Richard Castle - Heat Rises

Thirty minutes later, just after 8 a.m., the Homicide bull pen was stand ing room only as Detective Nikki Heat walked her squad, plus a few extra attendees she had pulled in from Burglary and patrol, through the few details she had on the case so far. She stood in front of the big Murder Board and used magnets to slap two pictures of Father Graf at top center of the white enamel. The first, a death photo taken by CSU, was of much better quality than the cell phone snap she had taken herself. Beside it, she posted his protest march photo, cropped and enlarged to show only his face. “This is our victim, Father Gerald Graf, pastor of Our Lady of the Innocents.” She recapped the circumstances of his death and used a dry-erase marker to circle the times of his disappearance, estimated death, and discovery on the timeline she had already drawn across the board. “Copies of these photos are being duped for you. As usual, they’ll also be up on the computer server, along with other details, for access from your cells and laptops.”

Ochoa turned to Detective Rhymer, a Burglary cop on loan, who was sitting on a filing cabinet in the back. “Hey, Opie, in case you wondered, that’s the typewriter with all the blinky lights.”

Dan Rhymer, an ex-MP from the Carolinas who had stayed in New York after his army hitch, was accustomed to the needling. Even back home they had nicknamed him Opie. He put some butter on his Southern accent. “Laptop computer, huh? Goll-lly. No wonder I couldn’t toast my possum samwich on that thing.”

During the chorus of “whoa”s Nikki said, “Excuse me? Anyone mind if I talk a little about the investigation?”

“Oo, frosty,” said Detective Sharon Hinesburg. Nikki chuckled along until she added, “Trying out your new command mode for lieutenant?” The barb didn’t surprise Heat, it was the realization that her pending rise was out of the house rumor mill and in the air. Naturally, it came from Hinesburg, an only modestly gifted detective whose main talent was for annoying Heat. Someone must have once told Hinesburg her outspokenness was refreshing. Nikki thought that person had done the detective a disservice.

“What do we have on cause of death?” said Raley, snapping things back to business for Heat and falling on the grenade Hinesburg had lobbed.

“Prelim puts us in a gray area.” She made eye contact with Rales, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod that spoke volumes about camaraderie. “In fact, we can’t even officially class this as a homicide until after the autopsy. Nature of the death left open lots of doors for accidental. You’ve got potential health issues of the vic, intent of the practitioner…”

“Or killer,” said Ochoa.

“Or killer,” she agreed. “Father Graf was a missing person, which pushes the likelihood of foul play.” Involuntarily, her gaze ran to Captain Montrose’s empty office, then back to the squad. “But this is the time for us to keep open minds.”

“Was the padre a freak?” Hinesburg again, subtle as always. “I mean, what the hell is a priest doing in a kink dungeon?” Not the most delicate phrasing, but not the wrong question.

“That’s why our direction for now is going to be to work the BDSM angle,” said Heat. “I still need interviews with the housekeeper and others at the parish about the priest. Relationships, family, enemies, bad exorcisms-might as well say it-altar boys, you never know. Everything’s on the table, but what’s right in front of us is the sex torture. Soon as we get our warrant, which should be soon, Detective Raley, go screen that security tape. Let’s see when he came in there and with whom.”

“Not to mention, in what condition,” said Raley.

“Especially that. And pull stills of everyone who came and went before and after, right up to the first responders.” Her marker squeaked “Security Vid” in neat block letters on the whiteboard. When she was done underlining it, she said, “While Raley’s on that, let’s try to find out if our victim had a history in the lifestyle. Ochoa, Rhymer, Gallagher, Hinesburg-you’ll be canvassing the clubs and known Doms, masters, mistresses.”

“Yes, sir.” Hinesburg saluted, but she didn’t get any laughs. The others were already on their feet, heading to work.

Minutes later, Nikki hung up her phone and called across the bull pen. “Ochoa, change of plan.” She crossed over to his desk, where he was going over a printout of clubs in Manhattan’s infamous Dungeon Alley. “ECU called in from the rectory. The housekeeper is saying it looks to her like things have been moved around and items are missing. I’ve got the manager of Pleasure Bound and her lawyer waiting for me in Interrogation, so why don’t you head on up there and see what’s what.”

Hinesburg caught Heat’s eye. “If I ask nicely, any chance I can forgo the kink circuit and handle the rectory?”

Since Hinesburg seemed to be back-door apologizing for her snarky episode, Nikki weighed the benefit of responding in kind and siphoning off some of the tension. “You have a problem with that, Oach?”

“Let me see…,” Ochoa held up his palms as if balancing a scale, “… church or sex dungeon, church or sex dungeon.” He dropped his arms. “Light a candle for me while you’re there, Sharon.”

“Thanks for that,” said Hinesburg. “And I apologize I busted you for sounding all bitchy. I didn’t realize you were dealing with… ,” she tilted her head conspiratorially at Heat and said, “… other issues.” When Nikki gave her a puzzled look, the detective held up the morning edition of the Ledger, folded open to “Buzz Rush,” the celebrity gossip section. “You mean you haven’t seen this?”

Heat’s eyes actually blinked at the picture. Right under a photo of Anderson Cooper at a charity function was a quarter-page candid shot of Rook and a stunning woman coming out of Le Cirque. The caption read, “Happy client? Eligible superstar journalist Jameson Rook and his lit agent Jeanne Callow are all smiles after a swank tete-a-tete at Le Cirque last night.”

Ever the sensitive one, Hinesburg said, “Thought you said Rook was off doing an article on arms dealers.” Nikki heard the words but couldn’t take her eyes off the photograph. “Coldest winter since 1906, and she’s sleeveless. When he said he was going to be chasing guns, betcha didn’t think they’d be like those.”

They needed her in Interrogation. Nikki walked there on autopilot, still reeling from the knockdown punch. She couldn’t grasp it, didn’t want to believe it. Rook was not only back but out on the town while she waited for him like some Gloucester sea captain’s wife pacing the widow’s walk, searching the horizon for a mast. No beard, no sweat moons, he was scrubbed, shaved, and had his Hugo Boss sleeve laced through the elbow of his hot gym-rat agent.

Detective Raley caught up with her at the door to the Observation Room as she was preparing to go in, and Heat shoved Rook out of her head, even though she still felt brittle from the shock. “Not so good news on the security cam,” said Raley. He was holding a banker’s box with a Chain of Evidence form taped to the side.

“I assume that’s the tape, right?”

“Tapes, yes. The tape, no. When I unlocked the cabinet, the one in the deck had run itself out and the label was dated two weeks ago.”

“Lovely,” said Heat. “And nothing from last night?”

“These tapes haven’t recorded anything for several weeks. I’ll check, but we’ll be lucky if we see anything.”

Nikki pondered briefly. “Screen what you have here anyway and pull faces. You never know, we may see Graf there and connect him with someone.”

Raley disappeared up the hall with his box of tapes. Nikki continued into Interrogation.