Richard Castle - Heat Wave

"So don't you think I've made my case for the time of death for Barbara Deerfield?"

"Oh, I'm already with you there. But you're missing an even bigger point, Mr. Reporter."

"Which is?"

"Which is a big why," said the detective. "If there is a connection between these two murders, why did Pochenko kill Barbara Deerfield first? That's a motive question. Work backwards from the motive and you usually find a killer."

Rook looked at the board and then back to her. "You know, Mick Jagger never made me work this hard."

But she didn't seem to hear him. Heat was focused on Ochoa, who was coming into the room.

"Did it come in?" she asked. Ochoa held up some folded papers. "Excellent."

"What's going on?" said Rook.

"Some people wait for ships to come in, I wait for warrants." Heat stepped to her desk and picked up her shoulder bag. "If you promise to be a good boy this time, I'll let you come watch me arrest someone."

Heat and Rook walked up the stairs of the dingy apartment building and turned onto the second floor at the landing. It was an old brownstone gone duplex in Hell's Kitchen that somebody must have thought could use some paint because everything was painted instead of repaired. At this hour of the day, the air was ripe with a combo of disinfectant and cooking odors. The stifling heat only made it a more tactile experience.

"Are you sure he's here?" said Rook in a whisper. Even then, his voice echoed like a cathedral rotunda.

"Positive," she said. "We've had him under surveillance all day."

Nikki stopped at apartment 27. The brass numerals had long ago, and many times, been painted over. A fossilized drip of pale green enamel formed a tear off the 7. Rook was standing right in front of the door. Nikki put her hands on his waist and placed him to the side. "In case he shoots. Don't you ever watch Cops?" She stood to the opposite side. "Now, you stay out in the hall until I give the all clear."

"I could have waited in the car for this."

"You still can."

He weighed that and took a half step back and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Heat knocked.

"Who is it?" came the muffled voice inside.

"NYPD, Gerald Buckley, open the door, we have a warrant." Nikki made a short count of two, pivoted, and kicked the door down. She drew and entered the apartment, catching the door on the rebound and giving it her shoulder as she went through. "Freeze, now!"

She caught a glimpse of Buckley disappearing into the hall. She made sure the living room was clear before she followed, and in the brief lag before she entered the bedroom, he had time to get a leg out the window. Through the curtains she could see Ochoa waiting on the fire escape for him. Buckley stopped and started to come back inside. Nikki gave him a surprise assist, holstering her gun and yanking him backward by the collar.

"Whoa," said Rook with awe.

Nikki turned to see him standing in the bedroom behind her. "I thought I told you to wait outside."

"It smells out there."

Turning her attention back on Buckley, who was facedown on the floor, Heat pulled his hands behind him.

Gerald Buckley, dishonored Guilford doorman, sat a few minutes later with his hands cuffed at his own dinette. Nikki and Rook sat on either side of him while Roach searched his place.

"I don't know why you're bugging me," he said. "This what you do every time there's a rip-off somewhere, hassle the guys who happen to work there?"

"I'm not hassling you, Gerald," said Heat, "I'm arresting you."

"I want a lawyer."

"And so you shall have one. You're going to need one, too. Your biker pal, Doc? He…I don't want to say "dropped the dime," that's so Starsky and Hutch." Nikki's digressions were pissing him off, which made her want to do them all the more. Get him rattled, loosen his tongue. "Let's be more civilized, let's say he implicated you in a sworn statement."

"I don't know any bikers."

"Interesting. Because Doc, a biker, by the way, says you were the one who hired him to pull the art theft at the Guilford. He says you made a rush call to him when the blackout hit. You asked him to get a crew together to break into the Starr apartment and steal all the artwork."

"Bullshit."

"It's tough to put a crew together for a big job like that on short notice, Gerald. Doc says he came up short and asked you to be his fourth on the job. Which, I guess is why you had to call in and tell Henry you couldn't make your shift. I love the irony. You had to call in and say you couldn't work so you could come in and pull a job. Do you appreciate irony, Gerald?"

"Why are you tearing my place up? What are you looking for?"

"Anything that can make your life difficult," Heat said. Raley appeared in the doorway, held up a handgun, and continued his search. "That might do. Hope that's got a permit, or this could be a troublesome visit."

"Bitch."

"You know it," she said with a smile. He turned his head away and just sat there. "So much to talk about."

Ochoa spoke from the living room. "Detective Heat?" Raley came in to take her place with the prisoner as Nikki excused herself.

Buckley looked at Rook and said, "What are you staring at?"

"A man in deep doo-doo."

Ochoa stood at the far end of the couch, where the liquor cabinet door was open. He pointed inside and said, "I found this stashed in here behind the peppermint schnapps and gin bottles." With his gloved hand, he held up a camera. An expensive, high-quality digital SLR.

"Check it out." He turned the camera body upside down so she could read the tiny rectangular inventory label with the bar code and serial number on the bottom. And the print above the code read, "Property of Sotheby's."

Jameson Rook stood in the precinct Observation Room staring in at Interrogation, where Gerald Buckley waited, fully involved in picking his nose. The door opened and closed behind Rook. Nikki Heat glided up to his elbow and looked through the window with him. "Charming," she said.

"Know what's worse? I can't look away." Indeed, Rook kept watching as he said, "Don't they know people are watching them on the other side of that mirror? And the guy's got to want it, manacled like that."

"Are you quite done?"

"Yes."

"Sotheby's confirms the serial number as Barbara Deerfield's camera. The memory chip is full of shots she took of Starr's art collection."

"Taken that morning?" he asked. "The shots will be time stamped."

"Ooo, scary good. Somebody's catching on." He took a small bow and she continued. "Yes, from the morning of. Raley's copying all the photos to his hard drive."

"Raley, the new king of all media."

"I believe that would be czar."

"So that means Buckley was either there when she was killed, or he got her camera from Pochenko after." He turned to her. "Or am I offending your methodical ways with my reckless speculation?"

"No, actually, I'm right there with you this time, writer boy. Either way, that camera connects Buckley and Pochenko." She moved toward the door to Interrogation. "Let's see if I can get him to say how."

She was just reaching for the door when Ochoa came in from the hall. "His lawyer just got here."

"You know, I thought I heard the garbage truck."

"You may have a little time. Somehow her briefcase got lost when she was coming through security."

"Ochoa, you dog."

"Woof."

Buckley sat upright when Detective Heat came in, a sign he knew this wasn't the foreplay interview he'd had in that very room earlier. He tried to wear a look of defiance, but his concentration on her, trying to get a reading of how deep this shit was, told Nikki he could be had at some point. Maybe not in this meeting, but he'd fall. Once she saw that look, they all toppled, eventually.