Richard Castle: Heat Wave

"The bitch is back," she said and then eased into her chair. Nikki was in a hurry. The lawyer would be there too soon, she knew that. But she had to play the poker game. Buckley's tell gave him away; she wasn't about to level the playing field by letting her impatience show. So she sat back with her arms crossed like she had all the time in the world. He did his nervous mouth lick. Soon as she saw the dry tongue squeegee across the gums, she began.

"Would you be offended if I said you don't strike me as the art thief type? I could see you doing a lot of things, dealing drugs, stealing a car, dine-and-dash. But masterminding a multimillion-dollar art heist? Sorry, I'm just not seeing it." The detective sat up and leaned toward him. "You put out the call for Doc the Biker to get a crew up for the burglary, but somebody had to call you first, and I want to know who that was."

"Where's my lawyer?"

"Gerald. You ever watch those infomercials where they say special limited time offer, so act now? With the shit storm you're facing, we're in that zone now, you and I." His eyes were flicking but he wasn't budging yet. She pressed him from another angle. "Of course, you don't see a lot of those infomercials. Mostly, they're on late at night and that's your usual door shift."

He shrugged. "You know that, everybody knows that."

"But it leads me to wonder. As we went over the surveillance video from the Guilford the day of Matthew Starr's murder, we saw you were there in the early afternoon."

"So, I work there."

"That's what I thought when I saw you on video the other day. But recent events have me looking at your presence in a whole new light."

"Hey, I did not kill Mr. Starr."

"I'll make a note of that." She flashed a smile and dropped it. "I'm wondering about something else, and you're just the guy to ask. You didn't by any chance help anybody into the building during your off-the-clock visit, did you? I know there's a locked access door on the roof. Is it possible you opened it up for somebody when you were hanging around at about 12:39 P.M.?"

There were two light knocks on the door. Damn, Ochoa signaling the attorney.

"Gerald? Limited time offer."

A woman's muffled rant seeped through from the Ob Room. "Sounds like my lawyer," said Buckley.

Sounds like a dental drill, thought Nikki. "Well? Did you let someone in from the roof?"

There was an air suck as the door opened. Ochoa came in with a brittle woman in a mud-colored suit. She reminded Nikki of someone who would hold up the grocery line insisting on a price check for parsley. The woman said, "This is not appropriate."

Nikki ignored her and pressed on. "Where did you get the camera?"

"Don't answer that."

"I'm not."

With the attorney as room monitor, Heat shifted to a new tack. She stopped looking for answers and started planting seeds. "Did Pochenko give it to you as a gift in exchange for the favor?"

"My client has nothing to say."

"Or did you rip the camera off from him? Pochenko's not the kind of guy you rip off, Gerald."

"Detective, this interview is over."

Nikki smiled and stood up. "There'll be others." And she stepped out.

Shortly after Roach clocked out for the day, Nikki heard Rook amble up behind her chair and watch her computer slide show of the pictures from Barbara Deerfield's camera. The photography was not the best. Straight-on flat shots of every painting snapped in pairs, one in natural light followed by a twin but using flash.

"Clearly these were for internal reference only. You wouldn't put them in a brochure or on the Web site," she said.

"So these were like her notes from the meeting with Matthew Starr."

"Right. And Lauren, my, what did you call her-my ghoul friend-called and confirmed her time of death as sometime around noon that same day." Nikki continued to click through each of the shots.

Rook must have read her mood, because instead of a victory gloat, he watched silently for a while. But only a while, before he said, "Are you free tonight?"

She continued to click the mouse, maintaining a cadence, enjoying her private art show, or looking for clues, or both. "I'm going to be working tonight."

"This is work. How would you like to meet New York's greatest art thief? Well, retired art thief."

A tiny thrill buzz hit Nikki and she spun around to face him. "Casper?"

"You know him?"

"I know of him. I read the profile you did on him for Vanity Fair a few years ago." She regretted it the moment she said it. But it was out there now.

"You read my article?"

"Rook, I read. I read a lot of stuff. Don't get yourself in a lather." She was trying to downplay it, but she'd shown her hand.

"Anyway," he said, "I was thinking if someone's trying to move art in this city, Casper would know."

"And you can arrange for me to meet him?"

Rook hit her with a faceful of mock disdain.

"Right," she said, "what was I thinking? You're Mr. First-name-basis."

He got out his cell phone and scrolled through the contacts. Without looking up at Nikki, he said, "That Vanity Fair piece was five years ago. And yet you remembered it?"

"It was good. Informative."

"And you remembered I wrote it?"

"…Yes."

Then he looked up at her. "Informative."

In the ghetto of antiques galleries south of Union Square, a dictionary's toss from the Strand Bookstore, Heat and Rook approached a single glass door between a Shaker furniture house and a rare maps shop. An eye-level door sign in 1940s style gold leaf read, "C. B. Phillips-Fine Acquisitions." Nikki reached to press the buzzer embedded in the metal frame. "I wouldn't do that," said Rook.

"Why not?"

"Don't insult the man." He held up a forefinger to say, Wait a sec. It was actually two seconds before the buzzer sounded. Rook said, "He's Casper. He knew, he always knows," and pushed the door open.

They climbed a flight of polished blond hardwood stairs through a mellow downdraft, the ghost scent of an old public library. At the landing, Nikki took in the room and was reminded of one of the Truths of New York City: You can never tell from the door what's behind a door.

The hushed showroom of C. B. Phillips Fine Acquisitions sat one flight of stairs from Broadway but was a time journey across latitudes, to a vast drawing room empty of people and teeming with dark, heavy furniture in velvets, and needlepoints lit low below the tasseled maroon shades of small table lamps and muted ochre wall sconces. Clubby artworks of maritime scenes, bulldogs in military dress, and cherub architects adorned walls and carved mahogany easels. Nikki looked up and was staring at the pattern of the vintage stamped tin ceiling, when the soft voice right beside her made her jump.

"It's been too long, Jameson." His words were whiskey soft, carried on candle smoke. In it, there was a hint of Euro-somewhere she couldn't pinpoint but found pleasant. The dapper old man turned to her. "I apologize if I startled you."

"You came out of nowhere," she said.

"A knack that has served me well. Leaving as quietly, that's a diminishing talent, I'm sorry to say. It has led to a comfortable retirement, though." He gestured to his showroom. "Please, after you." As they crossed the thick oriental rug, he added, "You didn't tell me you were bringing a police detective."

Nikki paused. "I never said I was a detective." The old man simply smiled.

Rook said, "Wasn't sure you'd see me if I told you that, Casper."

"I probably wouldn't have. And it would have been my loss." From anyone else it would have been a laughable bar pickup line. Instead, the dashing little man made her blush. "Have a seat."

Casper waited until she and Rook took places on a navy corduroy sofa before he folded into his green leather wing chair. She could see the outline of a sharp kneecap through his linen trousers when he crossed his legs. He wore no socks and his slippers looked custom-made. "I have to say, you're every bit what I pictured."