Richard Castle: Heat Wave

Horace Simpson came through with the warrants, accompanied by a judicial warning that Heat had better get her heinie back to Rook's poker table so he could win back his losses. And to think all these years the detective had been going through channels to reach judges.

Getting the search warrants in hand turned out to be the easy part. Her wiretap required time to set up, meaning several hours of waiting. Not Nikki Heat. She strode into the bull pen from Captain Montrose's office and grabbed her bag.

"What now?" asked Rook.

"Cap sprung a team off patrol for me. We're rolling to execute my search warrants." When he stood up to join her, she said, "Sorry, Rook, we're at a critical phase. This is police-only."

"Come on, I'll stay in the car, I promise. It's hot, but just leave the window open a crack for me. They say that's dangerous, but I'm tough, I'll bring water."

"You're better off right here reviewing your evidence. You've got the whiteboard to study, you've got air-conditioning, and you'll have time, lots of time." As she crossed the room with her back to him, she said, "Remember, think like a detective."

"You might as well take me, I know where you're going." That stopped her. When she turned to face him from the doorway, he said, "The Guilford and to a personal storage place on Varick."

She looked down at her bag. "You snooped my warrants, didn't you?"

His turn to grin. "Just thinking like a journalist."

Two hours later, Heat returned to find Rook staring at the whiteboard. "Come up with any more theories while I was out?"

"In fact, yes."

She went to her desk and checked her voice mail. Her mailbox was empty. Nikki tossed the handset onto the cradle in frustration and looked at her watch.

"You all right? Trouble with your search warrants?"

"Au contraire," she said. "I'm just stressing my wiretap. The other stuff went great. Better than great."

"What did you find?"

"You first. What's your new theory?"

"Well. I've been thinking it all over and now I know who it is."

"Not Agda?"

"Why? Is it Agda?"

"Rook."

"Sorry, sorry. OK. This is off-the-wall. I'm off Agda. But I'm thinking about something she said about the new piano." This piqued Nikki's interest. She sat against the edge of her desk with her arms folded. "Am I getting warmer?" he asked.

"I know I'm not getting younger. Get to it."

"When you interviewed her, Agda said something like the new piano was so gorgeous, she almost fainted when it came out of the crate." He paused. "Who delivers pianos in crates anymore? Nobody."

"Interesting, go on." In fact, these were waters she was fishing in, and Nikki was curious to hear his take.

"We know the piano came in because we saw it there after the theft. So I got to wondering, why bring in a crate unless something is going to go out in it after you remove the piano from it?"

"And so now you are saying it's who?"

"Obviously. The piano company is a front for art thieves."

"Is that your final answer?" The flat expression she showed him made Rook backpedal so fast, Nikki wanted to burst out laughing. But she held her poker face.

"Or…," he said, "let me finish. You served a warrant at the Guilford and at a personal storage place. I'm sticking with my piano crate scenario, but I say it's…Kimberly Starr." Although her face remained neutral, Rook became animated. "I'm right, I know it. I can see it all over you. Tell me I'm wrong, then."

"I'm not telling you squat." Raley and Ochoa came into the bull pen. Heat started over to them. "Why spoil the fun?"

"Raley and I showed around Buckley's picture," said Ochoa. "We scored two positive hits. That doesn't suck."

"Doesn't suck at all." Nikki dared to let herself feel the thrill of gathering momentum on the case. "And they'll testify?"

"Affirm," said Raley.

Nikki's desk phone rang and she lunged for it. "Detective Heat." She kept nodding as if the caller could see her, and said, "Excellent. Great. Excellent. Thanks much." When she hung up, she turned to her team. "Wiretap's up. We're going to the dance." For once things were moving at Heat speed.

Nikki and Rook sat wedged into a corner of the tiny room, knee-to-knee on metal folding chairs behind the police technician who was recording the calls. The AC vent whistled, so Heat had had the air turned off to let her hear without that distraction, and it was suffocating in there.

A blue LED meter spiked on the console. "Picking up," said the technician.

Heat put on her headphones. The ring purred on the line. Her breathing became shallow the way it had on the raid in Long Island City, only this time she couldn't calm herself. Her heart thunked at a disco cadence until Nikki heard the click of the answer and one of the beats skipped.

"Hello?"

"I'm using your direct line because I don't want the receptionist knowing I'm calling you," said Kimberly Starr.

"OK…" Noah Paxton sounded wary of her. "I don't understand why not."

Nikki hand-signaled the technician to ensure he was recording. He nodded.

Kimberly continued, "You're about to understand, Noah."

"Is something wrong? You sound strange."

Nikki closed her eyes into a tight squint of concentration, wanting only to hear. With headphones on, the fidelity was iPod-quality. She clocked every nuance. The air hiss of the office chair Noah was sitting in. The hard swallow that came from Kimberly.

Now Nikki waited. Now she wanted words.

"I need your help with something. I know you always did things for Matthew, and now I want you to do the same for me."

"Things?" His tone was still guarded.

"Come on, Noah, cut the shit. We both know Matt pulled a lot of crap that was shady and you handled it. I need some of that from you now."

"I'm listening," he said.

"I have the paintings."

Nikki caught herself making tension fists and loosened her grip.

Paxton's office chair creaked. "Excuse me?"

"Am I not speaking English? Noah, the art collection. It wasn't stolen. I took it. I hid it."

"You?"

"Not me personally. I had some guys do it while I went out of town. Forget all that. The thing is, I have them and I want you to help me sell them."

"Kimberly, are you nuts?"

"They're mine. I didn't get insurance. I deserve something out of all those years with that son of a bitch."

Now it was Heat's turn to swallow hard. It was starting to come together. Her heart was punching to get out.

"What makes you think I'd know how to sell them?"

"Noah, I need help. You were Matthew's fixer, now I want you to be mine. And if you're not going to help me, I'll find someone who will."

"Whoa, whoa, Kimberly, slow down." Another pneumatic hiss, and Heat pictured Noah Paxton rising up behind his horseshoe-shaped desk. "Don't call anybody. Are you listening to me?"

"I'm listening," she said.

"We should talk this out. There's a solution to all this, you just need to keep your head." He paused and asked, "Where are these paintings?"

A swell of anticipation gathered up Nikki and carried her until she felt suddenly weightless at its crest. A trickle of sweat curved around the vinyl ear seal of one of her headphones.

"The paintings are here," said Kimberly.

"And where's here?"

Say it, thought Nikki, say it.

"At the Guilford. Pretty cool, huh? All the searching they've been doing and they never left the building."

"All right, listen to me. Don't call anybody, just relax. We need to work this out face-to-face, OK?"

"Good. Stay there. I'll be right over." And then he hung up.

Nikki took off her headphones. When Rook removed his, he said, "I called it. I was right. It was Kimberly. Ha-ha, where's my five?" He held up his palm to her.