Richard Castle - Naked heat

"Hey!" he shouted again. "What kind of deal?"

Detective Heat stood on the sidewalk getting her squad ready for their second raid of the day, hoping upon hope that her streak would extend and that, in the next few minutes, she'd claim possession of Cassidy Towne's stolen corpse.

According to Rook, it didn't seem like their suspect had much of a motive. Cassidy Towne had dragged him to Richmond Vergennes's new restaurant the week before for its soft opening. Rook said it felt at the time like it was a payback stroke, like she was getting a freebie meal from a TV celebrity chef in exchange for some mentions in her column. Rook said that while he was there he heard the two of them in a shouting match in Vergennes's office. She came out a few minutes later and told Rook to catch up with her the next day. "It didn't stick with me," he told Nikki, "because she argued with everybody, so it didn't seem like a major deal."

Now, just feet from the front door of that very Upper East Side restaurant, a small army of NYPD was deployed. Translation: It did seem like a major deal.

Heat brought up her two-way. "Roach, you in position yet?"

"Good to go," came back Raley's voice over the radio.

Nikki did her customary last-minute detail check. The small detachment of uniforms was doing its job holding pedestrian traffic back on both ends of the sidewalk on Lex. Detective Hinesburg stood behind her and gave her the nod as she adjusted her shield on the lanyard around her neck. Rook took two steps back to position himself, as agreed, behind the two plainclothes from Burglary who were joining the party.

The squad followed Detective Heat, streaming through the front doors of the empty restaurant in a brisk walk. Nikki had waited, timing this to come down right after the lunch service so there wouldn't be customers to deal with. Rook had sketched her the layout of the restaurant, fresh in his mind from his visit the previous week, and Nikki found Richmond Vergennes exactly where Rook said he would be at that time, presiding over the staff meeting at the big table near the showcase kitchen.

One of the busboys, an illegal, saw her first and made a fast exit to the men's room, and his flight made everyone else turn from their staff meal. Heat flashed tin as she strode toward the head of the table and said, "NYPD. Everyone remain seated. Richmond Vergennes, I have a warrant for-"

The celebrity chef's chair tipped back onto the hardwood floor when he bolted. Nikki peripherally registered a few gasps and clangs of dropped silverware from the staff as she took off into the kitchen after him.

Vergennes tried to slow the cops down by sweeping a stack of oval plates onto the floor behind him as he rounded the break in the counter leading to the kitchen, but Nikki didn't even go that way. The stainless serving station was waist-high, designed to allow diners a view of the superstar chef and his crew at work. Heat slapped a palm on it, kicked her legs to the side, and vaulted into the kitchen, dropping just three steps behind Vergennes.

He heard Nikki stick her landing and knocked a tub of ice chips onto the drainage mats. She slipped but didn't fall, yet it gave him some steps on her. But even though the chef was a weekend triathlete, nobody moves fast in Bistro Crocs. Speed wasn't his issue at that point, however. Raley and Ochoa came through the back delivery entrance from the alley and blocked his exit.

Chef Vergennes stopped and made a desperate claw at the set of Wusthofs nested in their rack. He came up brandishing an eight-inch cook's knife and the guns came out. In the chorus of "drop its," he let go of the knife as if the handle were on fire. As soon as it left his hand, Heat came from his blind side and scissor-kicked his legs from under him-the same takedown she had practiced just that morning.

Nikki pulled herself up off the deck and read Vergennes his rights as Ochoa cuffed him. They put him in a chair in the middle of his prep area, and she said, "I'm Detective Heat, Mr. Vergennes. Let's make this easy and you just tell us. Where's the body?"

The ruggedly handsome face seen by millions on TV over the years bled a trickle from a small scrape on his eyebrow from the takedown. Behind Nikki, Chef Vergennes saw his entire staff at the counter, staring in at him. He said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Nikki Heat turned to the squad. "Toss it." An hour later, after searching his restaurant and finding nothing, Heat, Rook, and Roach brought Richmond Vergennes in handcuffs to his SoHo loft off Prince Street. In police custody, he did not look anything at all like a perennial Zagat favorite and Iron Chef candidate. His starched white tunic was soiled, embossed with the grid pattern of the grimy floor mats from his Upper East Side restaurant. A bloodstain the size and shape of a monarch butterfly had dried on the knee of his black-and-white checked chef's pants, another battle prize from Heat's takedown, to complement the cut on his eyebrow, which paramedics had cleaned and Band-Aided.

"You want to save us some trouble here, Chef Richmond?" asked Heat. It was like he didn't hear her. He lowered his gaze and just studied his blue Crocs. "Suit yourself." She turned to her detectives. "Have at it, guys." As they moved off, opening closets, cabinets, anywhere large enough to hide a body, she warned him, "And when we finish searching your loft, we're going to your other restaurant in Washington Square. How much will you lose if we close down The Verge for all your seatings tonight?" He kept his silence, giving nothing.

After they had searched the armoires and closets and a steamer-trunk coffee table in the living room, they put him in a chair in his custom kitchen, a kitchen so large and well appointed, one of the lifestyle cable networks had used it to shoot his series, Cook Like a Vergennes. "You're wasting your time." The chef was trying to sound affronted and wasn't pulling it off. A ball of perspiration hung on the tip of his nose, and when he rocked his head to shake it off, his dark hair, long and parted in the middle, fanned in the air. "There's nothing here you'd be interested in."

"I don't know about that," said Rook. "I wouldn't mind finding the recipe for these jalapeno corn sticks." He was helping himself to a sample from the cast-iron corncob forms on the counter.

"Rook?" said Heat.

"What? They're crunchy outside, moist on the inside, and the kick from the pepper… Mm, the way it melds with the butter… Man."

Ochoa returned from the pantry. "Nothing," he said to Heat.

"Same in the office, and bedrooms," reported Raley as he came in the other doorway. "What's he doing?"

Nikki turned to see Rook's face, contorted into a wince. "Being a nuisance. You know, Rook, this is why we don't let you come along."

"Sorry. I got a little spice issue here. Know what I wish I had? Some sweet tea."

Raley gave Rook a foul look and joined his partner, who was trying to open a locked door at the back of the kitchen. "What's in here?" said Ochoa.

"My wine closet," said the chef. "I have some rare bottles in there worth thousands. And it's temp controlled."

That got Heat very interested. "Where's the key?"

"There is no key, it takes a code."

"OK," she said, "I'll ask nicely. Once. What is the code?" When he said nothing, she added, "I have a warrant."

He seemed amused. "Why don't you use it to jimmy the door?"

"Ochoa, call Demolitions and tell them we need a team with a blast matrix. And evacuate the building."

"Hold on, hold on. Blast matrix? I have a 1945 Chateau Haut-Brion in there." Nikki cupped a hand behind her ear. He sighed and said, "It's 41319."

Ochoa entered the code on the keypad, and a servo motor whirred inside the lock. He flipped on the light switch and stepped into the large closet. After a short moment, he stepped out and shook his head to Heat.