Free Raging Heat by Richard Castle Page A

eyes and her need to let first impressions be felt. They heard a car, notably the first they’d encountered on this exclusive stretch of road, and a BMW 760 rounded the bend, slowing as the driver gave these strangers a head-to-toe once-over, making no effort to hide it. Nikki wondered if an SVPD cruiser would be summoned. Or if the man in the Bimmer had Keith Gilbert on speed dial.
    They came to the main gate, framed by artisanally crafted granite pillars accented with brick. A thick timber crosspiece formed an arch overhead. Implanted in its center sat a rectangular steel plate whose white paint showed weathering and blossoms of rust. The sign, cut from the hull of an old ship, read in black letters COSMO .
    Rook appraised the gate, which was made of heavy wood that matched the crossbeam. “We could get over this.”
    “And get arrested.”
    “Then it’s a good thing you made a police friend.”
    When she protested again, he said, “Come on, Nik, we can’t come this far without a healthy peek. You think I got two Pulitzers by waiting in the Humvee because some sign said keep out? Although, I can’t read Russian, so I had plausible deniability.”
    Heat ignored him and pressed the call buzzer on the code box. He checked his watch face. “Fine, but exactly one minute, and you’re giving me a boost.”
    A dead bolt snapped and the gates parted in the middle wide enough for the man to step out. He had graying hair poking out from under his Carhartt cap and wore a tan, long-sleeved shirt and pants that matched. No stretch for Nikki to take him to be the groundskeeper. “Help you?”
    Heat showed her ID and, without any mention of Keith Gilbert or the circumstances, explained she was looking for information on someone. His face tightened, and he said, “I’m just the caretaker.” She had encountered men like him before. Middle-aged pool cleaners and house painters, mostly. Emotionally fragile types not wired for life’s interactions. A lot of them had an unhappy history of desk jobs, and working outdoors alone provided a way to drop out in plain sight. In deference to his unease she kept it simple.
    “I’d just like you to look at a picture.”
    When she held out the mug shot his eyes barely swept it; then he said in sort of a plea, “I’m only here today to shutter up in case we get that hurricane.” Heat tried to read him for a reaction. Was that blinky look away stress or something more?
    “Have you ever seen him?”
    “I don’t like to get involved in stuff that’s not my business. I’m just the caretaker,” he repeated.
    “Have you ever heard the name, Fabian Beauvais?”
    He closed his eyelids as he said, “You should talk to my boss.”
    Then Nikki got distracted. Behind the caretaker’s back, Rook flashed her an impish grin and tiptoed through the gap in the gate. What the hell? The man started to look over his shoulder. She drew his attention back. “What about your boss? Has Mr. Gilbert ever mentioned his name?”
    He never answered. Behind the gate they heard an urgent bark and Rook’s more urgent “No!”
    When they got inside the German shepherd had a mouthful of Rook’s right leg. Sharp teeth took hold of his calf above the Achilles’—but only clamped firmly without biting. It served its purpose, freezing him in place while the guard dog awaited further instructions. “Call him off?” said Rook, trying to keep his cool. The caretaker drew a forefinger across his throat like a TV director’s cut sign, and the guard dog let go. Then he tapped his thigh twice and the shepherd left Rook and trotted off to heel and sit on alert at the man’s left knee.
    “You got lucky. Topper here’s all about strangers.”
    The dog’s ears flicked when he heard his name but remained locked on Rook, who inched his way back beside Heat. “Sorry. Really. The gate was open and I just thought it was OK.”
    Nikki took the opportunity to study the mansion. Keith Gilbert downplayed it, but with all