Driving Heat by Richard Castle Page A

on.”
    Roosevelt Island takes some work to get to, which is part of its appeal. The needle of land in the middle of the East River has one F
train subway stop and an aerial tramway hoisting passengers across the river from 2nd Avenue. But if you want to arrive by car, the only option is to drive over the bridge from 36th Avenue out of
Long Island City. Detective Feller’s Taurus came off that span and made the turn north on Main for the quarter-mile ride to Blackwell’s Landing, a luxury apartment tower on the
island’s north end.
    They found a spot beside the pair of patrol cars in the parking lot and walked a flagstone path lined by daffodils and tulips toward the lobby. “Definitely a two-income building,”
said Feller, taking in the neatly groomed lawn, the blossoming trees, and the whisper-quiet grounds that surrounded the high-rise of tinted glass and modular concrete panels. Like most of the
residential complexes on the island, this one felt like a suburban college campus or an Olympic Village.
    The concierge regarded their badges gravely as they entered and escorted them across parchment-colored terrazzo tiles to the elevator, saying only “Tenth floor,” in a tone of
profound sadness that could only have come from hospitality training.
    When Heat and Rook stepped into the elevator, Feller palmed the door open from the outside. “Listen, you got it from here, right?” He punctuated the remark with a glance toward Heat
and added, “I got a thing I gotta do.”
    “Yes, the thing,” she said. “Go to. We’ll find our own way back to the precinct.”
    “Oh, but I’m not going to the precinct after,” said Rook. “I, too, have a thing.” The buzzer started to protest their holding the door open. “Never mind,
I’ll work it out. See you, Randy.”
    As the elevator door closed, they heard Feller mutter, “Maybe. Maybe not.”
    A sergeant from the Public Safety Department let them into the apartment. Because the city leased Roosevelt Island to the State of New York, the crime scene fell under its jurisdiction, and Heat
was there as a guest. After she had badged and logged in, a Roosevelt Island Public Safety Department detective led her and Rook from the foyer to the living room, where they found Sampson
Stallings hunched forward on the couch with his back to them. The room was a sunlit and airy showplace with a high vaulted ceiling and broad windows that looked onto a breathtaking panorama of the
river and the Upper East Side to the west and the landmark Octagon to the north. Both views were lost on Lon King’s partner, whose head hung in grief.
    Stallings rose to shake their hands and invited them to sit. Heat, who had her own connection to violent loss, expressed her condolences, which only caused his bloodshot eyes to glisten anew. He
smiled bravely, but his lips, framed by the tight salt-and-pepper curls of his goatee, quivered, betraying the miserable imprint of heartbreak.
    Rook stayed out of the conversation, letting Nikki lead Stallings to share reminiscences about his life partner of a decade. Business would come soon enough; she understood that every
investigation had a heart, too. “Thank you for listening to me go on,” he said, plucking a tissue from the box on the coffee table, which caused Nikki to observe that Lon King had set
up his living room a lot like his practice, right down to the Kleenex placement. “It feels better to talk.”
    “A page out of the Lon King playbook.”
    He gave her an appraisal. “You knew him?”
    She smiled. “Probably more accurate to say he knew me. Dr. King didn’t give up a lot.”
    “You should have tried living with him.” Stallings let out a laugh, then retreated from it as if in shame.
    “So he never mentioned me?” When he shook his head no, she said, “What about other patients, clients…”
    “No, as I mentioned to the detective yesterday…”
    “Detective Aguinaldo?”
    “Yes, nice woman. As I told her, Lonnie was