling. By the time she got home, she was more exhausted than if she’d been working the case with Roach.

  Each day since he left had been the same. She buried herself in her work, and she came home to the silence of the loft echoing in her ears. It had been more than a week now, but tonight was no different than the previous evenings. She drowned out the silence with a long soak in the claw-foot tub, lightly toweling off before crawling into bed. The book on her nightstand was a Victoria St. Claire book. When she’d first found out that Jameson Rook, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist, moonlighted as the best-selling romance novelist, she’d laughed. And laughed.

  “Hey, don’t knock it,” he’d said. “Tori—”

  “Tori?” she’d asked.

  “The nom de plume for my Victoria St. Claire nom de plume,” he’d explained, as if it should have been completely obvious.

  “Oh, of course. Silly me, I should have known.”

  “Tori is a mega best-selling author, I’ll have you know.” He’d paused dramatically. “Mega. Best-selling. Author.

  “I’ve been writing them for years, but they’ve recently taken on new life.”

  She remembered the conversation like it was yesterday. The angle of his head. His penetrating gaze. The movement of his lips as he said her name. “Nikki Heat, you are the inspiration for all my heroines.”

  She’d blanched. “What does that mean?”

  “That you live and breathe in my imagination and my dreams.”

  “You’re a writer,” she’d scoffed, not all pleased to be a presence in his mind when he was writing the sex scenes that tended to come with romance novels. “You shouldn’t need a real person to inspire you.”

  “Au contraire, my dear Ms. Heat. Every writer draws from their personal experiences. We see things through our own lenses, and the people who color our worlds become part of us. There’s a mystery writer, for example, who famously shadowed a detective squad in order to write about the police in Manhattan. This fellow became indispensable in solving the crimes the team encountered. They came to count on him, in fact, and he was a de facto part of their team. He ended up writing a book about the lead detective—one incredibly attractive woman, if I’m remembering correctly. She was his muse, just as you are mine.”

  It had taken Nikki a while to accept that she had feelings for Rook, and even longer to come to terms with the fact that little moments that happened between them often ended up in his Victoria St. Claire books. There was almost always a harrowing adventure his hero and heroine had to finagle themselves out of, whether it was being trapped together in an elevator in an old remodeled factory or in a Brooklyn bar after hours. Art imitated life in Tori—aka Rook’s—books.

  Now she liked to unwind by reading the paperbacks and searching for the Easter eggs about her—and them—that she knew he hid in the text. The smell and feel of the pages had a soothing effect on her. Knowing that Rook had penned a book she held in her hands brought him closer to her in some inexplicable way. And finding signs of them between the pages was like their personal sexy secret. She slid the bookmark out and started reading where she’d left off. Eventually, her eyelids began to feel heavy and her brain started to shut down.

  She put the book down and let her thoughts wander. Seeing the humanity in the victims she worked for was the thing that kept her sane. It was also one of the hardest parts of the job. Knowing that a person was alive one second and dead the next was often hard to wrap her brain around. Why would someone take a life?

  It was this last question she always came back to. Who had wanted Joon Chin dead? She pondered the answer as she turned onto her side and pulled up the covers of the bed she and Rook now shared. Moving to Rook’s Tribeca loft had taken a monumental leap of faith—and courage. To give up her own place—the apartment that had filled her with both childlike joy and debilitating pain—that had been a feat. Leaving it, and all she’d gone through there, behind was something she’d never thought she’d do. But, as her therapist was wont to say, letting go was the surest way to heal.

  Giving up the apartment had always felt tantamount to leaving behind the memory of her mother. It was the last place Nikki had seen her before she’d disappeared. Nikki knew from experience that this was what the families of kidnapped or missing children frequently went through. So often they couldn’t bear to leave the homes they’d been in when the event happened for fear that the child would show up again only to find the family gone.

  Nikki hadn’t thought her mother would show up again, but she did feel as if leaving her childhood home would be like closing the door on her memories. And she could never bring herself to do that.

  But Cynthia was alive and well. She’d been in hiding all those years, but now she was back and Nikki had her mother in flesh and blood to hold on to. All those years of unanswered questions hadn’t vanished, but they’d started to fade away. Her mother’s return from the dead had let her reframe them. For so long she’d asked herself why anyone would want to kill Cynthia Heat. But now that question had shifted: How had she never picked up on her mother’s secret life? And the way she’d wondered if she would ever feel anything even remotely resembling love again when it had been ripped from her had turned into the question of whether she could handle the feelings coursing through her now that her mother was back.

  A child’s love was too simplistic, wasn’t it? What she felt now was complex: joy mixed with shock mixed with confusion mixed with anger. No one, not even Rook, could know the extent of her circling emotions. After her mother had “died,” Nikki had built a solid brick wall around herself. Piece by piece, bit by bit, Jameson had been tearing it down. But then something would happen—something about a murder vic would hit home or spark a memory, stuffing mortar back into the hole, filling it up again.

  Rook would make her laugh, charm her wi
th his dry wit, show her affection in inconsequential ways, each act chipping away again at the cement.

  Throwing himself in the line of fire to take a bullet meant for her—well, that had been like a sledgehammer to the bricks. Trust didn’t come easy to her, but Rook had managed to free her from the stifling mistrust and caution she’d carried with her like a ball and chain.

  Suddenly her old apartment wasn’t as crucial a part of her makeup as it had been. And now she was in this room. Hers and Rook’s bedroom. It was as familiar as it was foreign; it was hers as much as it wasn’t. She was alone in a bed that should have held her husband, too.

  She’d get used to it. Eventually. And this “visiting professor” thing was only temporary.

  Her thoughts fused together, becoming thin and filmy as sleep finally descended. But then her phone rang. She knew it was Rook by the ringtone. He’d programmed it without her knowing, connecting his roguishly handsome face and phone number to a few lines from Prince’s “Little Red Corvette.” “A body like yours oughta be in jail / ’cause it’s on the verge of being obscene / move over, baby, gimme the keys / I’m gonna try to tame your little red love machine...”

  She’d chastised him for his high school humor, but whenever she’d gone in to change it back to something normal, she stopped just short of pressing the save button. She hated to admit it—and wouldn’t ever to his face—but hearing Prince’s voice and knowing that her insatiable desire for Rook was the implication gave her a thrill.

  She rolled over, reached for the phone, and pressed the speaker button. “I was thinking about you, too,” she said, her voice groggy even to her own ears.

  “Sorry to wake you.” His voice was altogether too serious. No playfulness. No flirtatious undertones. No, Why, hello, Captain Heat. Have your handcuffs nearby?

  Years of police work had trained her to pick up on the subtext. To register every nuance in voice—especially in Rook’s. She sat up, instantly alert. “What’s wrong?”

  He didn’t respond with some witty remark about her knowing him so well. Instead, he cut right to the chase. “There’s a bit of a situation here.”

  There was the barest lightness to his tone, as if he were trying to infuse at least a small bit of levity into a situation that didn’t warrant any. But Nikki saw right through it. She peered at the red illuminated numbers projected onto the ceiling: 1:43. Time for a booty call for the drunken twentysomething set. Maybe some sex talk for the night owls. But Rook didn’t fit either demographic. The way Nikki’s mind worked gave her several possibilities. He’d done something idiotic, like snapping pictures of someone or something off-limits for a story, and had ended up in a local holding cell. He’d stupidly driven under the influence and had ended up...in a local holding cell. Or worse, he had wrapped his car around a tree. But no, Rook was far too cautious to do any of those things. He could have wrapped his car around a tree without any alcohol, but she dismissed that option, too.

  “Tell me,” she said.

  “Let me preface this by saying that I had nothing to do with it. I’m being framed.”

  Her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. “Being framed for what?” she asked, although at this point, she wasn’t sure she actually wanted to hear the answer.

  “For murder, Nik. I’m being framed for murder.”

  It took her a good five seconds to register what he’d just said. “Murder? As in—murder?”

  She felt the heaviness of his sigh through the radio waves. “Remember Chloe Masterson?”

  How could she forget the young and enthusiastic journalism student they’d met at the Nellie Bly Award ceremony? “Of course. The president of your fan club.”

  “She’s now the former president of my fan club. Because she’s dead.”

  Nikki closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath, holding it as she counted to five, and then exhaling. Her heart pounded, sending the throbbing beat to her head, but she kept her voice even. “Tell me everything, Rook,” she said. “And don’t leave anything out.”

  Apparently Nikki and Rook couldn’t even manage a few uncomplicated days, let alone their whole lives. Her head was still spinning. She paced back and forth in the bull pen, stopping, running her hand through her hair, muttering to herself.

  Miguel Ochoa side-eyed her as he walked in. “You beat the chickens this morning, Cap. What’s up?”

  Nikki had debated how much to tell Ochoa and Raley. In the end, she decided that she really couldn’t keep it from them. “Rook’s in trouble,” she told Ochoa.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  She knew her expression was as grim as she felt. “The homicide kind.”

  Ochoa peered at her, one eye pinched in confusion. “He’s only been there, what, a week, and he’s already stumbled on a murder?”

  “Stumbled isn’t the right word.” She somehow buried the uncertainty taking root in her gut. She loved Jameson Rook. She trusted him. So where was this doubt coming from?

  Ochoa folded his bulky arms over his chest. “What is the right word?”

  Nikki didn’t think there was a word to describe any of what Rook had told her. Or the thoughts careening in her head.

  Sean Raley, Ochoa’s other half, came up to them. He took in their faces. “What did I miss?”

  Ochoa answered for Heat. “Something about Rook and a murder.”

  “He’s only been there a week. How does that even happen?” Raley said, proving that he and Ochoa were basically one person. The mash-up “Roach” fit to a T.

  “‘Stumbled’ isn’t the word, dude,” Ochoa said, as if he hadn’t just asked her the exact same thing.

  “So what’s the right word?”

  The conversation was déjà vu. “There’s no word, guys,” Nikki snapped. “What there is is a dead woman and, unfortunately, she was in Rook’s bed.”

  Ochoa stuck his finger in his ear as if he were clearing it of water after a swim. “Come again?”

  Raley’s lips parted in bewilderment. “In his bed?”

  It was shocking, but she had to move them along. “Yes, okay? Yes, the dead girl was in my husband’s bed. Can we get focused now?”

  Nikki caught the look the detectives shot at each other. They were typical men. A woman in a man’s bed could only equate to one thing. But they were wrong. Rook was...Rook. He loved her with every fiber of his being. Cliché, yes, but also true. She trusted Rook. He said nothing had happened between him and Chloe Masterson. He said he was being framed. She believed him.

  “The brass isn’t going to like it, but I’m taking a few days off to go up there,” she told them. “Which means more pressure on you down here, guys. I’ll need you to pick up the slack. The Joon Chin case needs to be put to bed.”

  Neither one of them hesitated. “Sure thing, Captain,” Ochoa said.

  “Anything we can do to help?” Raley asked.

  “Here’s what we know. Chloe Masterson was a senior. She called Rook several times, but he hadn’t had the chance to talk to her before she was killed—”

  Ochoa stopped her. “Uh, Cap.”

  She looked at him, waiting for the shoe to drop.

  “You’re talking like you’re going to work the case.”

  There were no ifs, ands, or buts. “I am.”

  “Cambria isn’t our jurisdiction.”

  And there it was. “I’m aware of that, Miguel. But if you think I’m going to let the fate of my husband, not to mention justice for the victim, rest in the hands of some inexperienced college town cops, you’re wrong.”

  “So you’re going down there—” Ochoa started.

  “Over there?” Raley asked.

  Ochoa scratched his clean-shaven head. “Where is Rook, anyway?”

  Raley cocked one eyebrow. “At his alma mater.”

  Ochoa smirked. “No kidding, bro. But what college is that?”

  They turned to her and all she could do was stare. “Really? You’re the best detectives in the Two-Oh, Rook has been planning this for m
onths, and you don’t know where Rook is? Do you pay attention to the world around you?”

  Ochoa tapped his temple with his finger. “I do not need to cloud this with unnecessary information. And Jameson Rook’s college background definitely qualifies as unnecessary information.”

  “Not anymore it doesn’t,” Raley said.

  Nikki wanted to hit her head against a wall. “He’s at Cambria University. Upstate. Visiting professor.”

  “Right. Because he’s got that Pulitzer Prize—”

  Raley interrupted. “Two. Two Pulitzer Prizes.”

  Ochoa shrugged. “So he’s got two Pulitzer Prizes, which qualifies him to teach impressionable young coeds. Makes sense to me.”

  “He probably has a lot to teach them,” Raley said with a smile. Ochoa was the more cynical of the duo, while Raley usually tried to put a positive spin on things. They were trying to be lighthearted, but their expressions belied their true feelings. They were both grappling for understanding. Nikki got that. Taking the job home took a toll. Ochoa and Raley both dulled their senses; they just handled it differently. When it was one of their own—as Rook was—coping was that much harder.

  “Moving on,” Nikki said. “Here’s what we know.” On one side of the bull pen was a murder board for Joon Chin. A picture of the plaza, pool, and sculpture with Joon atop it was pinned to one side. Other facts and questions about the open case were also noted. Pictures of Joon’s roommate, his closest friends, and his mother. They were in the thick of that investigation, but now Nikki had rolled in a second murder board. A picture of Chloe Masterson hung in the center at the top. And a picture of Rook was off to the left. The name of the college’s newspaper where she was an editor-at-large, the Cambria Journal, was written on the other side. And that was it.

  “So basically we know nothing,” Ochoa remarked.

  “Which is why I’m going to Cambria. And you’re staying here to work the Chin case.”

  Raley was a clean-cut man with neatly trimmed hair, a perfectly knotted tie, and a sweater vest. He was also the go-to tech guy of the Two-Oh. “If you need our help up there, let us know,” he said.