Heat Storm (Castle) Read online

  There was a murmur from the crowd. Heat immediately looked toward the commissioner, who was nodding his approval—probably thinking of all the antiterrorism money that would pour into his budget if a New Yorker were in the job.

  “Don’t worry,” Gardner added. “I’m not looking for an answer right now.”

  Now the crowd was laughing and Heat mouthed the words “thank you.”

  Except, already, her brain was whirring. The director of Homeland Security? Her? The thing she liked least about running the Twentieth Precinct was the bureaucratic nonsense that came with the job. Imagine being in the red tape capital of the country, running what was, at its core, nothing more than a large bureaucracy.

  Besides, she wanted her energies to stay focused on her mother, on learning more about the Shanghai Seven, on making the world safe for her return.

  But maybe as director of Homeland Security she’d have an easier time accomplishing that. Surely if she had the entire weight of a new president’s administration behind her, she’d have the juice to get the Shanghai Seven decommissioned?

  She realized, much to her surprise, she was intrigued. More than she would have admitted.

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, having provided enough sound bites to feed the cable news networks until dinnertime, Gardner announced her departure to a cheering crowd.

  After the Secret Service ushered her away, it was everyone else’s turn to leave the stage. As Heat descended the steps, her head felt like it had been put through a blender without a top on it, and her thoughts had been sprayed all over the place. She had to concentrate on making sure her foot hit every tread on the stairs, so she didn’t become an instant YouTube sensation by falling off the stage.

  She was so focused on that task she didn’t pay much attention to the tall dark-haired man who was approaching her until he stuck out a hand in her direction.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m John Null. I’m Lindsy’s campaign manager.”

  He was wearing a tailored suit that he filled out nicely. Null was a former army helicopter pilot who had served two overseas tours in Iraq and Afghanistan before going into civilian life. It was a background that played well with veterans’ groups. And he had clearly managed to maintain his physique from his days as a serviceman.

  “Nice to meet you,” Heat said.

  “Just so you know, Lindsy is really serious about this. This isn’t a presidential candidate just trying to win a news cycle and get some reflected glory from the hero of the day. The campaign is already vetting you, and we’re impressed with what we’ve found. We think you’ve got what it takes to do this job. I know the management side of it might be a bit much at first, but you seem to have a long history of getting things done, even against long odds. You’re exactly the kind of person we want working in this administration.”

  “Thank you,” Heat said.

  “And I’m sorry if the delivery of the offer caught you a little bit by surprise. I told her I thought she should approach you privately first. But she said if she did it that way, you would just say no. She felt like doing it this way, so the whole world knew the incredible opportunity you’d been offered, and there’d be a better chance your friends and family would pressure you into saying yes.”

  “She’s probably right about that,” Heat said, adding a laugh.

  “Lindsy Gardner is right about a lot of things. I know she’s my boss, so I’m supposed to say this, but she really does have great instincts about people. We’re not going to push you for an answer right now or anytime soon. I know this has just been sprung on you and it has to be a lot to take in. But is it something you can at least consider for a while?”

  “Well, I have to say, I am flattered . . .” Heat began.

  “Then stop right there. Stay flattered. That’s a nice feeling,” Null said. “Look, don’t even try to make up your mind yet. Just think about it. Obviously, we wouldn’t even need an answer until after the election. Gotta make sure we actually have a job to offer. Never know what those voters will do.”

  He offered a winning smile.

  “No, but things are looking pretty good for you guys,” Heat said. Overnight polls showed that, with Legs Kline out of the race, Gardner had picked up most of his voters, surging into the lead in a number of key battleground states. FiveThirtyEight was predicting a landslide.

  “Well, we’ll see. It’s my job not to take anything for granted,” he said. “But if I can give you my own sales pitch, it’s that Lindsy is great to work for. I think in some ways she treats everything like she’s still running a small-town library. She likes to really get to know the people who work for her on a personal level. I hope you’ll at least consent to sitting down with her for a little chat?”

  “Of course,” Heat said.

  “Terrific,” Null said enthusiastically. “Her schedule is hopeless today. But we might be able to find some time for you tomorrow afternoon?”

  “That would be fine. Just let me know,” Heat said.

  The two exchanged cell phone numbers—Heat’s a 917 area code, Null’s a 202—then went their separate ways. Heat had about a twenty-minute walk back to the Twentieth Precinct, which was preferable to what awaited her if she had decided to drive. The Secret Service had asked the NYPD to shut down half the streets in midtown Manhattan on account of Gardner’s visit, and the other half were hopelessly jammed.

  Heat was just under way and had already switched to thinking about the day that lay ahead—it consisted of more Legs Kline–related debriefings and a whole lot of backlogged paperwork, unfortunately— when her phone told her she had a text message.

  Thinking it was going to be Null, Heat was expecting it to be a number from outside her contact list.

  And it was. But it didn’t come from Null.

  It came from a 646 area code, which was overflow from New York’s venerable 212.

  It read: NIKKI. I AM YOUR NEW BEST FRIEND. OR PERHAPS YOUR NEW WORST ENEMY. IT’S REALLY GOING TO BE UP TO YOU. WILL YOU LISTEN TO ME?

  It was signed, THE SERPENT.

  Heat frowned. Was this some kind of prank? There were nine-year-olds in remedial schools who had more maturity than some of the guys back at the precinct, especially when they got in a group. This could have been their stupid idea of fun.

  Or . . .

  Well, at the very least, she could play along.

  THAT DEPENDS, she texted back. WHAT IS IT YOU HAVE TO SAY?

  Heat continued walking until she heard her phone chime again.

  LEAVE YOUR MOTHER’S CASE ALONE. DO NOT TRY TO FIND HER. DO NOT TRY TO FIND THE BILLS. DO NOT INVESTIGATE IT IN ANY WAY. IT’S FOR YOUR OWN GOOD. YOU HAVE NO IDEA THE POWER YOU’RE DEALING WITH. TAKE THE JOB IN DC. FORGET YOUR MOTHER. TAKE THIS ADVICE OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES.

  Heat felt like someone had bounced a brick off her head. The idiots back at the precinct didn’t know a thing about her mother. Only Rook and Storm did. And both of them knew better than to say anything.

  WHAT CONSEQUENCES? Heat typed back.

  By the time her walk had concluded, she still had not received an answer.

  FOUR

  STORM

  The ruggedly handsome man turned off the television that had, until moments earlier, been showing footage of the Lindsy Gardner press event in New York City. The man was now standing in silence in a break room on the fifth floor of the Bureau of Prisons headquarters. He wore an exquisitely faked name tag that identified him as JACKSON, MICHAEL.

  He smoothed his sideburns, also fake, apparently on loan from 1977. Then he pet his bushy mustache, which he had attached to his face with the aid of half a bottle of spirit gum, and which would have been familiar to aficionados of the pornographic films of the same era.

  Derrick Storm had made this transformation somewhere above thirty thousand feet during his morning flight down to Washington, DC. Along the way, he had given himself a crash course on everything he would need to know to become Michael Jackson, an unfortunately monike
red mid-level paper pusher at the Federal Bureau of Prisons.

  He was determined not just to play the part, but to own it. His pleated khaki Dockers were just a little frayed at the cuffs, and the fly refused to stay closed, exposing the zipper. His short-sleeve button-down shirt was light blue and starched to attention. His tie looked like it was the lone survivor of a vicious food fight.

  On his left wrist, he wore a plastic WWJD bracelet; on his left hand, a wedding ring. Studies had shown Americans considered married Christian men more trustworthy—studies that perhaps only proved that Americans had forgotten Jim Bakker.

  So far, the disguise had worked beautifully. Storm had breezed his way past security in the lobby. No one had given him a first glance, much less a second one, as he rode the elevator to the top floor.

  And now, having composed himself in the break room for a moment or two, he was ready. Someone—very likely someone in this building—had signed the order to transfer Bart Callan from supermax to the medium security facility from which he had ultimately escaped. And Storm, with the help of “Michael Jackson,” was going to figure out who that signatory was.

  Storm took one last deep breath. Then he turned out into the hallway, building up a good head of steam as he stalked past rows of half-height cubicles on his right, then turned into an office on the left that was three doors down from the corner.

  “Well, there you are!” Storm half yelled in a nasal voice that was half an octave higher than his own.

  A middle-aged black man with a shaved head looked up from his desktop computer, appropriately startled.

  “I know the phone system here is cranky like a Yankee,” Storm continued, “but the least you can do is pick up your extension when I call! You made me come all the way up from the third floor, you know!”

  “Sorry. Can I . . . can I help you with something?” the man said.

  “Yes, you can help me. I’m in the middle of a whoop-de-hoop catastrophe here. So, yes, you can help me.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met, Mister—”

  “Just read the tag!” Storm said petulantly, thrusting his chest in the man’s direction.

  “Mister . . . Michael Jackson? Is your name really Michael Jackson?”

  “Yes. Yes it is. And, I know, you want to be starting something. And the girl is yours, not mine. And you want me to beat it. I’ve heard it all before. I can’t help it that my parents never listened to contemporary popular music and decided to name me after my grandfather, okay? Are you really going to take me back to the sixth grade playground with your sophomoric banter? Because that’s bullying. And may I remind you that under Directive Thirteen-Fifty-Seven-B, paragraph twelve, subset three, we have a very clearly stated no-bullying policy here at the Bureau of Prisons.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sorry,” the man said. “Look, man, I didn’t mean to step into a sensitive subject here. But . . . Well, shoot, have you ever thought of, I don’t know, going by your middle name or something?”

  “My first middle name is Tito.”

  “Oh. Damn.”

  “And my second middle name is Andrew. I’m afraid the seventh president of the United States kind of wrecked that one for me.”

  “Right.”

  Storm leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “Though I’m glad they’re taking him off the twenty. Aren’t you?”

  “Uh . . . I mean, yeah, I guess. Whatever.”

  “Also,” Storm kept whispering, “I want you to know, I voted for Obama.”

  The man just arched an eyebrow.

  “We should fist-bump, right? That’s what you people do, isn’t it?” Storm said, balling up his right hand and thrusting it toward the man.

  The man, now caught somewhere between confused and horrified, knocked his fist against Storm’s.

  “And then we give each other ‘the nod,’ ” Storm continued, bobbing his head and clarifying: “I watch black-ish on ABC, so I know.”

  The man was no longer caught in between. Now he was just horrified.

  “Yeah, yeah,” the man said. “Anyhow, you . . . you need something, Mister, uh . . . can I call you Mike?”

  “Call me Michael, please. And, yes, I need something. I need to find an umbrella, and you’re going to need one, too, because there’s going to be a real poop storm if it gets out what’s going on around this place! I’m talking congressional hearings, exposés in the Washington Post, tell-all books. Somewhere, someone is probably already deciding who’s going to play your part in the movie.”

  “Relax, friend. Just relax. What’s going on?”

  “I’m not going to relax, that’s what’s going on!” Storm crowed. “I’m doing an audit of FCI-Cumberland and I’m missing a BP-T-oh-two-twelve for an inmate. Do you understand the consequences here? This is a disaster! I’m talking floods and locusts, hurricanes and typhoons, Justin Bieber on tour!”

  The BP-T02-12, as Storm knew from his hasty research on the plane, was also known as the Place of Imprisonment form. And, within the Bureau of Prisons, every inmate was supposed to have one.

  “Well,” the man began, “I’m sure it just got misplaced. If you call down there and let them know there’s been a little mix-up, I’m sure they’ll—”

  “No. No! This is not a quote-unquote ‘little mix-up.’ This is a complete and utter breakdown of the whole system. Heads are going to roll over this one, and you better be damn sure it’s not going to be mine. I’m blowing the whistle. Blowing the whistle, you hear? That means there are laws that protect me. And I’m not going to stop blowing it. I’ll blow my way all the way to the White House if I have to.”

  “Whoa, whoa. Just take it easy, Michael. This is fixable. Is it just one inmate we’re talking about?”

  “Just one inmate? I’m glad you can be so casual about this. But to me there’s no such thing as ‘just’ one inmate in this system. Not with the kind of scum and villainy we’ve got locked up. You know who else is ‘just one inmate’ in the Bureau of Prisons? Ted Kaczynski.”

  The man cocked his head. Storm was now pointing at him. “I’m getting to the bottom of this.

  I’m getting to the bottom of this if it’s the last thing I do. Sometimes evil needs to be pulled up from the root. The BP-T-oh-two-twelve is really just a symptom. The real disease is the BP-C-eight-eight-eleven. I need to know who signed that, then we’ll figure out what happened here.”

  The BP-C88-11 was also known as the Transfer Notice. It was a document that was required anytime an inmate changed prisons.

  “Can’t you just look that up yourself?” the man asked.

  “Maybe up here on the well-to-do fifth floor you can just look it up,” Storm said. “But down on the third floor, we don’t have the access. Janet down in IT made sure of that.”

  “Janet . . .”

  “Jackson,” Storm said, then added: “My sister. She’s nasty.”

  “All right, all right. Just cool down. I can look it up for you. Who’s the inmate? Let’s see if we can figure out what’s going on here.”

  Storm rattled off Bart Callan’s eight-digit federal inmate ID number, very pointedly not using his name—the name, Storm knew, would set off alarm bells.

  “Well, let’s see here,” the man said, entering the number into his desktop computer as Storm recited it. “His transfer notice was signed by . . . Oh, here it is: Mason Wood.”

  “Mason Wood? As in Mason Wood, the associate director?”

  “Yeah, his office is right over there in the corner if you want to—”

  “I know where his office is,” Storm said. “I’m just shocked! I’m shocked and appalled that someone like Associate Director Wood would make such a fundamental mistake like—”

  “Now hang on a sec here,” the man said, still looking at his screen. “The Place of Imprisonment form is right here.”

  The man tilted his screen so Storm could see it.

  “Well, I’ll be a . . .” Storm began. “How did I miss that?”

  The man shru
gged.

  “Happens to everyone sometimes,” he said.

  Storm was now looking down at the carpet. “No. Not to me. I’m deeply, deeply embarrassed and I . . . I can’t believe I had such awful thoughts about Associate Director Wood. Can you please, please, not mention this to him?”

  “Yeah, man, no sweat.”

  “Thank you. You’re a good man. A good man,” Storm said reverently. “And I want you to know, I never thought for one second that OJ did it.”

  FIVE

  HEAT

  Unlike some of the New York Police Department’s more stately structures, the Twentieth Precinct was not some architectural marvel or historic landmark. It was just a plain brick building hard up against 82nd Street, wholly lacking in decoration or ornamentation.

  But to Captain Nikki Heat, it was a special place all the same. She had been assigned there shortly after graduating from the New York City Police Academy, after her mother’s death had made her decide to change majors from theater to criminal justice and pursue a career in law enforcement.

  Heat had since spent the majority of her waking hours in and around the Two-Oh, first as a beat cop, then as a sergeant, next as a detective, then as detective squad leader, and now as its first-ever female commander. Its walls had seen her laugh and cry, seen her break down the hardest con and yet also treat victims of crime with the softest touch. She had made a million mistakes there but also learned a million life lessons along the way.

  It was, when you got right down to it, where she had grown up; it was her home as much as any she had ever had.

  And so, as she pushed through the glass door shortly after eleven o’clock, having walked back from the press conference, she was entering comfortable turf. And she didn’t have much of any reaction when the desk sergeant cheerfully called out, “Hey, Captain. I got something here for you. A bike messenger came by with it. He wanted to hand it to you personally, but I told him that wasn’t happening. Anyway, here.”

  Then he handed her an envelope, and Heat felt her world lurch to a halt for a moment.

  Her name was written on the outside, but that wasn’t the shocking part. It was how her name was written that made everything come to a stop. It was the graceful curve of the N, the slant of the two Is, the hurried Ks, the loop in the H, the way the E and the A were like mere speed bumps on the way to the T.