Heat Storm (Castle)

  “Take it easy, take it easy. I’m sure it was nothing. Look, if you want to know, ask Jones.”

  “Yeah,” Storm huffed, “because I’m sure I’ll get the truth out of him.”

  Strike rolled her eyes. “Would you stop being paranoid? Jones isn’t—”

  Her desk phone rang. Strike rose to answer it, grabbing it upside down.

  “Oh, hello, sir.”

  Storm could tell from Strike’s tone that it was Jones, who seemed to be endowed with the Voldemort-like sense that someone had dared speak his name.

  “Yes, sir, he’s awake. I’ll send him right down.”

  Strike replaced the phone. “Looks like you’ll get the chance to ask Jones all the questions you want. He needs to see you.”

  Storm stood. Strike placed her hand on his hip again.

  “Let me know if you’re free later,” she said.

  He nodded, even if he was quite sure he wouldn’t be.

  * * *

  Jedediah Jones’s office was, like so much else about the man, spare and functional.

  He had maintained a personal relationship with every president since the first Bush, and yet there was not a single grip-and-grin photograph to suggest it. He had won nearly every award that the US government gave out, but they were all stored in a box somewhere. There was no ego wall behind him, no personal photos on the desk, nothing beyond what was needed to do the job.

  Jones was in his sixties but, with daily five-mile jogs and only occasional indulgences in his diet, he had not allowed so much as an extra ounce of fat to creep onto his waistline. He was slightly below average in height, well above average in presence. He had brush-cut gray hair and steely blue eyes that were already glaring as Storm walked into the room.

  “Sit,” Jones said in a voice that sounded like it came from the bottom of a gravel pit.

  Storm complied.

  “You want to tell me what you were doing on my lawn this morning?” Jones asked.

  “I’ve been thinking it would be perfect for a croquet course. Dad and I were just planning where we wanted to put the wickets.”

  “Stop screwing around,” Jones growled. “Why were you trying to break into my house?”

  Storm said nothing. He had long ago learned that the less real content he released around Jones the better.

  “I can’t imagine you wanted to steal something,” Jones pressed. “I’ve paid you far too well over the years for you to have any material needs. I can’t even speculate you have gambling debts to cover, because I know you always win. And, besides, I’ve seen all your IQ testing. You’re more than smart enough to recognize there are easier targets than my living room.”

  Storm’s lips stayed pressed together.

  “Were you looking for some technology? I know you love your so-called toys. I keep all the good stuff in here, of course. Besides, all you need to do is ask. You know that.”

  Storm crossed his arms.

  Jones continued: “I realize you are only in my employ on a contract basis. But I’d like to remind you that right now you are under contract to deliver me evidence against the Shanghai Seven, and you have not done so yet. Therefore, at the very least, you owe me an answer. What do I have to do? Threaten to press charges for trespassing? Don’t make me play bad cop, here. Come on, Storm. We’re on the same team.”

  Storm couldn’t help himself. “Are we?” he said icily.

  “Of course we are,” Jones said.

  “Then why are you playing footsie with the Shanghai Seven?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about,” Storm said. “You’ve been selling me out to them faster than you can take a breath. What did they offer you? A direct line to the top reaches of the Chinese Communist Party? Cuddle time with Chairman Mao’s remains? Ping-Pong lessons?”

  “Stop it. I’m not helping them, and I resent any implication to the contrary. For God’s sake, Storm. I’m trying to get them put out of business. In fact, I’m paying you handsomely to help me do so. Did you forget that raid I sent you on last week?”

  “That raid was compromised from the start.”

  “Not because of anything on this end,” Jones said. “Use that big brain of yours, Storm. I’m not denying the Shanghai Seven seems to have been tipped off about that operation. But do you really think the tip came from this office? Why would I have bothered going through all the legwork and expense of organizing that raid in the first place if all I was going to do was scuttle it?”

  “As a misdirection? Because you get off on stuff like that? Who knows? It’s not actually the raid that bothered me. I expected that. It’s that a team of mercenaries hired by the Shanghai Seven has been following me from my father’s house to a shady motel in Quantico to the depths of the Prince William Forest Park. Do you really want to sit there and tell me they were able to do that all by themselves, with no help from you?”

  Jones slid open his top desk drawer, removed a large manila envelope, and opened it. From inside, he removed a Ziploc bag containing a small black chip.

  “This is quite a little marvel,” he said, tossing it across the desk at Storm. “We heard the Chinese were working on something like this, though our intelligence indicated they hadn’t gotten out of the lab yet. I guess we were wrong. It’s real next-generation stuff. They’re calling it TPT.”

  “TPT?”

  “Total planet tracking. It’s a cutting-edge combination of GPS and USBL, which means they can track you anywhere, anytime, whether you’re on top of Mount Everest or twenty thousand leagues under the sea.”

  “Good for them. What’s your point?”

  “Our surgical team pulled it out of your ass this morning,” Jones said. “We caught it during a routine bug sweep before we brought you down here. You were a walking transponder, transmitting on multiple frequencies. It’s a wonder you couldn’t hear American Bandstand pouring out of your backside.”

  Storm’s brow furrowed as his hand went to the stitches on his posterior, which he began absentmindedly rubbing. A tracking device? How had anyone managed to implant a tracking device on him without . . .

  And then he remembered the dart that had buried into the side of his buttock the week earlier, during the raid on the counterfeiting operation. He had immediately pulled it out, worried it was laced with poison.

  But it hadn’t been delivering toxins. It had inserted that tiny black chip into him.

  He thought back to when that SUV had first come into the clearing by the cabin. One of the mercenaries had an electronic device open. Storm had been able to see the blue glow from his perch on the second floor. That must have been what they were using to monitor where the tracking device was.

  “All right,” Storm said. “Fair enough. Let’s say I believe you about that. It still doesn’t explain why you blackmailed that pathetic Mason Wood into ordering Bart Callan’s transfer.”

  Jones got a curious look on his face, almost like he was discussing Hegel and someone brought up Kierkegaard. “Bart Callan? What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “Don’t play around. You know perfectly well the Shanghai Seven helped him escape from that flimsy jail you sent him to and now he’s working for them.”

  Jones allowed his left eyebrow to rise a nanometer before settling it gently back down. “I think you might be mistaken. Did Strike tell you about Mason Wood?”

  “No. I found that out for myself.”

  “Well, I can assure you Bart Callan has nothing to do with the Shanghai Seven. They have enough murderous psychopaths lined up, waiting to work for them. They don’t need the complication of hiring one who is a wanted federal fugitive.”

  “Then why did you have Wood order Callan’s transfer?”

  A rare smile appeared on Jones’s face, then passed away just as quickly. “That was a favor for a friend,” he said.

  When Jones called someone a “friend” it was always tinged with meanings not normally attached to
that word. To Jones, friends were fungible assets.

  “Who?” Storm asked.

  “Just a friend. A good friend. Soon to be an even better friend, hopefully, but that is truly not your concern. I assure you it’s unrelated to the troubles you now seem to have with the Shanghai Seven,” Jones said. “But hopefully, now that the TPT device has been removed, those troubles will be lessened. If you’d like, I can assign some agents to accompany you and provide additional security.”

  Storm knew the agents’ other job, in addition to providing security, would be to report back to Jones everything they heard and saw. Storm would rather drink bleach.

  “No thanks,” he said.

  Jones pushed away from his desk and stood. “Well, not that it isn’t pleasant to see you again, but if you’re done accusing me of treason, I have work to do. And I believe you do, as well. The next time you’d like to visit my house, please just call first. You know my wife has a soft spot for you. I daresay she has a bit of a crush on you. I’m sure she’d love to cook for you anytime you’d like to stop by. In the meantime, if you can promise you’ll now go about fulfilling the terms of your contract—and if you can promise you’ll stop being a threat to national security by trying to breach my security system—I’ll have you and your father escorted out.”

  “Thanks,” Storm said. “You know how much I appreciate your hospitality.”

  “Yes, indeed. Let’s just get you your things, shall we?” Jones said. His hand was back in the manila envelope. He pulled out the burner phone.

  “This is nice, by the way,” Jones said. “Very nice. Very next gen. Are you going to start using a pager next? Maybe cups and strings?”

  Storm snatched it from the desk.

  “What happened to the phone I gave you?” Jones asked.

  “It broke.”

  “Well, have the quartermaster get you a new one on the way out. There’s no reason to have you bumbling around in the technological darkness that was the first decade of this millennium.”

  Jones then extracted the CD that had nearly cost Storm his life. “I suppose I should also return this to you. We’ve heard chatter the Shanghai Seven is after something in your possession. Might this be it?”

  The disc glinted in the artificial light of Jones’s office. Storm was careful not to grab at it, lest he seem overeager.

  “It could be,” he said. “That’s a rare studio recording of the Doobie Brothers’ greatest hits. It stands to reason the Shanghai Seven would have a special affinity for ‘China Grove.’ ”

  “Ah,” Jones said, clearly not believing anything Storm was saying. “Perhaps that explains why the data on it was encrypted.”

  “Well, we can’t let an iconic American treasure like the Doobie Brothers fall so easily into foreign hands. Their fans would be ‘takin’ it to the streets’ in protest.”

  “Well, I have to say the encryption was very thorough. Very exotic. Our techs gave it their best shot, but they couldn’t crack it. I never would have thought the Doobie Brothers were so clever.”

  “You can underestimate the Doobie Brothers if you like,” Storm said. “But that’s only ‘what a fool believes.’ ”

  TWENTY-THREE

  HEAT

  The detectives who arrived on the scene made her tell the story, then go over it again.

  Then they did the same to George The Bartender.

  Then the US Marshals Service arrived—having been alerted that their prisoner had been found—and the process started all over. Heat was patient, cooperative. She understood everyone had a job to do, and it was important they did it well.

  She also knew they were right then interrogating Colonel Feng. Heat wished she had the chance to talk to him first. But she knew a murder investigation took priority. She would have to wait.

  By the time Nikki and George were told they could go, it was after five o’clock in the morning. And Heat, who was suffering a mild minibar hangover, was badly in need of some grease.

  They found an all-night diner filled with that quintessential Manhattan combination of people on their way to work and people on their way back from a night out. This was no kind of establishment for a grande skim latte with two pumps of sugar-free vanilla. It was a place for eggs, pancakes, bacon, and coffee. Lots of coffee.

  Heat asked for a western omelet, a side of bacon, and to keep the coffee refills coming.

  George, who had yet to recover his appetite, ordered orange juice. When it came, he barely sipped it.

  The old man had been through so much . . . too much for one night, for sure. Heat’s plan was to let him process what had happened, then approach him later—maybe that evening, after he had slept—to discuss what, to her, now seemed obvious and inevitable: George had to turn over the bills.

  But she could let it wait for a little while. There was a time to be a cop and force an investigation forward. There was also a time to realize human beings can only be pushed so far. The young Nikki Heat hadn’t always understood that distinction. The older Nikki Heat had learned it well.

  “I’m sorry I involved you in this,” he said meekly, taking another sip of his drink. “When that guy came in and started asking for those bills, I . . . I panicked. All I could think of was how you had been asking about them, so I blurted out your name.”

  “I understand,” Heat said, feeling some much-needed caffeine seeping into her bloodstream. “It’s okay, really.”

  “Your mother didn’t think anyone would ever figure out she had asked me to hide them, but she made me come up with a contingency plan just in case. She was always thinking, your mother. Sorry: is always thinking. I’m still having a hard time remembering she’s alive.”

  “Me too,” Heat said.

  George pulled himself a little closer and leaned in from the other side of the table. “I was supposed to hide another envelope. That was the backup. If anyone ever came at me, I’d lead them to the phony set of bills. The problem was, I forgot where I hid them.”

  Heat just nodded.

  “It’s been seventeen years,” he said, still pleading for her forgiveness even though she had already given it. “It’s a wonder I remember where the originals are.”

  “Yeah,” Heat said softly.

  George’s head bowed. “I guess now you’re going to tell me I should give them to you.”

  She wasn’t, of course—because of that instinct not to push things. But since George was the one bringing it up . . .

  “Here’s the problem, George. Bart Callan—that’s the man who was killed—was working for someone who wants those bills. That someone is going to probably hire another man to get them now. And if Callan had told his employer that he suspected you had them—”

  “They’ll just come after me again,” George said morosely. He was no longer even touching his orange juice.

  “Then there’s the problem of that Chinese man, Colonel Feng. He works for a group called the Shanghai Seven. Even though he was asking about a CD, the Shanghai Seven is eventually going to try to retrieve those bills, too. And they might put two and two together and realize that if whoever Callan worked for was concerned about the bills, they should be concerned about the bills, too.”

  “And then I’ll have even more folks after me,” George said.

  “Yeah, that’s about the size of it.”

  “And you really think . . . you really think you’ll be able to make things safe for Cynthia to come out of hiding if you get those bills? You really think you’ll be able to unravel whatever it was that made her need to hide in the first place?”

  “I don’t want to mislead you, because it might be a dead end,” Heat said. “Having the bills wasn’t enough for my mother to be able to make a case against anyone. It might not be enough for me, either. But it also might be. The fact is I won’t know until I at least have the chance to try. And, yes, I think it’s my mom’s best chance.”

  George seemed to be taking it all in as he brought the orange juice back to his lips.

/>   “Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll show you. But only because it’s the best thing for Cynthia. Not because I’m trying to save my own neck. I hope I have the chance to tell her that in person.”

  “Me too, George. Me too.”

  The omelet and bacon arrived, but Heat was already throwing money on the table and shoving away from it.

  “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  “Aren’t you going to eat?” George asked.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Not for an omelet, anyway.

  * * *

  Manhattan was coming alive as George led the way out of the diner. Newsstands were opening, their clerks unpacking the bundles of papers that had been laid there a short time before. Garbage truck drivers were hurrying to make it through their morning routes before traffic picked up. Bodega owners were rolling up the steel shields that protected their stores at night.

  It was one of the things Nikki Heat loved about her city: that sense of purpose that powered so many of its citizens so relentlessly forward into the promise of a new day.

  And, despite having slept no more than three hours the previous night, she felt the same hope and energy. She was letting George lead the way, not asking where they were going, lest it spook him. She was going to let him do this in his own way, even if she was dying for him to walk just a little faster.

  Still, it didn’t take long for her to figure out where they were going, especially once George made the turn on East 19th Street and she realized he was heading for the alley behind The Players Club. George must not have had a key to the front door. Just the back.

  He paused when he got to the door.

  “Your gun,” he said.

  “What about it?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Heat. You know the policy.”

  She did—no firearms at The Players Club—she just didn’t think it would be enforced at that time of the morning, when the club was empty.

  But she wasn’t going to argue with George. Not when she was so close to the bills. She couldn’t believe she was going to be separated from her service weapon for the second time in four hours—and this time voluntarily, at that. She just quickly scouted around for a hiding spot.