Richard Castle: Heat Rises

“You already asked my client that question,” said the old man. Simmy Paltz poked a finger bent from arthritis on the legal pad on the table in front of him. He looked to be a hundred, all skin and bones, withered and leathery. He wore a 1970s Wemlon tie in a big knot, but Nikki could have fit a hand right down to her wrist in the gap created between Simmy’s pilled collar and his rooster neck. He seemed sharp enough though, and certainly a hard-line advocate. Heat guessed one way to keep your costs down in a small business was to retain your grandfather or great uncle as counsel.

“I wanted to give her time to rethink her answer, let her memory do its work,” replied the detective. Then Nikki directed herself to Roxanne, who was still wearing the same vinyl and contempt as she had in her office at six that morning. “You’re absolutely certain you had no dealings with Father Graf?”

“Like what, in church? Don’t make me laugh.” She sat back and nodded in satisfaction to the old dude. “He wasn’t a client.”

“Did anyone else have access to the locker with your security tapes?”

“Ha,” from the lawyer. “Fat lot of good your warrant did.” His eyes looked huge to Nikki behind the smudged eyeglasses that covered half his face.

“Ms. Paltz, who had keys?”

Roxanne looked to her attorney, who gave the go-ahead nod, and she answered, “Just me. The one set.”

“And there are no other tapes, Roxanne?”

“Who is she,” said the lawyer, “the Homeland Security?”

Roxanne continued, “Truth is, that plastic bubble in the ceiling does the job of keeping everyone in line anyway. Far as the clients know, it’s on and they behave. Sort of the way when you call customer service and they say, ‘This call may be monitored.’ Their way of saying watch your mouth, asshole.”

Heat turned a page of her notepad. “I’d like the names of anyone who was there last night, say from six o’clock on. Dommes, doms, clients.”

“Bet you would,” said the lawyer. “Pleasure Bound is a discreet business protected by rights of privacy and client privilege.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Paltz, but last I heard, client privilege may protect lawyers and doctors, but not people who dress up and play doctor.” Heat turned again to the manager. “Roxanne, a death took place on your property. Are you going to cooperate, or shall we close you down while we assess the public safety and health concerns at Pleasure Bound?” Nikki was only sort of bluffing. A shutdown, if she got it, would only be brief, but her assessment of the state of the business-old paint, cheap furniture, shopworn fixtures, neglected security surveillance-told her Roxanne operated on a thin margin and that even a week without clients would put a hurt on her. She was right.

“All right. I’ll give you her name,” she said after another nod from the lawyer. “Fact is, I only have one dominatrix at present. I lost my other two a couple of months ago to the higher-end places Midtown.” Roxanne Paltz made an audible shrug with her vinyls. “I tell you, the bondage business is a struggle.” Nikki instinctively waited for Rook’s wisecrack. Same as she had so many times during his absence. What would he blurt? Knowing him, something like “That would make a catchy ad slogan.” She pictured a match turning Rook’s Le Cirque photo to ashes.

After Roxanne gave her the name and contact number of the domme, Heat asked about clients. “That’s all on her,” answered the manager. “She pays me to use the space, sort of like a hairdresser. The client bookings are her deal.”

“For the record, Roxanne, can you account for your whereabouts last night between six and eleven?” Nikki widened the time frame since she hadn’t gotten the official from Lauren Parry yet.

“Yes, I can. I was at dinner and then the movies with my husband.”

After Heat wrote down the name of the restaurant and the movie, she asked, “And your husband can vouch for this?”

Simmy Paltz nodded. “You bet I can.”

Nikki Heat looked from the old coot to Roxanne and made another note, this one mental. A reminder not to assume. Not in New York City.

Hadn’t she just learned that painful lesson from Rook?

She called Detective Ochoa to find the domme while Roxanne and her husband were still in Interrogation, so they wouldn’t have a chance to tip her off. Heat had given them some mug arrays of violent sex offenders to pore over, knowing it was busywork but the kind of busy that would keep them out of her way. Ochoa was only a few blocks from Andrea Boam’s address in Chelsea, and just fifteen minutes later he rang back to report that her roommate said Ms. Boam had been away on vacation since the weekend. Nikki asked, “Did the roommate say where?”

“Amsterdam,” said Ochoa. “The city, not the avenue.”

“Imagine that. Amsterdam. For a dominatrix.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Sounds like a busman’s holiday, if you ask me.”

“Do a follow-up with Customs to run her passport, just to make sure she went,” said Heat. “Smells like a solid alibi, though. Any luck with the priest’s picture?”

“ Nada. But. Canvassing these clubs isn’t a total loss. Mostly, I’ve been interviewing submissives, and it’s doing wonders for my self-esteem.”

Heat was eager to know what was up at the rectory, but Lauren Parry texted her that the autopsy was complete on Father Graf, so she waited until she got to her car on her way to the coroner’s before she called Detective Hinesburg.

“What’s going on, Nikki?” asked Hinesburg.

“Just driving down to the OCME wondering what you discovered in the last hour and a half.” Heat didn’t do so well at keeping the irritation out of her voice, but it annoyed her to have to chase her detective down for a simple update. One of Sharon Hinesburg’s dubious qualities was that a fair amount went over her head, and if there was any sting on Heat’s comment, she didn’t seem to notice.

“What are you going to say to that writer bastard?” said Hinesburg. “Guy screws with me, he doesn’t get an encore, hear what I’m saying?”

Heat wanted to shout loud enough to make her ear bleed. Instead, she counted to three and calmly said, “Sharon? The housekeeper?”

“Right. Mrs…” Pages flipped.

“Borelli,” prompted Nikki. “What did Mrs. Borelli tell you about the missing objects?”

“Quite a bit, really. She’s something else. Treats the job like a mission. Knows every inch of this place like she was running a museum.” On the other end, Hinesburg turned more pages. “So the bottom line so far is a missing medal from a jewelry box.”

“What kind of medal?”

“A holy medal of some kind.” There was muffled talk as Hinesburg covered the mouthpiece, then came back on. “A St. Christopher medal.”

“And that’s the only thing she says is missing?” ask Heat.

“So far. We’re still doing inventory together,” Hinesburg added, making sure to sound busy. “But the other thing is, Mrs. B. says things are a little off here. Small things. Drawers with shirts and socks not stacked neatly like she does, books slightly out of alignment, a china cabinet closed but not closed all the way.”

Nikki was beginning to get the picture and it was no small thing. It was sounding like someone had done a search of the rectory for something, and it was methodical, not a tear-apart job like she saw most of the time. This was starting to feel careful. Professional, maybe. Her thoughts ran to Montrose. Would he have done a search like that?

“Sharon, keep an inventory, even though Evidence Collection is doing the same. Include a list of anything that’s moved or broken. However minor, understand?” Heat scoped the dashboard clock. “Doesn’t look like I can get up there for a while, so do a sit-down with Mrs. Borelli, if she’s up to it. Get anything about Father Graf that raises a flag. Unusual habits, arguments, visitors, you know what to ask.”