Heat Storm (Castle)

  “You will be pleased to know we are back in possession of the CD,” Feng said. “I took it off of Derrick Storm myself a short time ago.”

  “That’s great. But you’re too late,” Gardner said. “He’s already listened to the recording. He knows everything. I thought you said that encryption was solid.”

  Feng expelled another lungful of smoke. “He seems to have found one of the very few men in the world capable of cracking it. But it’s no great concern.”

  “No concern?” she exploded. “Not to you, perhaps. But what if—”

  “Our intelligence indicates the man who decrypted it is a notorious hermit who suffers from a variety of mental illnesses, including extreme paranoia,” Feng said. “He never leaves his house. His computers do not connect to the Internet. He does not correspond with the outside world beyond placing weekly grocery orders. He is consumed with solving mathematical theorems that have stumped humanity for a hundred years or more. He is not a concern.”

  “But what about Storm? Storm knows.”

  “He knows, yes. But I assure you, he wasn’t able to make a copy of it. So what good will it do him? Without the recording, he would just be an obscure man telling wild stories about one of the most beloved women in the world. You can trust the damage has been contained.”

  “Trust the Shanghai Seven,” Gardner scoffed. “Been there. Done that. Won’t do it again.”

  “It is rather unfortunate that you ever discovered those bills came off our printing presses and not from the US Mint,” Feng said. “You really should have been able to use them with impunity. I’ve always been curious: How did you discover their true nature?”

  Tipping her head toward Heat, Gardner said, “Her mother was my children’s piano teacher. It also turns out that in addition to teaching children how to play ‘Hot Cross Buns,’ she was a top secret government agent with connections and resources at the highest levels.”

  Gardner looked at Heat on that woman-to-woman level, like they were two friends out for lunch. “This is what I mean about pebbles turning into boulders, Nikki.”

  “Ah, so very unfortunate for you,” Feng said. “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? I believe it was an American folksinger who first said, ‘All roads lead to where we stand.’ ”

  Feng chuckled at his own cleverness. Then he pulled the CD from out of the pocket of his jacket. “As you can see, we have taken back that which was stolen from us. All copies of your little discussion with my boss are now back in our control. I trust this means we can count on your cooperation when we call on you?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. But I assure you, we’ll be compensating you well for your cooperation,” Feng said. “Would you like to verify that this is the original?”

  Gardner looked at Null, who seemed to understand her tacit instructions immediately.

  “Come with me, Colonel,” Null said, and the men began walking out of the room.

  “Oh, and John? Be a dear and come back so you can persuade Captain Heat about what’s in her best interest?”

  “Of course, Lindsy.”

  Null pointed the way for Feng, then shut the door behind himself.

  Heat waited until they were gone, then gave Gardner the same kind of don’t-play-me look that suspects often saw from the woman who had become one of the NYPD’s most gifted interrogators.

  “So that’s what started all this,” Heat said. “You took a bribe.”

  “Yes, I took a bribe,” Gardner said. “But it was for a bill that was probably going to pass anyway. And it was a bill that has been beneficial to a lot of people. It’s allowed the expansion of countless US businesses into China, letting them make who-knows-how-many billions of dollars. That’s money in America’s pocket, Nikki. And then there’s what it has done to bring two very different countries closer together culturally. I mean, do you want to really know why the Chinese would never risk going to war with us? It’s not really because we have the world’s best-trained and most technologically advanced military. It’s because of this.”

  Gardner pulled her phone out of her pocket. “Wealthy Chinese are addicted to iPhones. They have to get their hands on the next model. And they’re addicted to Starbucks and Coca-Cola and Marlboro and everything else that comes when we export American capitalism. That all either started or got a huge boost because of this bill.

  “And, yes, I took a bribe. I shouldn’t have. I know that. I just thought, gosh, everyone else is going to make gobs of money off this thing. Why shouldn’t I? I was tired of having to run with a bunch of millionaires who didn’t think twice about dropping five hundred dollars on dinner while I was sitting there worrying about bouncing checks. And, yeah, if I had left the Senate, I could have used my contacts to cash in, but . . . Well, at that point, I would stop being able to push good legislation and help constituents and do all the things I love being able to do in the Senate.”

  “So you took a bribe that allowed you to keep doing good work.”

  “Something like that. It sounds like I’m trying to rationalize totally indefensible behavior, but . . . I’m not a bad person, Nikki. I promise you that. If you come work for me, you’ll see that.”

  Again, Heat had no intention of doing that. But she also recognized that saying otherwise would put her on the short list for a long dirt nap.

  Heat channeled every trick she had once learned as an aspiring professional actress and attempted to fully inhabit the role she was about to play: that of the grateful sellout.

  “And what . . . what would working for you entail, exactly?” she asked.

  “Well, eventually, as my director of Homeland Security, you’d be part of my cabinet, of course. And that would make you an absolutely indispensable voice. More immediately, I’d hope you would join the hive as . . . well, as a kind of second queen, I guess you could say. You would be a powerful voice on the campaign trail. And beyond that, well, I really like you, Nikki. You’d have as much responsibility as you could handle.”

  “That’s nice. But what I really meant is: What would it entail, in light of everything I’ve just learned?”

  “Ah, yes,” Gardner said, looking down at her lap for a moment. It was an act Heat could read as shame. And it could also have been an opening: Heat might have been able to lunge across the desk at the gun and . . .

  Then Gardner looked up. “Well, I would need to know that I can trust you a hundred percent. That I can call on you when I need something, no matter what it is. That you won’t violate the circle of trust in any way.”

  “I see,” Heat allowed.

  “I’m talking total loyalty. I mean, look, it would be in your best interests anyway. The moment you come work for me, we’d be joined at the hip. If I became embroiled in a scandal because certain, ah, indiscretions of mine came to light, you’d be just as tarnished, even if you weren’t directly involved.”

  “I suppose, yes.”

  “So you’d have to make sure none of this”—she interrupted herself by making a circular motion around her desk—“got out. There might be some immediate damage control that needs to be done. For example, this Derrick Storm fellow who sent you this text. Who is he?”

  Heat sensed from the way Gardner asked the question that she really knew nothing about Storm. Feng must not have told her anything. And Heat knew Jedediah Jones went to great lengths to make sure Storm’s profile remained low. The nerds further scrubbed Storm’s footsteps so that the man’s activities left no trace—in the real world, in the virtual world, or anywhere in between.

  “He’s a private eye,” Heat said. “I hired him to help me with this matter.”

  “Do you think you could come up with a story to . . . assuage his curiosity?” Gardner asked.

  “I’m sure I could. I could tell him I had determined conclusively the recording was a well-done fake, and that he should forget he ever heard it. And . . . I mean, ultimately, he works for me and I’m the one paying his bills. If I tell him there’s noth
ing more to investigate, he’ll stop.”

  “Yes, yes,” Gardner said. “That would be excellent. Maybe you should do that now?”

  “I would be happy to,” the former theater major said.

  “You’ll let me look at it before you hit SEND?”

  “Of course.”

  Gardner shoved Heat’s phone across the desk at her, keeping the gun up the whole time, but in a more casual way than before. Heat was still trying to be mindful of any opening Gardner gave her to attack.

  With one eye on Gardner and the other on the screen, Heat tapped out: IT TURNS OUT THE RECORDING IS A HOAX. NOTHING MORE TO INVESTIGATE. THANKS FOR YOUR HELP. PLEASE SEND ME YOUR BILL AS SOON AS POSSIBLE TO MY PRECINCT ADDRESS ON 80TH STREET. IT’S BEEN NICE WORKING WITH YOU!

  Heat turned the phone around and shoved it back at Gardner. The candidate nodded, satisfied, then hit SEND.

  “Well, that’s a good start. Now. Those bills. We really need to destroy them. It won’t do anyone any good to have them still circulating around.”

  “Of course not,” Heat said.

  She reached into the jacket of her pantsuit, quickly fanned open the envelope, and plucked out four bills. She placed them on the desk.

  “Excellent. That was easy, wasn’t it?” Gardner said, smiling her best librarian’s smile, like Heat was a fifth grader who had just entered her thirtieth book on her summer reading list.

  Gardner took out a handkerchief and wiped both sides of each bill until the fingerprint dust—and the fingerprints they highlighted—were completely gone. Then she dropped the bills into a shredder, which chewed them into oblivion.

  As she finished, Null reentered the room. Heat’s phone chirped.

  “I assume that’s Derrick Storm’s reply,” Gardner said. “Do you mind if I look?”

  Gardner had already grabbed the phone.

  “Go right ahead,” Heat said.

  Gardner read Storm’s reply aloud: “ ‘I copy. Good to hear, because that means I can still vote for her and not the other guy. I’ll mail you that invoice as soon as I can!’ ”

  Slowly, Gardner lowered the gun to desk level. “Well, that settles everything, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Heat said, feeling like she had just pulled off a Tony Award–worthy performance. “Yes, it does.”

  “We should shake on it,” Gardner said, standing and reaching out her hand. “Then I’ll ask John to show you out.”

  Gardner made another one of those head gestures that only Null seemed to know how to read.

  Heat stood and started reaching for Gardner’s hand.

  Except the moment Heat’s body had lifted from the chair, she felt a rope closing around her arms and torso. Then it cinched tight at her back. Null, who held the other end of the rope, yanked with enough force to pull Heat off her feet.

  “Is the helicopter prepared?” Gardner asked.

  “Gassed up and ready to go,” Null said. “Range should be about three hundred and thirty miles.”

  “Good. Let’s take her out beyond the continental shelf and drop her from about five thousand feet. The fall will kill her. The sharks will get whatever is left.”

  Gardner walked from behind the desk and peered down at Heat. Null was approaching with what Heat recognized as a Taser, all charged up and ready to stun.

  “Sorry, Nikki,” Gardner said, moments before Null pulled the trigger. “There’s only one queen bee in this hive, and it’s me.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  STORM

  Carl Storm couldn’t have been more antsy if he were a five-year-old trapped one room away from the tree on Christmas morning.

  “Wait, Cynthia Heat is coming here? Now?” he asked.

  “Yeah. What’s the matter?” Rook asked.

  “Do you have mints or a toothbrush I could borrow?” Carl asked.

  “I think I might have a can of Binaca,” Rook said. “It might be a little old, but—”

  “I’ll take it,” Carl said.

  Rook disappeared in the direction of his bathroom. Derrick was looking at his father, appropriately mortified. “Dad, seriously. I don’t think fresh breath is at the top of anyone’s list of concerns at the moment.”

  “Speak for yourself, son,” Carl said. “My breath smells like a squirrel died in my mouth. I’ve got to do something about it before she gets here.”

  Rook returned with the breath spray and tossed it toward Carl, who promptly pumped a big shot into his mouth.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Here.”

  Carl went to hand it back, but Rook held up both hands.

  “Keep it. In case an emergency arises later.”

  “Thanks,” Carl said.

  Just then, the buzzer rang. Rook walked over to it. “Yes?” he said.

  “Cynthia Heat here.”

  Rook pressed the buzzer to allow her entry. “That was fast,” he said.

  “I keep telling you,” Carl said, “she’s one heck of a woman.”

  Derrick didn’t have time to process the implications of his father’s insta-crush on Nikki Heat’s mother. She was already there, ringing the doorbell.

  Rook opened the door for her. Then, for a moment, all three men just stared at her.

  For Rook and the younger Storm, it wasn’t merely that Cynthia’s dimensions, features, or coloring were so similar to Nikki’s. It was that she inhabited the space in the same way. She breathed the same way. Her small mannerisms were the same. Even the way she carried her weight slightly on the balls of her feet—like she was ready for anything that came at her—was the same. The resemblance went beyond striking and didn’t even stop at uncanny on its way to eerie.

  For Rook especially, it was like Nikki Heat—a woman he had loved for years, a woman he thought he knew better than any other— had been revealed to him in a new way. Because, for the first time, he understood where she came from.

  For the elder Storm, whose square jaw had suddenly gone slack, the interest in studying Cynthia Heat had a somewhat simpler, more primal, genesis.

  Cynthia took one step into the apartment and grabbed both of Rook’s hands.

  “Jameson,” she said, in a voice that was ever-so-slightly deeper and more mature-sounding than Nikki’s. “It is so wonderful to finally meet you. I don’t . . . I don’t even know where to start thanking you for the way you’ve loved and protected my daughter. We have so much lost time to make up for.”

  “And we will. But first things first . . .”

  “Of course,” she said. She walked up to the Storm boys.

  “You must be Derrick Storm,” she said, shaking his hand. “I have to be honest, I’ve heard so many stories about you, I assumed you were one of those intelligence community myths that comes along every now and then.”

  “I could say the same of you,” Derrick replied. “Some of the coups you pulled off with the Nanny Network are agency legend.”

  Then she turned to Carl. “And, hello, who is this ruggedly handsome gentleman?”

  “Carl Storm, miss,” he said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Charmed. Very charmed,” she said, beaming at him. Then she turned to face the other two.

  “So,” she said. “What are we dealing with?”

  “How about I explain on our way to The Marlowe?” Rook suggested.

  “Practicality,” Cynthia said. “I like that in a son-in-law.”

  Derrick looked at Rook. “As long as we’re being practical, you don’t happen to have any weapons lying around here, do you?”

  Rook held aloft a Writers Edition Hemingway Montblanc fountain pen. “I certainly do.”

  Derrick shook his head in disgust. “That’s really not what I’m talking about. Let’s just go.”

  “Hang on,” Rook said, then went quickly to a nearby closet. He pulled out a bulletproof vest with JOURNALIST printed on it in bold white letters and emblazoned with a pair of tiny replica Pulitzer Prizes.

  “There,” he said. “Now I’m ready.”

  * * *


  The Storms’ rental car was still in front of the hydrant where they’d left it. All four piled in—Derrick and Carl Storm, Cynthia Heat and Jameson Rook, all of them already starting to feel like some kind of big, strange, modern American family.

  Derrick drove. The other three alternated between hanging on as he took turns too fast and getting Cynthia up to speed with what they knew. It wasn’t difficult. She knew so much of it already. It had been her saga for seventeen years.

  They were nearing The Marlowe when Derrick’s phone signaled an incoming text.

  Derrick handed it to Rook to read out loud.

  “ ‘It turns out the recording is a hoax. Nothing more to investigate. Thanks for your help. Please send me your bill as soon as possible to my precinct address on 80th Street. It’s been nice working with you!’ ”

  When he was done, Rook didn’t hesitate with his analysis. “Okay, there’s now no question this is a hostage situation,” he said. “She finished it with an exclamation point. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that woman use an exclamation point.”

  “That’s because you didn’t know her in the third grade,” Cynthia said. “Thankfully, she grew out of them in the fourth.”

  “The ‘80th Street’ is code for something,” Derrick said. “The precinct is on 82nd Street.”

  “That’s her telling us she’s on the 80th floor,” Rook said. “She knows I have the Find My iPhone app installed. But that doesn’t do 3-D. So she’s giving us that final piece.”

  “We need to reply,” Derrick said as he gunned the engine to swerve around a taxicab.

  “Whoever sent that line of hogwash wants us to swallow it whole,” Carl said. “So let’s do it. We have to assume that Lindsy Gardner, or whoever is holding Nikki hostage, will be the one reading it. We can’t risk alerting them that we know Nikki is in trouble. Surprise is pretty much our only advantage right now.”

  “Handsome and intuitive,” Cynthia Heat said. “My, my, such a package.”

  “I agree,” Rook said, then clarified: “That is, I agree with Carl that we should play along. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I agree with Cynthia, too. But perhaps not as strongly. No offense, Mr. Storm.”