Free Raging Heat by Richard Castle

care.” For emphasis, she turned her palms upward. “You work in a wealthy town like this, pretty soon you learn two things. One, do your job. Two, do your job. We don’t have two sets of laws, regardless of how much money somebody has or who they think they are.”
    “Or, in fact, are,” said Nikki.
    “Back to not caring, Detective. Not looking for trouble, not looking to hide from it, either. So how can I help?”
    Ten minutes later, Heat started up the car armed with a set of directions to Keith Gilbert’s estate and an ally who said she would personally review any official complaints from Gilbert, as well as all traffic stops, altercations, noise reports, or strangers in the vicinity of his neighborhood over the last six months. Further, Detective Aguinaldo pointed out that if Fabian Beauvais had been in the village to do casual labor, it’s possible he never got on their official radar. Frequently, if they had a benign encounter with someone, say a minor disorderly or a nonbelligerent drunk—as long as they were not behind the wheel—the officers would deal on-scene without an arrest. The sergeant said she would discreetly talk to her uniforms to see if Beauvais sparked any recollection. It wasn’t quite the Real Time Crime Center, but it would do.
    Heat updated Rook as they rolled through the Village Center, a quaint ideal of what small-town main streets should feel like, where people who seemed so problem-free ambled the sidewalks past a succession of designer boutiques, stylish galleries, and tea caf é s nested in landmark buildings of stone and brick. When she finished, he said, “Aren’t you going to ask what I did? You don’t have to. I called and made us a rez tonight for dinner—and lodging—at the renowned 1770 House in East Hampton.”
    “That’s what you were up to? You stinker. Sounds lovely.”
    “The food is Barefoot Contessa-approved. And, if you think the restaurant is romantic, wait until you see the rooms.”
    She regarded him. “How would you know the rooms are romantic?”
    “I think we should focus on my rescue of Us Time.”
    “Rook, I’m not so sure I like the idea of reliving some romantic getaway you once had in the Hamptons.”
    “Hey, Gin Lane, this is your turn.” He snatched up the map in a move to check the conversation. “We’d better concentrate.” They followed the quiet drive for a while, passing sprawling estates, each, it seemed to her, more opulent than the prior. “Not sure, but I believe I came this way once when I was doing a cover story on Madonna.…You don’t mind that I had a business reason for being here before you, I hope.”
    “Not as long as I don’t have to sleep on the same road.”
    “Beckett’s Neck,” he said. “This looks like it.” She pulled onto a wide sandy spot on the shoulder and they got out. A vast pond lay across the lane behind them. Five or six smaller estates ringed its shore. They would be considered large by any standard, if they hadn’t been dwarfed by the mansion before them, whose three Gothic chimneys rose up from behind a nine-foot hedge clipped so meticulously, its top edge looked sharp enough to cut.
    “Come on.” Nikki began walking the length of the boundary shrub and he fell in step with her. In the Hamptons these manicured greens were more common than walls for privacy. As for security, she made out the grid of chain link fencing embedded in the bushes, painted dark to match the branches. They covered about two hundred yards before they came to the corner of the hedge where it angled a hard right turn and continued along a service path on a neck of sand, rocks, and sea grass that jutted out into the Atlantic.
    “Behold Beckett’s Neck,” said Rook. “Stunning.”
    The two of them retraced their steps past her undercover Taurus and continued walking another hundred yards to the opposite corner of the property front line. He never asked Heat what she was doing because he knew all about beginner’s