Driving Heat (48 page)

Her dad stood off to the side with the woman who had moved in with him in June. Jeff Heat had known Linda from his days as a student at GW, and they had reconnected through a social medium: AA.
It warmed Nikki to see that her father had found love again. Ironically, someone new had made him the man he once was.

Heat heard laughter and leaned forward to see Raley and Ochoa cracking each other up in their front-row seats. Her road to taking command had not been smooth and, in hindsight, she should have
listened to Rook on her first day when he highlighted the perils of being a leader who couldn’t pull the trigger. Naming Sean and Miguel interim squad leaders not only made her seem
indecisive, the uncertain nature of the promotion had pitted her two best detectives—not to mention bulletproof partners—against each other in unhealthy competition. She had admitted
her error; they had admitted theirs, and their raucous Roach laughter and—was that them sharing hits from a flask?—proved just how bulletproof they were.

Rook texted that he was “ninety seconds from bliss,” and she could hear the rumble of Feller’s V8 nearing the driveway of the inn. She laughed, imagining the indignity of a
certain investigative journalist trying to change into a tuxedo in the backseat of an undercover police car as it negotiated all those turns from the highway down to Mecox Bay. Then the flutter of
the largest butterfly she had ever felt took her by surprise, and she had to steady herself on the windowsill. She paused until it passed.

Then hoped to hell it would return to stay.

It did return mere minutes later, giving wings to Nikki’s heart when she
saw her husband-to-be in his bespoke tux, standing up
taller at the sight of her as he waited, all smiles, surrounded by flowers in the gazebo. Her father escorted her up the aisle to an aria from one of Bach’s wedding cantatas played by a
chamber ensemble from Juilliard and sung angelically by none other than Rook’s mom, Broadway’s Grande Dame.

All eyes were upon Nikki as she proceeded slowly up the white linen runner that had been unfurled on the lush grass, but their joyful faces all simply blurred out of focus. Heat could only see
Rook. And the smile she wanted to see for all time.

She arrived beside Judge Horace Simpson, their longtime poker buddy, and waited as the cantata came to an end. Rook whispered, “You look absolutely lovely.”

“And you, ruggedly handsome.”

He turned to the judge. “I knew I was marrying the right person.” And Nikki nodded with a grin as lustrous as the sea behind them.

They had written their own vows and, in a leap of faith, had not shared them with each other. After Judge Simpson had performed his opening remarks and the guests were all settled, Rook took
Nikki’s hands and spoke his promise.

“I fell in love with you the day we met. I believe your first words to me were something like, ‘Stay in the car, or I swear I’ll shoot you.’”

While the guests all laughed, Nikki turned to them and said, “It’s true.”

“I have to cop to being a writer instead of a cop. But instead of thoroughly dismissing me as the pest I probably was—and/or shooting me—you performed a miracle in my life,
Nikki, by doing the best thing anyone has ever done for me. You trusted me. Simply, completely, and unconditionally. Except for my occasional conspiracy theories, many of which, may I say, have
been borne out.

“What happened when
you
and
I
started to become
us
was the next miracle. I began to live a dream because you enhance everything. Even a New York skyline. With
you I saw for the first time how the windows of the Carlyle gleam like orange jewels at sunset. You taught me that if I close my eyes on the Highline, it smells like a poppy field in Tuscany.
I’ll never forget how we went for an early-spring run once, and it suddenly started snowing big fat flakes, turning Central Park into our own private snow globe. And then, when I whispered
‘Rosebud,’ you got it—you really got it! The world with you is exciting, whether it’s a Bowery sidewalk or the Île de la Cité. I can’t wait to see what
magic you work on Iceland when we get to Reykjavík tomorrow.” Rook paused while quizzical murmurs of “Reykjavík?” spread across the lawn.

“We have so much in common. We like the same wines, we’ve read the same books, and now, we share the same home. We’ve even shared a bullet. How many newlyweds can say
that?” He tugged at her hands and felt compelled to kiss her but waited. That would come.

“I owe a lot to Ernest Hemingway.” He addressed the guests and said, “Don’t ask, long story.” Then he gazed at his bride. “Hemingway once said, ‘The
best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.’ I’m no Hemingway, but I would add, ‘And the best way to tell if you love somebody, is to have it be Nikki
Heat.’” He unexpectedly choked up, then proceeded.

“And now I, Jameson Rook, promise my eternal love to you, Nikki Heat. Simply, completely, and unconditionally. Until death do us part.”

They mouthed a silent
I love you
to each other, and Nikki took her turn.

“We met through our work and ended up partners in crime. And now, here we are, about to become partners in life. Yes, we did share a bullet, but we do share much more. Like a belief in
goodness, in people, in laughter, in friendship, but most of all, in each other. What we didn’t already share when we met, I have learned from you. You have shown me that things are never as
far as you thought, nor as impossible as they seem. And that fools drive, lovers enjoy the ride.

“Our ride has been unconventional to say the least. Just surviving to get to this moment was a minor miracle. But just when I thought I couldn’t get any closer to you, or feel more
certain of our marriage, that experience created a bond nothing will ever break.

“I, Nikki Heat, stand before you and everyone I care about…” She paused and swallowed hard. He gave her a nod of encouragement, and she continued. “And one who could not be
here…to promise that I will always love you, Jameson Rook. I will always be there for you. I will be your friend, and, yes, your partner in crime forever. As every moment from this day forth
becomes the time of our lives.”

Rook beamed as he slipped the wedding band on her finger. Nikki’s radiant eyes barely left his as she put the ring on him.

The judge said, “By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” He didn’t have to tell them to kiss.

Heat and Rook had already found each other.

It’s 2:00
A.M.
, and here I sit, too pumped to sleep, still buoyant from receiving that Career Achievement Award at tonight’s big Poe’s
Pen ceremony and, frankly, unable to wake her up. Oh, well. Picture, dear reader, my bespoke tux jacket on the floor, bow tie undone, and a rocks glass of the Irish at hand with no cubes to spoil
the amber magic. Yes, it was all very heady tonight. The Poe’s Pen statuette, the gracious words from the award presenter, the great Michael Connelly, the bloodred carpet…But, in truth, it
was the faces—the gathering of all those who are so close and so dear to me around that table of honor as I looked out from the podium—that meant the most, the chance to toast those who
made it all possible.

So while I’m in a toasting mood (and who knows, afterward, in the mood for dancing the Time Warp), let me lift an aged spirit to all those who once again proved that these puppies
don’t write themselves. It all begins and, hopefully, never ends with Kate Beckett, my inspiration, my teacher, my lover, my bestest friend…for the time of our life. The crew at the Twelfth
Precinct rocks it, and is my rock. Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan, my only regret is that I could never coin a portmanteau for you. Espry? Javin? How about “buds”? Victoria Gates
continues to let me run rampant, and for that I am grateful, as ever.

An autopsy, truth be told, is never a party you want to be invited to, but Dr. Lanie Parish down at the Office of Chief Medical Examiner makes that basement room as close to upbeat as it can be
without, well, waking the dead.

My mother, Martha, is equal parts consternation and inspiration and neither of us would have it any other way. My daughter, Alexis, continues to outshine her ol’ dad at every turn. She
needs to knock that off. Smarty! (Next book, I’m having her write this section!)

Pardon me while I clang a spoon on my glass in celebration of the amazing Nathan, Stana, Seamus, Jon, Molly, Susan, Tamala, and Penny.

The folks in the Clinton Building at Raleigh Studios also get a smart
salut!
Hey, it just occurred to me, I could turn this toast into a swell drinking game.

Terri Edda Miller, you intoxicate me simply by being near. Hand in hand, arm in arm, onward—together. Always.

To you, Jennifer Allen. My eyes mist over, and I think of Hemingway, who said, “It is the journey that matters, in the end.” Our lovely ride continues with all commas in place and
accounted for.

Thanks to Laura Hopper, Executive Editor at Disney Publishing Worldwide, Kingswell, and to Lisa Schomas and her terrific support team at ABC for success built on amazing cooperation and
forethought.

My agent, Sloan Harris at ICM Partners, has always made sure my glass is half full, and I am grateful for his belief in me from the start.

Will Balliett, Gretchen Young, and Elisabeth Dyssegaard also deserve a clink and a sip for this little experiment that could.

Ellen Borakove continues to provide ace technical assistance for all things OCME. Additionally, I got amazing help from Monica Smiddy, M.D., forensic pathologist, New York City.

Shamus Smith, NYPD, not only provided a trove of background and technical assistance, but come on—a cop with a name like Shamus helping with a detective story? How could I go wrong?

Thanks to Jacqui Rivera for the introduction to Shamus, and to Joe Murphy, the pride of Melbourne, for logistical and research assistance. And, year after year—ever astute, ever faithful,
ever enterprising—Cooper McMains, thank you for your cherished assistance.

If ever I thought someone was invaluable to a project it would certainly be David Liske, CEO, CPE, ACTAR, and a Principal Associate with LISKE Consulting Group Forensic Professionals. David most
generously gave me hours of his time and whole sections of his brain as I researched this book. Whatever I got right about vehicle crash forensics and reconstruction, credit David. Whatever I got
wrong, that would be on me.

Also, I got lots and lots of help from the New York Public Library, so special shout-outs (
Ssssssh!
) go to Research Community Manager Carolyn Broomhead, PhD, and Reference Librarian Jay
Barksdale for research assistance, as well as the writing space accommodation in room 228E, “The last quiet place on earth.”

John Parry once again came through with perfect Upstate recon, including actual GPS location scouting for the Triplex.

Alton Brown, no cutthroat he, not only came up with the Jameson punch recipe, but sweated the detail of finding one that could be served chilled for a summer wedding, not the traditional warm
one.

My friend Jill Krementz would have indeed shot Pulitzer-quality wedding photos, and I thank her for that. And a fist bump to my pal Ken Levine, who always reminds me at the start of each book
that a murder might not be a bad idea.

And now, I’ll refill the glass for this one, because it’s a huge thank-you: Andrew Marlowe, you took a castle and made it Camelot. ’Nuff said? Never enough. Consider me an
author whose best words would only be inadequate.

And, Tom, what can I say…? Except that I’m still living up to that
nom de plume
award. Maybe not as cool as getting one from Michael Connelly, but I guess it was a start.

RC

May 12, 2015, 2:34
A.M.

New York City

RICHARD CASTLE
is the author of numerous bestsellers, including
Heat Wave
,
Naked Heat
,
Heat Rises
,
Frozen Heat
,
Deadly Heat
,
Raging Heat
,
Storm Front
, and
Wild Storm
, and the Derrick Storm eBook original trilogy. When he’s not writing bestsellers, Mr. Castle consults with the NYPD’s Twelfth Precinct on New York’s strangest homicides. His first novel,
In a Hail of Bullets
, published while he was still in college, received the Nom DePlume Society’s prestigious Tom Straw Award for Mystery Literature.

Mr. Castle lives in Manhattan with his family, all of whom infuse his life with humor and inspiration.