Crashing Heat E-Book

Richard Castle

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

The tenth Nikki Heat novel, set in the universe of the Castle TV series.New York police captain Nikki Heat is accustomed to dealing with murders, even those with no leads and no motives. However, when a coed is murdered on campus, Heat's husband is a suspect, making this case the most personal one yet.Marriage. It's a double-edged sword, or at least it is for Nikki Heat. Her husband, Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist Jameson Rook, infuriates her in a way no one else in her entire life has ever done. He also takes her to heights of pleasure she has never experienced. But most of all, she loves the man with all her heart and she'd do anything to protect him —which is just what she had done not so long ago. It almost cost them everything.Now Rook is given the honor to be a visiting professor at his alma mater, and he can't pass up the opportunity to mentor burgeoning writers at his award-winning college newspaper. But shortly after his arrival on campus, a female reporter for the paper is found dead... naked... in Rook's bed.Dealing with betrayal from any man is not Nikki's style. She and Jameson have had plenty of conflicts during their complicated relationship, but none like this. Is her husband keeping secrets, or can she really trust him? In order to find out, Nikki gives Jameson the benefit of the doubt and digs into his theory of a secret society within a secret society. What she finds puts her investigative skills, and her marriage, to the test.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Also Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

Heat WaveNaked HeatHeat RisesFrozen HeatDeadly HeatRaging HeatDriving HeatHigh HeatHeat Storm

Storm FrontWild StormUltimate StormA Brewing Storm (eBook)A Raging Storm (eBook)A Bloody Storm (eBook)

CRASHING HEATHardback edition ISBN: 9781789092899E-book edition ISBN: 9781789092905

Published by Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.144 Southwark Street, London, SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First Titan hardback edition: October 201910 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Castle © ABC Studios. All Rights Reserved.

This edition published by arrangement with Kingswell, an imprint of Disney Book Group.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

To games played in the dark.You know who you are.

ONE

arriage. It was a double-edged sword, or at least it was for Nikki Heat. Her husband, Jameson Rook, infuriated her in a way no one else in her entire life had ever done. He also took her to heights of pleasure she’d never experienced. But most of all, she loved the man with all her heart and she’d do anything to protect him. Which is just what she had done not so long ago. It had almost cost them everything. She’d beaten herself up over pushing Rook away during her last big case. In the end, she’d done what she had to so he’d be safe. But at what cost? Working with Derrick Storm had taken her away from the things she loved. The man she loved. But it had also brought her to her mother. She’d gained, but she’d lost. Why was life so complicated?

Her mind swirled back to a single word—Reykjavík. It invoked titillating memories of the earliest days of her marriage to Rook. Their honeymoon had taken them from the green hills of western Switzerland, to terraced vineyards and remote fishing villages in Italy, to Buddhist temples in Tibet. Reykjavík. It sent her mind on a vivid reenactment of every blissful moment she and Rook had spent together exploring wondrous parts of the world. And of each other. Warmth spiraled through every part of her body. In short, their code word, Reykjavík, set her on fire.

For a short time, they’d been in a good place again. Back where they belonged—together. But now there was another word just as powerful as Reykjavík, and far less metaphoric. Actually, it wasn’t one word, but three hyphenated words. Three very literal hyphenated words that, instead of igniting passion for her husband, turned her body stone cold.

Writer-in-residence.

She only had to think writer-in-residence to have a layer of Arctic ice form inside her. And not even a Hudson River barge full of his cavalier charm could melt it. In fact, for once, she almost felt immune to that charisma, focused as she was on the fact that Rook would be leaving. It wouldn’t be for very long, but still . . .

She chastised herself. She was a captain, for Christ’s sake, and a damn good one. She’d paid her dues to get to where she was, starting where everyone did, as a rookie, and climbing the proverbial ladder. Patrol. Sergeant. Squad leader. Lieutenant. Detective. And now she led New York City’s Twentieth Precinct detective squad.

It was a damn good squad. And she was damn proud of it.

The fact that her husband taking a stint as a writer-in-residence at his alma mater could rub her so wrong was her failing. He was her Achilles’ heel. Depending on someone was something she was not comfortable with. And falling in love with Jameson Rook hadn’t changed her fundamental wiring. But it did make that wiring zip and zing and go haywire sometimes. They hadn’t even gotten to the down and dirty details of the thing. She’d shut him down each time he’d started to tell her. If she didn’t know the specifics, it wasn’t real.

“The coatroom,” Rook whispered in Nikki’s ear. “We’ve never, mmm, explored our passion, to put it delicately, in a coatroom.”

She came back to the moment. Her skin tingled from the heat of his breath on her neck, but she kept her body still. Her voice steady. It was a game she liked to play: pretend that her husband didn’t move her as much as he did. It thrilled them both. “Does this place even have a coatroom?”

“If it doesn’t, it should.” He took her hand, tugging gently to rouse her from her seat. “Inquiring minds want to know. Shall we investigate, Detective?”

“Captain to you, Mr. Rook.”

“Does that mean you’ll wear your captain’s hat for me? Just that, and nothing else.” He stroked his chin. “On second thought, maybe your tie.”

She pulled her hand free, shaking her head at him. “Rook,” she said, making her tone take on a trace of warning to hide the saucy response she wanted to give. My hat, my tie, and my handcuffs. “Tonight you need to be a grown-up. It’s an awards ceremony—”

He sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. “My idea was so much more fun,” he said, pouting.

“And you’re nominated.”

There was a gleam in his eyes, a light that never ceased to amaze her. Jameson Rook was a kid at heart. Tragedy and death had been left on her doorstep, obliterating the lighthearted side of her, but Rook had grown up in a loving household with a mother who indulged him far too much. He had saved Heat from the tragedy of her own story, and the glint she saw in him now reminded her how much she loved him. How much she needed him.

“If we leave now, you’ll miss the chance to hear your name called,” she said. His mouth quirked just the tiniest bit and she knew she had him. “You might even win.”

This rattled him. He spun his head to face her. “Might win? If I don’t win, it’ll be the crime of the century. No other journalist has done as much for this city as I have.” He started ticking off the list of his journalistic credits on his fingers. “I mean, this year alone, I put the spotlight on corruption at the hands of the New York and New Jersey crime families, I uncovered a scam of the highest level at only the most elite Upper West Side preschool, I stopped—”

“Exactly. You deserve this award,” Nikki said, and she meant it. Jamie worked hard, digging deep for a story. He was not afraid of getting his hands dirty, and he always sought the truth. “All the more reason not to go in search of the—probably nonexistent”—she whispered that last part to herself—“coatroom. You need to be here when they announce your name.”

He rubbed his hands together before placing them palms down on the tops of his thighs, leaning forward in anticipation. All thoughts of a coatroom encounter had been wiped from his mind, at least for the time being. She nodded with satisfaction. Her job was done. Rook would wait with bated breath until his category was announced. It really was an honor, and she was proud to be on his arm. To be his wife.

They’d both dressed for the occasion. He was dapper in a pinstriped bespoke suit from Nolita’s exclusive Duncan Quinn store. Its classic cut made him look like a secret agent, à la James Bond. Which brought no complaints from her.

She had opted for a just-above-the-knee sleeveless sweetheart dress with a dark pink background and intricate black flowers embossed in velvet. In her experience, it was always cold in venues like this, so she’d brought along a lightweight black shawl to keep her bare shoulders covered, if necessary.

So far, she hadn’t needed to use it, and Rook suddenly seemed to notice. “Did I tell you how stunning you look?” he said, his eyes scanning her appreciatively.

“Once or twice,” she said, the heat she suddenly felt making her think maybe she’d been too hasty in dismissing his coatroom idea.

Like happened so many times when they were together, he seemed to know just what she was thinking. “Rethinking the coatroom rendezvous, aren’t you?”

She shrugged noncommittally. “Am I?”

“Oh, you definitely are. You forget how well I know you, Heat.”

She met his gaze, upping her level of nonchalance. She wanted to turn the tables. To drive him to distraction instead of the other way around. “Just how well do you know me?”

“I know your mind,” he said.

“You do, huh?” she said, schooling her face to keep him from seeing that she wanted to find that coatroom, and pronto.

He flicked his eyebrow up. “I do.”

“Okay,” she said, challenging him. “What am I thinking right now?”

He lightly pressed his fingers against his temples as if he were a clairvoyant, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Why, Nikki Heat, you are a naughty, naughty woman. I can’t wait for you to get me alone.”

She scoffed to hide the fact that he’d been dead-on. “That was a lucky guess,” she said.

The angle of his head told her he didn’t buy that. “I don’t do lucky guesses.”

“So what am I thinking now?” she challenged.

He rubbed his hands together. “I’m liking this game, Heat.”

“Quit stalling, Rook. Give me your second sight.”

“I know your body,” he continued, speaking slowly. Suggestively. “Every square inch, and every firing neuron.” He gave her a playfully salacious grin and let his gaze travel up and down her body. “I know your toes. Your calves. Your shoulders.” He paused, his eyes lingering on the rise of her breasts.

She fanned herself with her hand. “Where’s that coatroom?”

“Oh, but Heat, there’s more.”

She closed her eyes for a beat. Her body and her mind—God, she was dying inside. What more could he do to her from across the table?

He leaned toward her, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I know your heart, Nikki Heat. I know your heart like no other, and you melt mine.”

She was melting, too. She’d had plenty of men in her life, but none that made her feel the way Rook did. “How’d I get so lucky, Jamie?” she asked as she leaned in and kissed him.

She felt his smile against her lips. “How did I?”

They parted and he raised his hand to summon an imaginary waiter. “Garçon, if you please. The coatroom! The coatroom! My kingdom for a coatroom!”

“Ah, but sadly, there is no coatroom. Now is the season of our discontent.” Although she’d graduated from college with a degree in criminal justice, she’d had enough time as an English and then theater major to learn the classics.

They sat at a ten-person round table in the center front of a historic nineteenth-century Brooklyn rope factory. The exposed brick and original woodwork carried the history of two hundred years. They’d had a drink on the roof-deck before the ceremony began, and those thirty minutes, with a picture-perfect view of the New York City skyline, had made the evening more remarkable than it already was.

Now, as the low buzz of the room died down, they directed their attention to the stage at the front of the room. Suspended from exposed beams and perfectly centered behind the stage was the event’s signage: THE NELLIE BLY ANNUAL EXCELLENCE IN JOURNALISM AWARD. The emcee, an old college chum of Rook’s, spoke into the microphone clipped to his lapel. Instead of standing behind the protection of the podium, he worked the stage, as if he were about to give a TED Talk.

“Freedom of the press,” he began. “That concept, first adopted in 1791, at a time when ‘press’ meant only books and newspapers and pamphlets. It was more than a century later that the first radio was invented . . .”

Rook leaned back in his chair, drawing in a deep breath, the smile still gracing his lips. “Settle in, my love. Raymond Lamont is nothing if not long-winded.”

Nikki could have pegged Raymond Lamont as a blowhard, even without Rook’s pronouncement. His stick-straight back; the casual way he put his hands in his pants pockets, as if he was going to be up there for a while; the slow storytelling tone of his voice laced with awareness of his own self-importance.

Rook continued. “We are about to get an entire lesson about the significant import of ethical journalism, holding government accountable, the founding fathers—” Here Rook pointed toward the ceiling, dropped his voice an octave, and launched into a dramatic speech: “ ‘A government without newspapers or newspapers without government, I should not hesitate for a moment to prefer the latter.’ ”

Nikki could appreciate Rook’s embodiment of one of the founding fathers of the country. “Jefferson?” she asked.

“Very good.” Rook nodded approvingly. “A-plus to your high school history teacher. He—or she—did a good job.”

“A-plus to me for studying hard,” she amended, “but really, it wasn’t that difficult to figure out. ‘The founding fathers’ was a pretty big clue.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” He leaned close to her, the sides of their heads touching. “I adore how you hang on my every word, Detective.”

“Captain,” she corrected.

“Right.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Do captains still get to have handcuffs?”

“Oh yeah,” she said. “With a key to the supply room.”

“Ah, unlimited. Excellent.”

The room broke into spontaneous applause, once again drawing Nikki’s and Rook’s attention back to the stage. “What’d we miss?” Rook’s face had fallen, making him look more like a toddler who’d dropped his cupcake than the seasoned journalist he was. Whatever had struck a chord with the crowd was in the past. Raymond had moved on.

“Fake news has been the bane of the media,” he said, “but like the founding fathers intended”—Rook shot Nikki a knowing look—“the media is a check-and-balance system for our government. We must work hard, and with integrity, ensuring that the good citizens of the United States stay informed on topics of importance and of interest, presented to them with honesty and integrity.”

After another round of applause, Raymond Lamont finally got to the nominees. “The Nellie Bly Award may not be the Pulitzer, but it is, nonetheless, a valuable and important award within journalistic circles. For those who don’t know, Nellie Bly managed to insert herself as a patient at a mental hospital, ultimately revealing the deplorable conditions and the mistreatment of the other patients there. It was the first exposé of its kind—a true commitment to discovering and revealing the truth, no matter the cost.

“Although we can have only one winner for the prestigious Nellie Bly Award, tonight we honor four outstanding journalists.” Nikki heard and promptly dismissed the first three names Raymond Lamont spoke, but then he said, “And for his revealing exposé on corruption in local government, Jameson Rook.”

Rook smiled sheepishly, as if he were shy of the spotlight. He played his part effortlessly. When he graced the room with a royal wave, Nikki couldn’t hold in her laughter. “You missed your calling,” she said once she’d caught her breath. “You could be up for an Oscar instead of a Nellie Bly with your acting ability.”

He turned his roguishly handsome face to Nikki, looking like a hurt puppy. “Are you implying that I am not sincere? I am honored”—he pressed his palm to his chest—“truly honored to be nominated and—”

“The winner is . . . Jameson Rook!”

Once again, the room broke out in applause; this time, however, people rose to their feet.

“I won?” Rook said with disbelief. “I won.” This time it wasn’t so much a question as it was a statement of fact. And then, finally, he jumped to his feet. He looked down at her, his grin gleeful. “I won!”

Nikki nodded, clapping and smiling. His enthusiasm was contagious. “Of course you won. You’re the best. Now go give your speech.”

He quickly withdrew a stack of notecards from the inner pocket of his suit coat, blew her a kiss, and ambled up to the stage. He and Lamont hugged, the latter patting Rook on his back. “Well deserved, you son of a bitch,” he said, not realizing that his mic was still hot. “Well deserved. Sure hope I don’t have to share office space at Cam U with you and your big head.”

Rook stepped back and put his hands on Raymond Lamont’s shoulders. Even from where she sat, Nikki could see the giddiness in her husband’s smile. “Double the honor to be presented by you,” he said for the whole room to hear. “And me and my big head will always make room for you, Ray.”

The room erupted in applause and Lamont spun around. “Shit,” he said, then looked horror-struck. “Erm, sorry, folks.” He scanned the crowd, looking for whoever was supposed to be on top of the technical side of things. Rook, for his part, brushed down his lapels and stepped up to the floor mic, not looking the least bit put off by the malfunction. “What’s a little colorful language between friends and writers?” he asked to more applause. And then he launched into his acceptance speech. “Conspiracy theories,” he began. “They inspired my love of investigation . . .”

Nikki crossed her legs, sipped from her glass of chardonnay, and sat back. If she knew anything about Jameson Alexander Rook, it was that this might take a while.

TWO

ook was 100 percent in his element at the awards ceremony. Whereas Nikki preferred to live her life privately, Jameson Rook liked to live his out loud. Screaming out loud, sometimes, if she was being honest. This fundamental difference between them made life interesting, to say the least.

He worked the room; she surveyed it. Such was their dynamic. She’d learned long ago, after losing her mother—only not, since, of course, her mother was back from the dead—that it was foolish to let her guard down. You never knew what maelstrom was brewing just off scene.

She kept to the perimeter to have the best view of the entire room, catching snippets of conversations as she moved. She came upon two women staring at Rook from across the room.

“Good-looking and smart. Quite a catch,” one of them said.

“But off the market,” said the other.

The first one gave a knowing nod. “Married—”

“To a cop. Have you seen her?”

“No, but he’s such a hottie. I’m sure she doesn’t deserve him.”

Nikki’s jaw dropped. She didn’t deserve him? Who were these women to pass judgment on her?

“She’s gorgeous, Sue,” the other woman said. “They’re like the perfect power couple. I heard Jameson Rook interviewed a few weeks ago. He gushed over her. ‘The perfect combination of brains and beauty,’ he said. You should have seen his face. That man is in love.”

“Isn’t she here?”

The first woman nodded. “Tall. Perfect skin. She could have been a model, you know.”

“So why did she become a cop?”

They looked at each other, giving simultaneous shrugs.

Nikki left them to their conjecture and speculation about her relationship with Rook and her choice of career, shaking her head. The things people spent their time talking about.

Nikki kept on, skirting around a raucous table of journalists. “The piece was mediocre, at best,” one of them was saying.

“Right!” another said, following the exclamation with a hard palm to the table. The salt and pepper shakers jumped, and the cocktail glasses rocked on their bases.

“You’re just jealous,” a third person at the table, a woman dressed from head to toe in black sequins, said. “That piece on Lindsy Gardner and the bribery . . . It was pretty good.”

Nikki wanted to lean over the table, slam her palm against it, and say, “Damn straight, it was good.” That story had it all. Greed. Power. Long-lost mother. Near-death experience. Rook had captured it all with aplomb, as he liked to say.

Nikki wandered on, picking up on other chatter. Just scattered words, mostly, that floating out there by themselves meant nothing. Finally, after a solid twenty minutes, she sidled up behind Rook, slipped her arm around his waist, and leaned in close. “Ready to blow this Popsicle stand, big boy?”

But instead of picking up the thread of her flirtatious proposition, he grabbed her wrist, yanked it clear of his body, and whipped her around until she tottered on her heels next to him. “Blow this Popsicle stand? What, are you crazy? We can’t leave now. I’m just getting started. See those guys?” he asked, clutching his tumbler in his hand as he pointed to a cluster of people.

“What I see are very few women. I mean, come on, Rook. You can’t tell me that women never write award-winning pieces.”

He fluttered his hand in front of her. “Well, of course they do. Don’t be a ninny. I did just win the Nellie Bly award. And look. Look over there,” he said, and once again, he was pointing. “That’s Rebecca Reisenbold. Just last year, she won the very exclusive—” He stroked his chin. “Now what was that award?”

Nikki shook her head. “You are proving my point, Rook.”

His fluttering hand turned into a wave. “No, no, no. Nikki Heat, you are not going to get me all verklempt—”

She grinned, feeling it stretch the entire width of her face. She came up closer to him again, slipping her hand under his jacket and letting it snake around his middle. “Aw, but baby, don’t you want me to get you all verklempt?”

She felt him stiffen. Oh yeah, she had him. She knew his eyes were probably rolling back slightly. If they were in a cartoon, his clutch on his tumbler would have shattered it. What were usually ordinary words coming from his mouth had turned to unintelligible gibberish. “I can . . . do . . . verk . . . now . . . coatroom,” he said, his eyes now half-closed.

She took hold of his tie and pulled him into motion. “Like I said. Let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”

“Oh yeah,” he said again, following like a tiger she’d tamed. “Let’s blow something.”

Without missing a step, she set her wine glass down on a nearby table. Rook, still her lapdog, did the same with his tumbler. They were almost at the door, where they could hail a cab to take them back to their Tribeca loft. No one had stopped them. No one had noticed. She pushed against the door. Almost there—

“Jamie, where in the devil are you off to?” The booming voice of Raymond Lamont stopped them in their tracks. He sauntered up beside them, clapping Rook on the back with one hand, a tumbler of whiskey on the rocks in the other.

Damn, Nikki thought. They’d been so close.

A young woman appeared from behind Lamont. Surely not his date, Nikki thought, although it wouldn’t surprise her. It was the ultimate cliché for a professor to date a student.

“Thought we’d call it an early night,” Rook said. Heat kept her hand on his arm, hoping she could still guide him out into the Brooklyn evening while it was early enough to walk along the waterfront when they got back to Tribeca.

He nodded his greeting to Nikki, then smiled. “Say no more. Beautiful night for lovers.”

Nikki cringed. She didn’t dislike Lamont, but God, he could be such a windbag. He was interesting—he was smart. He wore an earring, and she’d glimpsed the tattoo on his inner wrist once when his long sleeve had slipped up. But he often drank too much, and now was one of those times. He was far less stable on his feet than he’d been onstage, and his words slurred.

“But before you go, my fine people,” he continued, “let me introduce you to a member of your fan club. Chloe Masterson, Jameson Rook.” Lamont ushered the young woman forward.

Nikki had spent half her life as an observer, trying to understand why people did what they did and said what they said. She’d learned to size up a person pretty quickly, although she also withheld judgment until she had more information. Her first impression of this girl was that she was confident and strong and knew how to get what she wanted. She had shoulder-length black hair held back with a simple thin hairband. Clear skin and a lean figure told Nikki that the young woman took care of herself. Her mascaraed eyes and pink plump lips said that she cared about her appearance, but not overly so. And her evening dress, a simple black knee-length sheath, looked like she belonged in it. She owned the dress, rather than the dress owning her.

She gave a forced smile, Nikki noticed, clearly not liking the introduction Lamont had given her. “It’s very nice to meet you,” she said, adding, “and I’m actually a journalism student.”

Lamont thrust his shoulders back, said, “I stand corrected,” and threw back his drink.

Chloe clearly had wanted to speak to Rook, and she’d gotten Raymond Lamont to give her an introduction, more evidence of her determination and strength. Nikki could see that this girl went after what she wanted. “I admire your work so much,” Chloe said.

“Well. I can’t say I ever get tired of hearing that,” Rook answered, the quintessential twinkle in his eye. “Would you like an autograph? Or a picture? Do you have a cell phone?” Before she could answer, he turned to Nikki. “Would you do the honors?”

“No, no, Mr. Rook, I’m not a fan—” She blushed, but quickly regained her composure. “That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry. Of course I’m a fan, but that isn’t why I wanted to meet you.”

“Do tell,” Rook said, intrigued.

“Let me,” Lamont boomed. “Ms. Masterson is one of Cam U’s best and brightest. She’s you, Rook, when you were at the university. Of course, you exceeded expectations, and her editor is not near as talented as yours.” He guffawed. “But we won’t go there.”

“Let me guess, you were his editor?” Nikki asked, smirking so only Rook could see. Rook exceeding expectations was putting it mildly.

“Editor in chief. Perhaps the greatest experience I had. It led me down a winding path, but ultimately to become the dean of the very journalism program that produced us both,” Lamont said, squeezing Rook’s shoulder. “Chloe here is a go-getter just like we were.”

“Are,” Rook inserted. “Just like we are. Hide a carrot and we will sniff it out. Chloe, if what old Lamont here says is true, you have a bright future ahead of you. A bright future, indeed.”

“What I, and everyone else, have been telling her. Saunders met with her personally. Daily’s her advisor. We all have high hopes.” He turned to Chloe. “You, my girl, are going to put Cam U on the map.”

To Rook, he said, “This little lady is going to give you a run for your money, Jamie. I’ve regaled her, as well as my other students, with our journalistic antics from our time at the Journal. Stories we wrote, parties we crashed, the kill files—”

Nikki drew back at that. “The what?”

“Stories pitched or started, but never finished,” Rook explained.

“Professor Lamont could tell stories all day long,” Chloe confirmed.

Nikki detected the slightest hint of sarcasm, but it seemed to be lost on Lamont. “She has been quite determined to meet you,” he said to Rook.

“Excellent,” Rook said.

Nikki leaned in, keeping her voice low. “I’ve been on the other end of Raymond’s stories,” she said. “I feel you.”

Chloe gave a knowing smile. “Captain Heat, I presume.”

Impressive, Nikki thought. The girl wanted to talk to Rook—that was evident—but she’d done her homework by learning at least the bare minimum about his wife. She wondered about this meeting. It wasn’t a chance encounter. She’d run across Rook’s fans, both crazed and otherwise, in the past, but this one—this one was different. She wanted something.

“So Ms. Masterson,” Rook said, “I see that you are more than a fan. What can I”—he swept his arm out to include Nikki—“what can we do to help you?”

Lamont looked at his empty tumbler and excused himself. “I’ll take this opportunity to take my leave,” he said. As he sauntered toward the bar, he glanced over his shoulder. “See you around campus, Rook.”

Once it was just the three of them, Chloe directed her piercing dark eyes at them. “Mr. Rook. It’s not what you can do to help me. It’s what I can do to help you.”

“That is quite an opening. You have my curiosity piqued, my dear,” Rook said in his best Sherlock Holmes impersonation.

Nikki rolled her eyes, but she had to admit, her curiosity was piqued, too.

“I’m not able to take your class this term, and I’m graduating in the spring, but I do want to talk with you when you’re there. If that’s all right with you, of course.”

“ ‘Visiting professor’ means I’ll visit with anyone who wants to pick my brain,” Rook said.

Nikki stayed silent. Things were good between Rook and her. Whatever drama they’d faced in recent months had receded, and they were just living their lives. It was a rare circumstance. Nikki’s mother was alive and well. Not just well, but on her honeymoon with none other than Nikki’s CIA buddy Derrick Storm’s dad. Love at first sight, they’d both said. She let her gaze skim over Rook. Nikki herself had fought it tooth and nail, but she knew just what her mother was talking about. None of them wanted to waste another minute.

Except, it seemed, for Jameson Rook. Two-time Pulitzer Prize– winning author for First Press. Ruggedly handsome investigative journalist. Her husband. He was perfectly willing to waste another precious minute. Or 172,800 minutes, which was what the four months he’d be gone added up to while he did this professor thing at Cambria University. But who was counting?

“I work on the Cambria Journal, like Professor Lamont said. Editor-at-large.”

“Great college. Great paper,” Rook said. “Worked there all four years of my attendance. I can honestly say that without the Cambria Journal, I would not be the award-winning author I am today.”

“You’re an inspiration, Mr. Rook,” Chloe said. “Your work when you were a student was inspirational. My God, I bet your notebooks could be in a museum. Do you still have them? You changed the trajectory of the paper, did you know that? Raised the bar for all of us.”

Nikki cleared her throat. It was possible that Chloe actually was president of the Jameson Rook fan club. Groupies weren’t isolated to musicians. Or . . . she could just be very good at knowing how to ingratiate herself with a person. If they didn’t cut this off soon, Nikki thought, they might never make their escape. “Chloe, we were just on our way out. I imagine you can talk to Rook when he’s in residence—”

“Oh! Of course! I’m so sorry.” She stepped back, her expression looking troubled. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Rook flashed Nikki a look. Cut the poor girl a break, it said. She just met her personal hero. To Chloe, he said, “You didn’t interrupt. I always have time for an aspiring journalist.”

“I really am. I’m researching a story. I think you will find it interesting, actually. Right up your alley. Sku—”

She stopped when Nikki sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to interrupt your evening any more. I’ll see you in Cambria, Mr. Rook.”

“I look forward to that,” Rook said. “And I’m happy to share my formative experiences.”

Nikki read between the lines. Chloe had hit the trifecta of capturing Rook’s full attention: she’d pandered to his ego, had brought in a quick reference to conspiracy theories, à la Skull and Bones, and she’d alluded to wanting his advice on her latest piece and admiring his humble journalistic beginnings. Nikki wasn’t going to let him sink into the black hole the young woman had carved out, or they’d never get back to their loft. She grabbed a fistful of Rook’s jacket sleeve, propelling him into motion. “Okay, great. He’ll be seeing you soon, then. Nice to meet you, Chloe.”

Rook let himself be dragged out of the event room, but he turned to Chloe before the door slammed in his face. “See you in a week!”

Chloe nodded. “Counting the seconds,” she called.

A few minutes later, Nikki and Rook stood outside the venue, watching cabs roll past. “Looks like the president of your fan club is all lined up and ready to go,” Nikki said.

His smile widened. “You think so, too? I thought it was just me. I wonder what advice I can give to the young impressionable minds of the twenty-first century that they haven’t already heard before?” he mused, stroking his chin.

Nikki had been kidding, but Rook was not. She would always be content staying behind the scenes, but Rook thrived in the limelight. No wonder he wanted to do the writer-in-residence gig. All of a sudden, it made perfect sense. For four months, Rook was going to be the expert in all things journalism, and whether or not he was aware of his need, a part of him would be fulfilled by the adulation the underclassmen at Cambria University would bestow upon him. Rook would be in seventh heaven.

And Nikki would be on her own.

THREE

ap, you okay?” Sean Raley, one half of the best squad leader team in all of New York, looked at Heat, a mix of concern and curiosity on his face. She didn’t like seeing either one of those emotions directed at her. She prided herself on her professionalism. On her ability to be logical, while also pragmatic.

Damn Jameson Rook. He was in her head, and she needed to get him out. She wiped away any insipid romantic notion that marriage could be perfect, resolved to deal with Rook and his writer-in-residence gig later, and turned her full attention to Raley, dismissing his question with a wave of her hand. “Yeah, of course. I’m fine. What d’ya got?”

“What we got is a dead body,” he said.

The beat of her pulse quickened. Her promotion to captain had changed her. She’d taken the job rather than risk a potentially inept new captain coming in. But being head of the Twentieth had changed the primary function of her job. She’d gone from fieldwork as a detective to a job filled with bureaucracy. Most of her time was spent dealing with the brass at One Police Plaza, shuffling papers, taking reports, and all the other minutiae that came with being the head honcho of a detective squad.

Finding balance by finding a way to stay in the field was the trick. Right now, the chance to get back into it was like an itch that needed scratching.

“I’m listening,” she said.

“Details are sketchy at this point.” This time it was Miguel Ochoa, the other half of the dynamic duo detective team, who spoke.