Nobody seemed in a hurry. It had the menacing feel of something that had been worked out. Huddleston was the only one agitated, whining, “Aw, come on, don’t bust me, my dad’ll kill me,” and “Do you have any idea who my dad is?”
Steljess could be heard now, “Shut the fuck up,” right before he kicked him in the ass as he bent over the car. Huddleston shouted curses that were ignored as they hauled him upright by the cuffs and started to lead him toward the warehouse.
The bravado of privilege turned on a dime to fear. Huddleston freaked. “Hey, where are you—? Just take me to jail then . . . What are you doing?” He tried to make a break. “Hey?!” But the four cops held him in check easily.
The video shook as the camera adjusted its angle to track the group. When it settled again, they were nearing the warehouse under the graffiti-tagged sign for the uniform rental company that once operated there. The door opened from the inside and a man held it wide for them. Nikki didn’t recognize him but figured he completed the set of five—Ingram, the SUV driver she killed in the Transverse.
When Ingram pulled the warehouse door shut, Barclay kept rolling, but there was a lull. Heat used the interval to assess the room. Eyes were transfixed. Nobody made a sound. Phyllis Yarborough was the only one not staring. Her head was bowed to her lap.
Huddleston’s screams burst into the night, jarring everyone in the conference room. Bodies shifted, leaning in toward the flat-screen. In its own way, this point of view of a desolate industrial zone in the middle of the night, whose solitude was cut by shrieks and cries, seemed more chilling than watching his actual torture. But everyone there had heard about the TENS. And they all knew what was happening to the kid in there. And as bad as it sounded to them, it had to have been hell on earth inside. The uncomfortable minutes they endured as the electrocution continued must have seemed eternal to the howling victim.
In the eerie quiet when it was done, a dog barked in the distance. The door opened, and a sobbing Huddleston, limp and spent, was carried out. They bore him upright by the armpits with his toes dragging the ground behind him. Van Meter broke off from the pack and held a walkie-talkie up to his mouth. His words didn’t pick up, but there was a squelch when he was done. Seconds later another metallic Crown Victoria pulled up.
And Phyllis Yarborough got out.
They had him inside his car by then, Torres even using his gloved hands to buckle the seat belt. He stepped aside to let her stand facing Huddleston, who was beseeching her, “Please, help me, please . . .”
“Do you know who I am?” she said.
He peered at her and became suddenly animated. “Oh, fuck me, oh no . . .”
“Good, you do.” He cried and muttered drooling pleas, and when his words degenerated into quiet sobs, she said, “Take this moment to hell, you filthy son of a bitch.”
She stepped away, and Sergio Torres slammed the car door. They both joined the others on the other side of the car. “Kill him,” said Phyllis Yarborough.
Steljess opened the passenger door and leaned inside. Soon American Idiot came blasting hot from the car speakers. Under the blare of Green Day, the interior was illuminated by a muzzle flash and the glass blew out of the driver’s side window.
The video jostled as the camera moved from its perch on the wall. The next shot was a blur of motion as Barclay slowly backed away from his hideout. His foot must have knocked over a bottle. After the glass tink and roll came a shout from the cops. “Somebody’s there!”
Barclay didn’t hesitate but ran full-bore up the street, the video whooshing and shaking like earthquake footage as he sprinted. In the distance came their voices, blending together: “Street . . .” “Camera!” and “Stop!”
But Alan Barclay didn’t stop. The last of his video was the camera flying onto his passenger seat and rolling onto the floor as rubber squealed and the videographer escaped. He got away that night carrying the deadly secret he would hide until years later when Captain Montrose canvassed the old crime scene and an elderly night watchman at a bakery told him about the man he’d seen running away with the camera.
The lights came up and Yarborough was glaring at Heat.
“There’s your proof, Deputy Commissioner. Proof that you waited two years for the dust to settle before you got your revenge. Proof that you paid off those cops and then conspired all these years to keep a lid on it. And I’m going to make an educated guess that, along the way, you utilized your job as tech czar to monitor for any signs of discovery. Like Montrose reopening the old case; like me pulling Huddleston’s computer file; like hacking Jameson Rook’s e-mail and sending it to that reporter to get me suspended when I was getting too close. . . . After your boys weren’t up to the job of killing me.” Heat shrugged. “That part I don’t have to prove.
“You know, the first time I met you, I remember we talked about revenge and justice. And do you recall telling me that all your accounts were settled? I think we just got confirmation.”
“Damn you for this.” To Phyllis Yarborough it was as if she and Nikki were the only two in the room. Her indignation had been stripped away, leaving only the raw hurt and a wound, a decade old and still open. Her face was composed, but tears fell down both cheeks. “You, of all people, should know how it feels to be a victim, Nikki.”
Heat felt her own ache, sadly present every day. “I do, Phyllis,” she said softly. “That’s why I’m sending you to jail.”
A searing blue sky freshened Manhattan as a brilliant rising sun warmed the city for the first time in a week. It reflected on row upon row of badges facing the cathedral on Fifth Avenue, making the thousands of chests that wore them sparkle like a single vast treasure of radiant diamonds. New York’s Finest—plus cops from Port Authority and New York State—stood shoulder to shoulder, filling both sidewalk and street, their numbers obscuring pavement, windows, and walls.
When Detective Nikki Heat emerged at the top of the steps, bearing the front corner of the casket, there was nothing to see that morning outside St. Patrick’s but an ocean of dress blue and white gloves in salute. A lone bagpipe played the opening notes of the sober, joyful “Amazing Grace” and was soon joined by the full pipes and muffled drums of the NYPD’s Emerald Society. The only thing missing that morning was Rook. As Heat beheld the spectacle, she could only imagine how Jameson Rook would have captured it. And made it live beyond the day.
She and the other pallbearers, including Detectives Raley and Ochoa, and Eddie Hawthorne, descended slowly, carrying the fallen commander under the traditional flag of green and white stripes.
Once his body was in the hearse, Heat, Raley, Ochoa, and Hawthorne moved across the avenue to fall in with the grim block of detectives in their tan overcoats. Nikki chose the spot beside Detective Feller, who had stubbornly abandoned his wheelchair for the moment to stand out of respect.
The mayor, the commissioner, and all the other top brass descended from the cathedral to the curb and stood, either saluting or with hands over hearts, before the remains of Captain Charles Montrose at the Full Honors funeral Nikki had attained.
At the conclusion of “Amazing Grace,” the elite motorcycle brigade formed up for escort at the front of the car while the band made two columns behind the vehicle. The muffled drums began their somber cadence, the motorcycles rolled slowly, and the hearse followed.
Then Nikki heard them coming. The low drone sounded just like the pipes at first, but the sound grew, expanding until the thundering vibration shook the concrete canyons of Midtown. Discipline wavered as all eyes ascended to see four NYPD helicopters zoom up Fifth Avenue. The instant they were above the cathedral, one of the choppers pulled up and broke away. The other three continued on in Missing Man Formation.
As soon as they were gone, she returned her attention to the passing hearse, saluting her captain, mentor, and friend. As it moved by the dignitaries, the police commissioner caught Heat’s eye and gave her an approving nod. At least that’s what it looked like through the haze
of her tears.
The first thing Nikki did when she entered Rook’s room in ICU was to check the screen for activity. Heartened to see regular green spikes, she stood over him and took his hand. She squeezed lightly and waited, hoping, but her only feedback was his warmth, which was something, anyway. Leaning carefully over his breathing tubes, she kissed his forehead, which felt dry to her lips. His eyes were closed, but when the lids fluttered, she took his fingers in hers again. Nothing. One of them must have been dreaming.
Exhausted from the day, she pulled the plastic guest chair bedside and sat, resting her eyes. She awoke with a start an hour later when her cell phone vibrated. It was a text from Ochoa, who had just gotten confirmation from Ballistics that the bullet he had recovered from the water tower checked out as Montrose’s, matching the reloads from the belt mag. She had just texted back to congratulate him when the nurse came in to hang a fresh bag on the IV tree. The nurse stepped out, only to return a moment later. She placed a container of orange juice and a chewy granola bar on the tray for Nikki and left again.
Heat sat there for another hour, simply watching the rise and fall of Rook’s chest, glad for that miracle and knowing that she would so never hear the end of this.
If he pulled through.
During the eleven o’clock news she ate her snack, and when it ended, she muted the TV. With the report that steam service had been fully restored to all of Manhattan by now, she could finally go back to her apartment. Nikki thought of her own bed . . . of the bubble bath that awaited her. She got up and picked up her coat, but didn’t put it on. Instead, she pulled out the paperback from the side pocket and sat back down.
“Are you ready for some cultural stimulation, Mr. Rook?” Heat glanced up at him and then back to the cover of the novel. “ ‘Castle of Her Endless Longing, by Victoria St. Clair.’ Like the title. . . .” She turned to the first chapter and began to read aloud, “ ‘Lady Kate Sackett stared forlornly out of the carriage as it bounced along the muddy, rutted byway outside her ancestral village in the northland. She was contemplating the brooding form of the castle built into the cliffs when a young man on horseback cantered up to her window and kept pace. He was handsome in a roguish way, the sort of rascal who would charm a more naïve woman for his own sport and be gone. “Pleasant, morning, m’ lady,” he said. “These are dangerous woods just ahead. Could I offer to ride along?” ’ ”
Heat reached out and gently laced her fingers between Rook’s, watched his breathing once more, and then returned to the book. Happy to read to him endlessly.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A chef never makes a meal alone. I learned this the hard way as a latchkey kid, bored and hungry with a craving for cherries flambé. Who knew cognac could take off like that? Or that my mother wouldn’t appreciate the irony of coming home from her triumphant Broadway performance in Burn This to charred walls and a disapproving hook-and-ladder crew?
Much like cuisine, you need help making a book (although there’s less risk of fire—unless you count the unfortunate book burning of one of my early Derrick Storm novels). So these pages are reserved for me to tip my big, tall, chef’s toque to the many cooks who actually improved the broth.
As ever, I am in the debt of the top professionals at the 12th Precinct who tolerate me still. Detective Kate Beckett has shown me the ropes of homicide investigation, not to mention how to make sense of songs. Her colleagues, Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan, have welcomed me like the brothers I never had. And the late Captain Roy Montgomery, to whom this book is dedicated, was a great mentor to all who worked under him and an even greater man to all who knew him.
Dr. Lanie Parish at the Office of Chief Medical Examiner has given me almost as many insights as she has eye rolls. I may be a pain in the ass sometimes, but I do like to think I break up a day when you work in a refrigerated environment.
While my thoughts are on 30th Street, let me give special thanks to Ellen Borakove, the Director of Public Affairs for the Office of Chief Medical Examiner in Manhattan, who gave generously of her time while I researched this book. She is a shining example of the compassion, dignity, and respect evident throughout the staff there. I am grateful to Ellen for all she taught me on my guided tour of the facility—especially how to breathe.
The folks in the Clinton Building at Raleigh remain my heroes. You amaze, surprise, and keep it fresh always. And Terri Edda Miller, ever by my side, thank you for choosing the title. So much better than Heat, Heat, Heat.
The lovely Jennifer Allen continues to teach me the secret o’ life. May it be a long lesson.
To Nathan, Stana, Seamus, Jon, Ruben, Molly, Susan, and Tamala—you remain the embodiment of dreams that come true relentlessly and tirelessly. You always bring the heat.
I have gone too long without mentioning my darling Alexis, whose every glowing, beautiful, pure, and wise moment causes me to soar with pride and to recheck the birth certificate. Yes, thankfully, she is my daughter. And let me also celebrate my mother, Martha Rodgers, who taught me that a story can be performance, that life can be art, and that the cognac goes in the pan when it’s off the burner.
Thanks to Black Pawn Publishing and, especially, to Gina Cowell for giving me the space to follow my bliss. Gretchen Young, my editor, continues to be a staunch ally and cherished colleague. A shout out to her, Elizabeth Sabo Morick, and to everyone at Hyperion for believing. Melissa Harling-Walendy and her team at ABC continue to make this a dream association.
My agent, Sloan Harris at ICM, has been in my corner since our first handshake years ago. He deserves my deepest gratitude for the unwavering support and faith he has shown.
There is an empty chair at my weekly poker game. Connelly, Lehane, and I decided to keep dealing you in, Mr. Cannell, and somehow you keep winning. As it was in life, my friend and mentor. You had me at Rockford.
Andrew Marlowe is a gift. He inspires, he guides, he creates, he performs, he simply makes it all work. How many people are you glad to hear on the other end of your phone when it rings? Andrew, for your talent, bravery, and, mostly, your friendship, thank you. And Tom, you had a hand in this one again, too. Like I said, bad things can happen when the chef’s alone in the kitchen. Thanks for working the line, braving the burners, and pulling your share of late shifts along the way.
Finally, to the fans, please know how you are admired and honored. You are the reason for it all.
RC
New York City, June 2011
About the Author
© AMERICAN BROADCASTING COMPANIES, INC.
Richard Castle is the author of numerous bestsellers, including Heat Wave, Naked Heat, and the critically acclaimed Derrick Storm series. His first novel, In a Hail of Bullets, published while he was still in college, received the Nom DePlume Society's prestigious Tom Straw Award for Mystery Literature. Castle currently lives in Manhattan with his daughter and mother, both of whom infuse his life with humor and inspiration.
Readers Group Guide
Heat Wave, Naked Heat, Heat Rises, three novels by Richard Castle
Richard Castle has generated three edgy crime dramas for beautiful, whip-smart lead detective Nikki Heat. In them all, with the help of her trusted team, Heat navigates the challenging streets of New York City, the politics of big city police work, and an evolving professional and personal relationship with investigative journalist Jameson Rook. Driven in large part by the emotional trauma of her own mother’s murder, Heat dedicates herself to her work in a way that often puts her personal safety aside so that she might find justice for the victims. But whether fighting a Russian former boxer twice her size, a grimy Texan who uses dental instruments to torture his victims, or an internationally trained sniper in Central Park, Heat relies on her training and instincts to “Assess. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.”
Discussion Questions
1. What are the effects of Castle choosing a woman for his lead detective? How does it influence the action? What subplots result from having a heroine instead
of a hero?
2. What is the importance of ego in a detective’s work? When does Heat display a strong ego and when does she seem humble or shift attention away from herself?
3. In Naked Heat, how does Rook’s profile of Heat in a national magazine affect her efforts to balance leadership and teamwork? In what ways does it make her job more difficult? Does it benefit her in any way?
4. Every time Nikki is about to confront a new homicide victim she takes a moment to breathe deeply and focus her attention. What are the reasons for this ritual? What effect does it have on the scene? What does it add to Heat’s character?
5. Consider Heat’s training mantra when she finds herself in a very dangerous situation: “Assess. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.” Would this be a helpful approach to more everyday challenges, or just extreme ones?
6. Throughout the novels, Heat has a contentious professional relationship with Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Jameson Rook. Both are skilled investigators. When it comes to working a criminal case, what’s different about the approach of a detective and that of a journalist?
7. What professional skills does Rook possess that are helpful to the investigations? Do any of these skills hinder the team’s effectiveness? What professional tendencies of his seem contrary to police work?
8. Discuss what Rook’s personality brings to the stories.
9. Heat’s personal relationship with Rook is in different stages of intimacy in each of the three novels. How does each new stage affect Heat personally and professionally? In what ways is the plot of each story affected by their relationship status?