Naked Heat (30 page)

Other customers were coming in, so he leaned forward over the table to lower his voice, which was shaky and hoarse. “After what happened to Cassidy, I thought I should tell Soleil. To warn her.”

“Maybe. But you were also star kissing. I’m sure you didn’t know what she was going to do, but you couldn’t resist working the favor bank. That’s how it goes, isn’t it? And then you pump me a little, and then details about me showing Soleil autopsy photos at
Later On
end up in print.” She paused. “Please tell me you aren’t The Stinger.”

“Me? No.”

“But you know her.”

“Him. Yeah.”

Heat made sure she had his full attention before she said, “Petar, I don’t know what happened to you, maybe it was there in you all along and that’s why we split.”

“I’m just trying to do the job, Nikki, I’m not a bad person.”

Nikki studied him and said, “No, I don’t believe you are. I just find you to be a bit morally vague.”

Heat put money on the table for her drink and left.

As she crossed to the door, she flashed back to almost ten years ago, the last time she’d walked out on Petar. That time it was on a winter night in a coffeehouse in the West Village and a Bob Dylan song was playing on some rafter speakers. The song came back to her now, echoing her sentiments just as it did then. “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right.”

Still steeped in Dylan’s blameless melancholy about relationships, Nikki paused on the top step outside Lalo to button her brown leather jacket for the short walk to work. In front of a diner up the street, she saw her friend Lauren Parry getting out of a taxi. Heat was about to call out to her but stopped when she spotted Detective Ochoa getting out of the cab behind her and rushing ahead to get the front door for her. With an exaggerated flourish, he swept his arm, gesturing Lauren inside, and the couple entered laughing for their breakfast date. Or perhaps, thought Nikki, their morning-after brunch. The sight of the two made her forget Dylan for the moment. She breathed in the crisp autumn air and thought—or at least hoped—that maybe once in a while it was better than just all right.

When she stepped down to the sidewalk, Heat paused again, recalling how this was the exact spot where she had encountered the coyote days before. Nikki let her eyes roam the street, running that slide show in her mind.

Then she saw it.

The coyote wasn’t where it had been before. This time it was at a distance, sniffing the sidewalk up at the corner of Broadway where the trash had just been collected. She watched it lower its head to the concrete and lick a patch. She continued to watch it silently, and yet part of her wanted to call out a “
H
ey” or perhaps whistle just to get a reaction. Or to make the connection.

As she was having these thoughts, the animal raised its head. And looked right at her.

The two of them stood there watching each other from a block away. Its narrow face was too far off to make out detail, but in its matted coat and chunky fur Heat could read the story of the week it had had, pursued by copters and cameras. Its head rose a little higher to stare at her, and in that moment she stood naked to its eyes. Then it folded its ears back, and from that gesture Heat felt a sense of what she could only describe as the kinship between two beings that had endured a week out of their element.

She raised her hand tentatively to wave. As she brought it up, a car drove down the street, passing the animal, blocking it for a second from her view.

When the car passed, the coyote was gone.

Nikki lowered her hand and started off back to the precinct. At the corner of Amsterdam, waiting to cross, she looked back the other way just to check, but it was still gone. She understood why. They both knew the need to find cover.

That night Nikki let herself into her apartment, where Rook sat at the dining table with his work spread out. “How’s the article coming?”

“What? No ‘Honey, I’m home’?”

“Never,” she said as she went over to stand behind his chair and lace her arms around his neck.

“I knew if I came here I wouldn’t get any work done.” And then he tilted his face to hers and they kissed.

She moved into the kitchen and called out to him while she fished two beers out of the fridge. “You could always go back to your loft and draw your inspiration from writing at an actual crime scene.”

“No, thanks. I’ll go back there after the hazmat cleanup tomorrow.” He took one of the bottles from her and they clinked. “A double killing is going to wreak havoc on my resale value. I wonder if I have to declare.”

“Like you’ll ever sell that place,” she said.

“Listen, sorry about you and Petar.”

She finished a sip of beer and shrugged. “It happens. Sadly, but it happens,” she said, keeping it half-full, as ever. “I was hoping we could be friends.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Liar.”

Rook reflected on what he had unearthed about Petar’s smuggling and his jail time, but instead he looked at her and smiled. “I dunno. Seemed like an OK guy.”

“Pants on fire,” she said as she moved into the living room.

“Hey, where are you going? I was just about to make my move.”

She settled onto the couch and said, “You make your move onto that keyboard. Let’s hear some clicking over there, Mr. Rook. I want all the Nikki Heats off the newsstands now.”

He typed a bit and then said, “You don’t feel neglected?”

“No, you go on, I’ll just be reading.”

“Anything good?”

“Hm,” she said, “it’s all right, I suppose. Something called
Her Endless Knight
.” Rook was already up and out of his chair on his way to her before she could add, “By Victoria St. Clair.”

“What do you mean ‘
I
t’s all right’? That’s quality fiction, professionally written.”

He sat beside her and she opened to a page, reciting, “ ‘Her need for him was met in the sanctuary of his long arms and broad shoulders as he enveloped her in the coach.’ ” She set the book on her lap. “Not terrible.”

“I can do better on the next one,” Rook said. “All I need is a little inspiration.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Heat put the book on the floor and drew him on top of her, letting herself fall backward onto the couch. Rook kissed her and she rose to him. They tasted each other passionately and deeply. As he began to explore her with his hands, Nikki gave him a simmering look and said, “Go ahead. Rip my bodice.”

Acknowledgments

As a writer, I can think of no greater terror than confronting a blank page, except perhaps the terror of being shot at. This past year I’ve faced both. Fortunately, I didn’t have to face either circumstance alone. When bullets are flying, whether literal or metaphoric, it’s good to have trusted friends watching your back.

First and foremost, I’d like to thank the dedicated members of the NYPD’s 12th precinct for allowing me access to their world. Many of the details in this book are a direct result of my experiences watching New York’s finest in action. Special thanks are due to Detectives Kate Beckett, Javier Esposito, Kevin Ryan and Captain Roy Montgomery for not simply putting up with me, but including me in their professional family.

I’d also like to thank Dr. Lanie Parish and her staff at New York’s Office of Chief Medical Examiner for their infinite patience in the face of my endless and no doubt occasionally stupid questions like, “If he’s dead, why is he still moving?”

A debt is owed to my associates on the third floor Clune. You guys never cease to amaze me with your imagination and insight. I wouldn’t be half the writer I am without your support. Actually, I would be half the writer I am, which would make me too short to ride the rides at Disneyland. Hence my gratitude.

To Terri E. Miller, my co-conspirator, and to Nathan, Stana, Seamus, Jon, Ruben, Molly, Susan and Tamala—your tireless professionalism makes every day a joy.

Thanks to Richard Johnson of the
The New York Post
’s “Page Six” for generously sharing his time and expertise in my background research. For the parts of covering the celebrity journalism beat I got right, I owe gratitude to Richard and thank him for his kindness.

Many thanks to my friends at Black Pawn Publishing, especially Gina Cowell for staying on top of me through the final stages of writing. A huge tip of the hat to my editor, Gretchen Young, for her insight and patience, to Elizabeth Sabo Morick and the crew at Hyperion for all their support, and to Melissa Harling-Walendy at ABC for her guidance along the way.

Thanks to my agent, Sloan Harris at ICM. He’s taken many a bullet for me in his time, and shot quite a few back, I dare say.

My deepest gratitude goes to my lovely and loving daughter, Alexis. You are my greatest joy and the source of so much of my strength. And thanks to my mother, Martha Rodgers, as well, for providing me with the sort of fiery childhood that inevitably forges novelists.

This book would not be what it is without two very dear friends. Andrew Marlowe guided, led, held both compass and flashlight, and steered me from cliff and ditch. His inspiration is cherished as much as his friendship. Somehow he even managed to make confetti and streamers shower down at the conclusion of that first story conference. And Tom was there early morning and late at night, helping me confront the terror of the blank page and inspiring my pen to work whatever magic is found within these pages.

To the remarkable Jennifer Allen, I can only say it’s such a lovely ride-along.

And to you, the fans, my very special appreciation. Your belief and your standards bring the heat to every page.

RC

The Hamptons, July 2010

About the Author

Richard Castle
is the author of numerous bestsellers, including 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.

Nikki Heat and Jameson Rook are together again in Richard Castle’s thrilling follow-up to his
New York Times
bestseller,
Heat Wave
.

When New York’s most vicious gossip columnist, Cassidy Towne, is found dead, Heat uncovers a gallery of high profile suspects, all with compelling motives for killing the most feared muckraker in Manhattan.

Heat’s murder investigation is complicated by her surprise reunion with superstar magazine journalist Jameson Rook. In the wake of their recent breakup, Nikki would rather not deal with their raw emotional baggage. But the handsome, wise-cracking Pulitzer Prize-winning writer’s personal involvement in the case forces her to team up with Rook anyway. The residue of their unresolved romantic conflict and crackling sexual tension fills the air as Heat and Rook embark on a search for a killer among celebrities and mobsters, singers and hookers, pro athletes and shamed politicians.

This new, explosive case brings on the heat in the glittery world of secrets, cover-ups, and scandals.

Copyright