“But that phone call to me. The one you wiretapped…”

“She was already in custody. Kimberly made that call for me.”

“Why?”

“Why else? To get you to come to my art show.” Nikki gave the sign to the paramedics and stepped away so the last picture the detective saw was the look on Noah Paxton’s face.

The heat wave broke late that night, and it did not go quietly. As a front from Canada bullied its way down the Hudson, it collided with the hot, stagnant air of New York and spawned an aerial show of lightning, swirling winds, and sideways rain. TV meteorologists patted themselves on the back and pointed to red and tangerine splotches on Doppler radar as the skies opened and the thunder ripped like cannon fire through the stone and glass canyons of Manhattan.

On Hudson in Tribeca, Nikki Heat slowed down to avoid splashing the diners huddled under umbrellas outside Nobu, praying in vain for open cabs to get them uptown in the downpour. She turned onto Rook’s street and pulled the police car into an open space in a loading zone up the block from his building.

“You still pissed at me?” he said.

“No more than usual.” She put the car in Park. “I just get quiet after I clear a case. It’s like I’ve been turned inside out.”

Rook hesitated, something on his mind. “Anyway, thanks for the ride in all this.”

“No problem.”

Frankenstein lightning hit so close that the strobe flash lit their faces the same time as the thunder crack. Tiny hailstones began to pepper the roof. “If you see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” said Rook, “duck.”

She gave up a thin laugh that turned into a yawn. “Sorry.”

“Sleepy?”

“No, tired. I’m way too cranked to sleep.”

They sat listening to the storm rage. A car crept past with water up to its hubcaps.

At last, he broke the silence. “Look, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I just don’t know how to play this. We work together—well, sort of. We slept together—most definitely. We have smoking hot sex one time, but soon afterwards, don’t try holding hands, not even in the relative privacy of a taxicab.

“I’m trying to figure the rules. This isn’t yin and yang, it’s more like yin and yank. The past few days I’ve been going, OK, she doesn’t mix the hot sex and romance so well with the single-mindedness of the police work. So it gets me wondering, Is the solution for me to give up our working relationship? Stop my magazine research so we can—?”

Nikki grabbed him into a deep kiss. Then she pulled away and said, “Will you shut up?” Before he could say yes, she grabbed Rook again, throwing her mouth back onto his. He wrapped his arms around her. She undid her seat belt and drew closer to him. Their faces and clothes became drenched in sweat. Another flash of lightning lit up the car through windows fogged by the heat of their bodies.

Nikki kissed his neck and then his ear. And then she whispered to him, “Do you really want to know what I think?”

He didn’t speak, he only nodded.

The low rumble of thunder finally reached them. When it tailed off, Nikki sat up, reached for the keys, and killed the ignition. “Here’s what I think. I think after all this, I’ve got energy to burn. Do you have any limes and salt and anything fun in a bottle?”

“I do.”

“Then I think you should invite me up and see what we can get going tonight.”

“Bite your tongue.”

“Just wait.”

They got out of the car and made a dash toward his building. Halfway there, Nikki took his hand and ran alongside him, giggling as they raced together up the sidewalk. They stopped at his front steps, breathless, and kissed each other, two lovers for the night getting soaked in the cooling rain.

When I was an impressionable young latchkey lad, I had the good fortune of stumbling onto a National Geographic special on the accomplishments of Sir Edmund Hillary, the legendary New Zealand climber who was the first to scale Mt. Everest’s snowy and mysterious heights. To say the show made an impression on me would be an understatement. For two glorious weeks of my tenth summer, I was fully committed to becoming the world’s greatest mountain climber (never mind that at the time I had never seen a mountain in person, let alone left the urban canyons of New York City).

In my drive to surpass Sir Edmund, I enlisted my good friend Rob Bowman, whose older brother played Pop Warner football. I borrowed Rob’s brother’s cleats and swiped a hammer from the building super, believing I could use its claw-end as my pick-axe. I was halfway up the drywall when my mother arrived home. The treacherous and punishing slopes of Everest had nothing on my mother, and my distinguished climbing career ended well before I reached the summit…or the ceiling.

It wasn’t until much later in life that I learned about Tenzing Norgay. And though Edmund Hillary is widely known as the first man to conquer Everest, he would never have reached the summit without Mr. Norgay. For those of you unfamiliar with that first historic climb, Tenzing Norgay was Sir Edmund Hillary’s Sherpa.

Whenever I come to the acknowledgments section of a book, I often think of Tenzing Norgay, that unsung hero of Hillary’s climb.

Like Sir Edmund, I, as this book’s author, will receive just about all of the acclaim for whatever achievement lies within these pages. However, along the way I’ve had a lot of my own personal Tenzing Norgays to counsel me, guide me, lift my spirits, and carry my baggage (both emotional and physical). They have been there to keep me going, to inspire me, and to remind me not to look at the imposing summit, but at my own feet. As I take one step at a time, they have shown me the way.

The point is there are a number of people that I have to thank.

First and foremost on that list are my daughter Alexis, for always keeping me on my toes, and my mother, Martha Rodgers, for always keeping me grounded. In the extended Castle family, very special thanks goes to the lovely Jennifer Allen, my first reader always, and to Terri E. Miller, my partner in crime. May you, dear reader, be lucky enough to know women such as these.

Thanks are grudgingly due to Gina Cowell and the group at Black Pawn publishing, whose threats of legal action first inspired me to put pen to paper. And also to the wonderful folks at Hyperion Books, especially Will Balliett, Gretchen Young, and Elizabeth Sabo.

I’d like to thank my agent, Sloan Harris at ICM, and remind him that if this book is a smash hit I expect him to improve my contract considerably.

A debt is due to Melissa Harling-Walendy and Liz Dickler in the development of this project, as well as to my dear friends Nathan, Stana, Jon, Seamus, Susan, Molly, Ruben, and Tamala. May our days, no matter how long, continue to be filled with laughter and grace.

And finally, to my two most loyal and devout Sherpas, Tom and Andrew, thank you for the journey. Now that we’ve reached the top, in your company it feels as though the stars are within my reach.

RC

July 2009