Richard Castle - Naked heat

Ripton signaled Wolf with a head nod. The Texan stepped out of the room and came back in with an old-fashioned black leather physician's satchel. It was weathered and embossed with a caduceus stamped with a "V." Rook remembered the FBI report on Wolf, whose father had been a veterinarian. And that the son liked to torture animals.

"I told you I don't have it."

Jess Ripton squinted at him like he was mulling which of two shirts to buy. "You have it."

Wolf set the satchel on the desk. "A little help?" He couldn't manage the buckle one-handed, and Ripton gave him an assist. "Obliged."

"You just read my article. If I had it, wouldn't the information you want-whatever it is-be in there? How do you prove a negative?"

"I'll tell you how, Mr. Rook." Ripton touched his forefinger to his lips as he chose his words, and then continued. "In fact, I can prove you have it by negatives. One, actually. Ready?"

Rook didn't answer. He just made a fast check of the Texan, who was placing his dental picks in a tidy row on the desktop.

"The negative is as follows. In all the time since my associate and I got here, you never asked one simple question." The Firewall paused for effect. "You never once asked what I was doing here." A burning sensation grew in Rook's gut as the handler continued. "I never got a 'Hey, Jess Ripton, I know this cowboy is involved in all this, but you? You're Toby Mills's guy. What the hell does Toby Mills have to do with all this?' Am I right? You not asking that is what I call negative proof."

Rook's head raced to cover his omission. "That? Well, that's simple. We talked to you a couple of times on this case, of course I wasn't surprised."

"Don't insult my intelligence, Rook. When you and your lady cop checked out Toby, you were fishing with no bait. He was just a name on your list. And you certainly never had anything to connect Toby, ergo me, with Slim here." He waited, but Rook said nothing. "So by not asking, that tells me you know damn well why I am here and what happened that night with Toby and Reed Wakefield. And I want to know where the chapter is that told you that story."

"I already said I don't have it."

"Now, see, you think you're being smart," said Jess. "You think the only thing keeping you alive is that if we kill you, you can't tell us where that chapter is. But, see, here's the thing. In a couple minutes, my friend here is going to get you to tell us anyway. And in between…? You're going to wish you were dead." He turned to Wolf. "Do your thing. I'll go check the bedroom." He went to the doorway and stopped. "Nothing personal, Rook. Given the choice, I don't need to see this."

When he left, Rook struggled against his bonds, bucking in the chair.

"Not gonna help, buddy," said the Texan as he picked up one of his dental tools.

Rook felt something tear near his ankle. He pushed harder and succeeded in ripping one of his legs free of the duct tape. He slammed his foot onto the floor under his desk and shoved off, trying to jam the chair into Wolf. But the man was quick and snatched him in a choke hold with his left arm, trapping Rook's neck in a vise grip between his jaw and his armpit. Wolf still held the dental tool in his left hand, and slowly, trying to keep it steady against Rook's struggling and kicking, he began to curve his wrist inward toward Rook's head. Just as Rook began to feel a sharp graze on the outer rim of his ear canal, he tried another tactic. Instead of pushing back against his assailant, he quickly reversed and threw his torso forward with desperate force.

The dental pick skittered across the blotter, and for the moment, Rook's move worked. The momentum tossed Wolf forward onto the edge of the desk. He landed on his wounded right shoulder and cried out in pain, clutching his collarbone.

The man sat down on the floor, panting like a dog in August. Rook tried to push himself away from between his desk and the wall, but the chair rollers were speed-bumped by debris on the floor. He had started kicking harder, in a futile attempt to get over a three-hole punch and his radio controller, when the Texan rose up to examine the quarter-sized circle of blood ghosting through the shoulder of his shirt. He looked from his reopened wound over to Rook and whispered a curse. Then he balled a fist hard enough to turn the knuckle skin white and drew back his arm to hit him.

"Freeze it there, Wolf." Nikki Heat stood in the doorway, holding her Sig Sauer on the Texan.

Rook said, "Nikki, careful, Jess Ripton is-"

"Right here," he said as his arm reached in from the hall and he placed the muzzle of his Glock against her temple. "Let it fall, Detective."

Heat had no alternative. With a literal gun to her head, she saw no option but to comply. There was an easy chair between her and the fireplace, and she tossed her gun onto the cushion, hoping to keep it close by.

When Rook hadn't answered his phone the second time, her suspicion had grown and she couldn't shake it. She had never known him not to return a call, and Nikki couldn't get past the concern that there was a disturbance in the Rook Force. Ribbing aside about showing up unannounced, she decided that was exactly what she would do. If it was awkward, let it be awkward. Nikki decided she would rather deal with that than light up the radar with a door buzz if her worries were founded.

After ringing the super downstairs and getting the key, Heat took the stairs rather than the elevator, mindful of the racket it made when it braked at Rook's floor. When she got up there, she put her ear to his front door. That's when she heard the scuffle in the distant reaches of the loft. Normally, she would have followed procedure and taken time to call for backup before she went in, but Nikki's fears for Rook were already spiking and it sounded like time was of the essence. She used the key to let herself in.

And now, for the second time in a week, Heat found herself in Rook's place, in crisis, looking for an opportunity to turn the situation around. As she watched the Texan reach behind to the small of his back and come up with a.25-caliber Beretta, she began reciting her mantra: Assess. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.

"Move into the room," said Ripton. He gave her a slight nudge away from the easy chair with the Glock. Heat made note that it was the soft push of an amateur. She wasn't sure what to do with that impression other than to underscore her conclusion that between the two, if she ever got the chance, Wolf got her first bullet.

"I've got backup, you know. You're not getting out of here."

"Really?" Since Wolf had her covered with his gun, Ripton stepped to the door and shouted up the hall toward the front door, "Come on in, everybody!" Then he cupped an ear to listen. "Huh…"

Nikki's heart sank when Ripton went to the easy chair and picked up her Sig. She watched the handler slip it into his waistband and then she turned to Rook. "How are you doing, OK?" He was staring down at the floor under his desk, fidgeting. "Rook?"

"Sorry, cramp. You'll pardon me if I don't get up."

Wolf spoke. "You know, Jess, maybe now's the time to pull the pin."

Before Ripton could answer, Nikki went for a stall. "We've arrested Toby Mills, you know."

"No, I didn't." He appraised her a beat. "What for?"

"You know."

"You tell me."

Now it was her turn to do some appraisal. Why was Ripton pushing her to answer first? It felt to her like poker games she had been in when it comes down to who's going to be first to show the hand. Translation: He wanted her to reveal what she knew-because he was wondering how much she knew. So Nikki gave up as little as she could in order to keep conversation going and buy time. "Your client was booked for the confession he made about what happened the night Reed Wakefield OD'd at the Dragonfly."