Crashing Heat

by Richard Castle

  Rook had invented the “what if” game recently when they’d been working a case and had hit a wall. They’d gone back and forth posing “what if” questions. Finally, the game led them to a new idea, in a new direction, and ultimately, to solving the case.

  Rook’s eyes shone. Give the man any type of cerebral activity and he was on cloud nine. “What if Chloe thought she had the story of a lifetime?”

  “What if she thought the story would be a game-changer for her career?”

  “Good one,” Rook said. “What if she decided she wanted to go bigger than the Cambria University newspaper with the story?”

  “What if she tried to sell it somewhere else?” Nikki posed. Was that even how it worked?

  The sound from Rook clapping his hands made her jump. “Exactly! She had a story and she thought it was too big for the Journal. She was trying to be Deep Throat.”

  “You think she was shopping it around to other papers?”

  Rook nodded. “I think she was moonlighting. She worked on the Journal, but she was doing her big story on the side.” He paused for dramatic effect, lowering his voice. “She was investigating off-book.”

  As Nikki’s mind processed this idea, another “what if” came to her. “What if the argument with Michael wasn’t about him telling her that he didn’t want her story? What if it was her telling him that he couldn’t have it?”

  Rook jumped off the bed. “Good thought.”

  He grabbed the dry-erase marker and held it out to her, but she shook her head. “You do the honors.”

  “Are you sure? You’re usually possessive about your murder boards.”

  “I’m trying to let go of the control a little bit,” she said. It was a small thing, but giving up the small things that had given order to her life when she was a detective allowed her to create new order as captain. She had made room for sifting through emails, filing reports, meetings at One PP, requisitions, and all the other minutiae that made up the job. Presiding over the murder boards had gone by the wayside.

  He uncapped the marker and wrote two questions on the board.

  DID MICHAEL WANT CHLOE’S STORY?

  DID CHLOE REFUSE TO GIVE HER STORY TO MICHAEL?

  He paused, then added a third: WAS CHLOE A STRINGER?

  Nikki considered the questions. “So the theory is that if she refused to give the story to Michael, then she had someone else who wanted to publish it?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Which would make her a stringer?”

  “Yes. Working for the Journal, but also writing for someone else. My bet, though, is that she was writing on spec.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “If you’re on staff, you pitch a story and the editor either gives their blessing or they say no. If you’re not on staff, unless you have a reputation and clippings to prove yourself, an editor might like the idea but isn’t going to commit until they’ve seen the piece.”

  She cocked an eyebrow at him, in part because of his dramatics, and in part because he’d surprised her with a tidbit of information about himself that she hadn’t known. “Sounds like you’ve been a stringer. Rook, have you been holding out on me?”

  “I could never hold out on you,” he said with a wink.

  “You didn’t tell me you were a string—” She stopped. The hypocrisy. Rook neglecting to tell her that he’d investigated stories “off-book” didn’t compare to the marriage she had never mentioned.

  “Let me clarify,” he said. “A stringer is just a journalist who freelances and gets paid for individual pieces rather than receiving a salary. I still do it. Anything I write that isn’t for First Press is freelance.”

  “So it’s not a bad thing?”

  “Not unless you have a contract that stipulates no freelancing, or a relationship with your editor that would be compromised if you withheld a potentially great story in favor of another avenue.”

  “That works with our theory, then. If Chloe had a great idea and Michael got wind of it, he might have gotten pretty angry.”

  “Very likely. He wants to put out the best paper he can.”

  “Maybe that’s what she wanted to talk with you about. She may have needed your advice on how to handle her story and the conflict between the Journal and wherever she wanted to sell it.”

  Rook sat back on the edge of the bed. “Right. And here I am, a visiting professor at her college. It was an opportunity for her. But wrong place and wrong time for the killer.”

  “Which led to her death and you being framed.” Unbidden images of Chloe Masterson came to Heat’s mind, first at the awards ceremony and then in Rook’s bed—blood pooling around her.

  Rook continued with his train of thought, taking her on the verbal journey he relished sharing. “I got to thinking about my time with the Journal. Some of the best years of my life, I must admit.”

  “I bet,” she said. Rook’s college experience had been so vastly different from hers. While he’d been living every young adult male’s dream, she’d been holding her mother’s apparently dead body in her arms. While he had been learning the tools of his trade and developing a love for 1930s-era Blackwing pencils, she had been learning how to assess risk and handle weapons. She’d developed the mental preparedness necessary to face potentially dangerous situations. In short, she’d done what it took to become a highly competent New York City police officer. She’d learned how to put the good of the many above the needs of one person. Rook, on the other hand, she was quite sure had been all about his individual needs during college. She couldn’t say she blamed him. At some point, he’d decided that helping people through his reporting aligned with what he wanted.

  Rook realized his mistake. He reached his hand across the table. “Best years of my life until I met you, Heat. Everything pales in comparison.”

  She smiled at him and intertwined her fingers with his. “It certainly does.”

  Her life before Jameson Rook had been like a black-and-white movie. After meeting him, it had turned to Technicolor. Had she never told Rook about Ian Cooley because Ian had been part of the monochromatic life that came before Rook?

  “I became a stringer when a story I was working on for the Journal was killed before I was even done with it,” Rook said, moving the conversation along. “It happens. You move forward, that’s all.”

  “The great career of Jameson Rook. That’s how it all started?”

  “That’s my journalistic origin story. Snapped up out of college by the Times.”

  “Ohhh, the Times. My, my.”

  “Of course. It’s just like you bringing in Detective Aguinaldo. You saw her value and brought her to the Two-Oh. Any organization worth its salt will snap up the standouts before someone else does. They’d seen one of my pieces and hired me on an article-by-article basis—”

  “As a stringer,” she said.

  “As a stringer.”

  Nikki backed up to the beginning of their conversation. “How do we get proof that Chloe was a stringer?”

  “We live in the era of the Internet. We search. Maybe she’s had luck with published pieces and we get a hit.”

  “But maybe she hasn’t and we don’t,” Nikki said, finishing the thought. She stared at the sketchy information on the murder board, her frustration mounting. Damn Ian Cooley for not cooperating with her.

  As Rook followed her gaze, he seemed to remember something. He suddenly jumped up and pulled an eight-by-ten photograph of Chloe Masterson from the leather satchel that lay resting on a nearby chair. “I got you a present,” he said.

  “How did you get that?” she asked, taking it from him. She took the magnets he offered and immediately added Chloe’s likeness to the murder board.

  Rook tapped his finger against his temple. “Journalist. Resources.”

  She turned back to him. “Can you be more specific?”

  “A journalist never reveals his sources, Heat. You know that.”

  She arched a reproachful eyebrow at h
im, and he sighed. A flirtatiously resigned sigh. “God, you drive a hard bargain, Heat. Fine. I’ll tell you.”

  “I knew you would,” she said, flashing her own smile.

  “I talked with someone at the Journal and asked for Chloe’s professional photo. They were happy to oblige. As soon as I got the image, I sent it to be printed.”

  Having Chloe’s amber-rimmed brown eyes staring back at her—eyes filled with life—brought a lump to her throat. With or without the help of the local authorities, she and Rook would get to the bottom of her death.

  So many thoughts circled through Nikki’s mind, but she landed on the first night she’d spent with Rook. Manhattan had been in the midst of a heat wave and a citywide blackout. He’d made his attraction to her very clear since he’d begun his ride-alongs, and when he showed up outside her apartment that night (to protect her, of all things), she’d only heard a noise behind her and felt a hand on her back. Instinct had kicked in and she’d whirled around and given him a swift kick to the jaw. That same night, they’d sat side by side having margaritas, and then she’d taken him to her bed.

  She didn’t know what she’d expected, but Rook turned out to be unlike any man she’d ever been with. Playful. Energetic. Attentive. And he brought out a playful side of her that she’d thought had been long forgotten.

  Whether it was pouring a glass of wine after a long day, drawing a hot bath, wheeling in a murder board, or pinning up a picture of the victim—strange as it was—he always knew exactly what she needed.

  “Nicely done, Jamie,” she said, and she pulled him down onto the bed.

  Maple Village Apartments, where Chloe Masterson had lived with Tammy Burton, was not at all what Heat had been expecting. “More upscale than I thought it would be,” she commented as they approached the redbrick building.

  “Parents,” Rook said, echoing exactly what she’d been thinking.

  They found the apartment and knocked. And knocked again. As Rook raised his hand to rap his knuckles against the door one more time, the door flung open. He stumbled backward. Heat put her hand on his back to steady him. They raised their gazes. A young woman Heat presumed was Tammy Burton stood in front of them. She was red-eyed and gaunt-cheeked, clutching a box of tissue against her stomach. From the wrinkled gray cotton pajama pants and the equally crinkled Henley to the bleeding cuticles around her nails, it was clear the girl was struggling.

  Nikki held her badge out. “Tammy Burton?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m Detective Heat,” she said, downplaying her Captain title. “This is Mr. Rook. We have a few questions for you about Chloe Masterson.” She looked over Tammy’s shoulder. “Is it okay if we come in?”

  Tammy wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She hesitated, shooting a furtive glance at Rook. Her eyes clouded with wariness. Clearly she recognized the name.

  “Can I see your badge again?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “Absolutely,” Heat said with a smile. It was rare that someone wanted to get a close-up of her badge. Usually a quick flash, just like movie and TV cops did, was enough to gain people’s trust. Tammy earned a few brownie points with that simple question. Heat held the NYPD badge out. Tammy leaned down to peer at it, strands of her dark hair falling over her face like beaded curtains in a doorway. She nodded, satisfied with its authenticity. Not that she’d know if it were a fake. Still, at least she’d asked. That was more than most people did.

  She stepped aside and let them pass, shutting the door behind them. The bolt slid closed with an audible click. “Straight ahead,” she said from behind them. “The living room is on the right.”

  Rook led and Heat followed. The first door on the right was wide open. Bedroom one. The sheets were rumpled, the bedspread half off the bed, an excess of the heavy fabric pooling on the ground at the foot. Mounds of clothes dotted the carpeted floor. Clean and dirty, Heat guessed. A stack of books perched haphazardly on the nightstand, already crowded with a lamp and who knows what else. From the quick look Heat got passing by, she couldn’t make out any more details. Whichever roommate lived in the room didn’t have a high regard for organization.

  The next door was cracked open, but not wide enough for Heat to see anything. “That’s Chloe’s room,” Tammy said. “Her mom is coming...over the weekend to...” She stopped, her voice cracking with emotion. “To clean it out.”

  Heat turned to Tammy. “I’m so sorry, Tammy. I know what you’re going through.”

  Tammy’s face contorted in pain. “How could you possibly know what I’m going through? What Chloe’s family is going through?” Her gaze flicked to Rook. “She was murdered!”

  Heat swallowed, feeling this girl’s agony pulsing through her own body. “I do know,” she said, meeting Tammy’s pained eyes. “I know the pain will lesson, and I know the horror of it never goes away.”

  The color drained from Tammy’s face and her gaze dropped to the floor. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” she said hoarsely.

  Their positions changed and Heat ushered Tammy the rest of the way to the back of the apartment. It had an open floor plan, with the kitchen and eating nook on the left and a living space on the right. Blue, white, and gray chevron-patterned pillows adorned either side of the light gray upholstered couch. The two armchairs had the same color scheme in a striped pattern. Heat made a point of circling around the couch so she could walk near the black bookshelf that stood against one wall. The shelves held mostly textbooks, a few novels, and a pile of magazines. Rook ran his finger over the titles. Looking to see if one of the Victoria St. Claire novels was there, Heat thought. She was always amused at how excited he got if he spotted his books someplace, even if he never publicly admitted it.

  She scanned the book spines, as well. There were compilations of horror stories, books on journalism, hot-topic books covering things like terrorism, conspiracy theories, charter schools, and global warming. Rook nodded with approval. “Quite an impressive collection.”

  “Most of the stuff in here is...was...Chloe’s,” Tammy said. “She wanted things to look a certain way.”

  “She liked to decorate?” Nikki asked.

  “Totally. Home decor here is low on my priority list. I can barely pay my tuition. She footed the bill and got the stuff she wanted. I’m going to have to get another roommate and hit Craigslist once her stuff is all gone,” she said wistfully.

  Another downside of Chloe’s death, Heat thought. She looked around at the high-end furnishings, wondering how a college girl could afford such nice things. “Family money?”

  “I don’t think so,” Tammy said. “Her parents aren’t together. She’s estranged from her father. She has—oh, God—had. She had a younger brother, so I don’t think there’s ever been a lot of extra money, you know? She wasn’t very open about things like that, though, so I don’t really know. She would sometimes just come home with something new.”

  Money earned from her external writing jobs? Nikki wondered as Tammy’s voice broke again and fresh tears spilled from her eyes. “I’m going to miss her.”

  “What about a boyfriend?” Rook asked.

  Heat shot him a warning look. Tammy Burton clearly knew that Chloe’s body had been found in Rook’s house, and she was suspicious. Rightfully so, thought Nikki. She didn’t have a reason to trust that the visiting professor wasn’t involved in her friend’s death. Nikki didn’t want the girl shutting down on them, which meant she needed to take the lead—which meant Rook needed to become part of the scenery.

  Rook dipped his chin in acknowledgment. He turned his attention back to the shelves as Heat followed up on his question. “Did she? Have a boyfriend?”

  Tammy shook her head. “She used to date some, but not anymore. She was too busy for that. She was obsessed. All she ever thought about was her research and her articles.”

  No boyfriend. Heat crossed that possibility off her mental list, turning to the framed photos on the shelves. The first one she zeroed in on was one o
f Tammy and a man about the same age. “Your boyfriend?”

  Tammy followed her gaze. “My brother, Todd,” she said.

  “And this one?” Heat asked, pointing to a photo sitting atop the pile of magazines. In it, bikini-clad Tammy and Chloe held up margarita glasses as if they were toasting the camera.

  “We went on vacation to Cancún last year,” Tammy said. “She was way more relaxed back then.”

  “When did her obsession with her work start?” Nikki asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe six months ago? It wasn’t all at once. It kind of happened over time.”

  Heat remembered what Tammy had said a minute ago about every penny she had going toward her tuition. “It must have been hard to save for a vacation,” she commented. “Traveling is expensive.”

  “I saved forever for it. Chloe helped a little bit.” Tammy sniffled, clutching another wad of tissue to her nose. “It was the best vacation I’ve ever had.”

  Heat scanned the rest of the photos displayed, stopping when her gaze landed on a group photo. She looked carefully at each of the fifteen or so people that looked to be gathered in front of the campus building that housed the college newspaper. Chloe was in the front row. She wasn’t frowning, but she also wasn’t smiling.

  Moving on to the other faces, she recognized one of the young women from her visit with Rook to the newspaper, and Michael Warton, editor in chief, stood to one side of the group, but the others were unfamiliar to her.

  “The newspaper staff,” Tammy said, shaking her head. “I worked there my sophomore year, but I couldn’t take it. The stress got to me.”

  “Not to Chloe?” Nikki asked.

  “No way. She couldn’t get enough of it.”

  After another minute spent looking at the contents of the shelves, Heat moved to the sofa. Rook followed suit, sitting next to her. Tammy perched on the edge of one of the chairs. She tossed a used tissue onto the floor next to her and plucked another from the box she still held.

  Heat wasn’t sure how long Tammy was going to hold it together, so she cut to the chase. “Is there anything you can tell us, Tammy? Was Chloe worried about anything lately? Do you have any ideas about what happened to her?”