Chapter 1
"What have we got Ryan?" Detective Beckett ducks under the yellow crime scene tape and nods at the uniform who was keeping the gawkers from getting too close. Even at this late hour of the night there always seemed to be people who were morbidly attracted to the scene of death.
The other detective looks up from the notes that he was making on the pad and walks over to join her at the end of the alleyway. "Our vic is Sean Pritchard, thirty-eight year old from Queens and a member of the Barracudas motorcycle gang. He's a charming character, fifteen convictions for aggravated burglary before graduating to second degree murder." Ryan looks down briefly to check his notes. "He only got out of Sing-Sing four months ago. There aren't any outside security cameras on this block but the barman next door said that Sean came in for a drink about two hours ago and spent about fifteen minutes talking to another guy before they both left together."
Beckett looks over the sprawled remains of Pritchard. No matter what the man had done in life he was now a victim and, as such, she would do her utmost to catch his killer. "Ok, let's get him to work with our sketch artist. I want to see what our mystery man looked like."
"Will do boss." Ryan nods and shuffles off to organize it.
"Hey Lanie," Beckett greets her friend who was kneeling down by the body. The M.E. was completing her assessment of the crime scene before the body was moved. "What can you tell me?"
Despite the late hour the Dr Parish still looked immaculately put together, the only thing that looked out of place were the blue latex gloves on her hands that clashed with the otherwise faultless suit that she was wearing. "Our boy here suffered a single GSW to the head. He didn't even have enough warning to put up a fight, there are no defensive injuries. I'll do the standard tox screen once I get him back to the lab but COD looks to be pretty evident. I found this tucked in his wallet." The ME holds out a plastic evidence bag containing a scrap of paper, it had a ten digit number on it.
"Thanks." Beckett takes the packet and examines the number briefly. It looked to be a phone number; she'd run it through the reverse phone directory and see what popped. Another fifteen minutes and her shift would have been over and she'd been looking forward to a long soak in the bath and a glass of wine, now it looks like she'd be lucky to get home before dawn.
The detective rubs her eyes to ward off the tiredness that threatened. She hadn't seen her bed in over twenty hours and counting. It had taken three hours to finish interviewing the other witnesses from the bar and then she'd tracked down Pritchard's next-of-kin to inform them of his death. His mother had barely blinked when Beckett had knocked on her door; she'd been more annoyed that her sleep had been interrupted than by anything else.
"Good riddance, that boy was scum," and then she'd shuffled back to bed again.
Beckett reflected on that mother's reaction as she stares at the murder board hoping for inspiration. How sad was it when your own mother didn't mourn your death?
The number that Lanie had found, if it was indeed a phone number, was listed to a television production company. She'd have Esposito check it out this morning but she couldn't see any connection between a bikie gang member and the company. It might just turn out to be a dead end.
Beckett rubs the back of her neck and rolls her shoulders to ease the knotted muscles. She'd sent the boys home a couple of hours ago and it might be time for her to hit the sack as well. She was starting to see double and tiredness was preventing her from getting anywhere on this case. A few hours of sleep and she'd come back to the case with fresh eyes.
Ryan looks up from his monitor as Beckett strolls into the bullpen a few hours later. "Hey Beckett, we've managed to identify the man from the bar."
"Good work Ryan." The brunette continues to her desk and places her cup of coffee carefully beside her keyboard. She takes off her heavy jacket, draping it over the back of her chair.
The other detective walks to the murder board and attaches a mug shot to it. "Justin Peterman, he belongs to a rival gang." Ryan points at the photo. "The Barracudas and the 17K gang have been engaged in a war over drug distribution in Brooklyn and Queens for the last six months. It's been nasty, a lot of tic-for-tat killings and it looks like the violence has spilled over into Manhattan as well. Esposito picked him up and Peterman is in the interview room now. It's shaping up to be gang-related violence."
Beckett nods as she studies the file to familiarize herself with the details. She wants to have everything lined up before she goes in to question their suspect. Career criminals like Peterman weren't easy to crack and she needs to know all her facts if she was going to get anything from him.
The detective walks into the interrogation room as if she owned it. She cocks one hip against the table and leans her weight on it as she silently studies the man sitting handcuffed to the seat. He's slouched back in the chair, meeting her eyes straight on as if he were sizing her up for a fight.
"This is Detective Beckett conducting an interview with Justin Peterman." She recites the details for the official recording and then reads him his Miranda rights again. "Do you understand your rights Mr. Peterman?"
He answers her question with a smirk and keeps quiet.
"I'll take that as a yes then," the detective moves around to the other side of the table and takes a seat. Although she'd left the file open in front of her, Beckett didn't need to consult it as she began the interrogation.
"Sean Pritchard, you know him," she says it more as a statement of fact rather than a question. "Do you want to tell me why you met him last night at the Left Field sports bar?"
"I ain't gotta tell you nothing bitch."
"Let's see if we can't make you a bit more co-operative?" Beckett gives him a fake smile, the cards are all in her favor and she knows it. She's got him on motive and opportunity, all she has to do is figure out the means and it's a slam-dunk. "The barman positively identified you as the man who meet with Pritchard at approximately eight o'clock. You spent fifteen minutes talking to him and then you both left the building together. That's odd don't you think? Members of rival gangs meeting for a friendly drink?"
"Just call me the fricking United Nations. I'm doing my part for world peace."
"Oh really?" the cop raises an eyebrow. "And did your peace keeping efforts also include putting a 9 mm bullet into his head?"
"What?" Peterman jerks in surprise at the accusation, his Brooklyn accent suddenly gone. "Pritchard's dead?"
"Yes, he was found in the alleyway next to the bar at ten o'clock. You were with him when he was last seen alive. Make it easy on yourself and tell me what happened."
"Fuck! They must have made me," Peterman is talking to himself rather than directing his comments to the cop. "How the hell did they figure it out? A year of work has gone down the toilet."
"You're not making any sense here Peterman. If you want me to put in a good word with the DA for you then you need to start explaining."
"Justin Peterman is not my real name, it's Paul Dyson - Special Agent Dyson with the FBI. If you put a call into the New York field office and talk to Special Agent-in-Charge Morrison he'll confirm my identity."
Beckett turns and nods at the two-way mirror behind her. She knew that Esposito would be standing on the other side, listening in on the interview. It would only take him a few minutes to verify Paul Dyson's story.
"So what was a bikie gang member doing meeting up with an FBI agent then?" Beckett turns back to face the man in handcuffs.
"I've been undercover working to discover the source of the cocaine that's flooded the New York market in the last eighteen months. Pritchard was my confidential informant. He was only mid-level in the Barracuda's hierarchy but he was the bagman, transporting the money to pay their supplier. He said that a big shipment was due in two weeks."
"Do you have any idea of who might have killed him then?"
A knock on the door interrupts them and Esposito walks into the room.
"His story checks out," the detective frees the FBI agent from the handcuffs.
Dyson rubs the chafed skin around his wrists ruefully. "If they knew that Pritchard was supplying information to the feds then the list of potential killers is a mile long. The gangs aren't very lenient when it comes to members who narc on them. But if I had to guess then I'd say Al Taylor would my top suspect."
"Who's Al Taylor?" Beckett makes a note in her file.
"He's a mercenary, ex-special forces. Currently he's working as Fred Curran's bodyguard," Dyson explains.
"Curran, the guy who makes those reality television shows? What's he got to do with this?" Esposito asks.
"We think that Curran has been working with a cartel from Colombia to move drugs into the states along the eastern seaboard. He's using his television production company as a front to smuggle the drugs in."
"Ok let's bring in Taylor for questioning then," Beckett says to Esposito.
"No! You can't do that," Dyson protests.
"What do you mean no?" Beckett didn't want to get into a pissing contest with the feds about jurisdiction but this was her case and she wasn't about to hand it over easily.
"Taylor is only the muscle; if you question him then the whole operation could be compromised. We've been working with both the DEA and the Colombian authorities in a combined effort for the last year to get to the guys at the top. I'm sorry but I can't let you jeopardize all that work for the sake of collaring one guy, you need to look at the bigger picture." Dyson is adamant.
Beckett snorts; she knew how the game was played. Sometimes the bigger picture meant letting guys like Taylor walk free and she wasn't about to let that happen. Pritchard may have been scum but he still deserved justice for his callous murder, she was going to get it for him.
"If you want our co-operation then I want something in return," she bargains with the agent. "We'll hold off on questioning Taylor for now but I want in on your operation. You can call it my insurance policy to make sure that Taylor doesn't walk."
Dyson studies the cop as she meets his gaze without flinching. If it was a game of who would blink first then it wouldn't be the detective.
"I need to clear it with my boss first," the agent hedges his answer, "but there might be something that you could do. My cover has been blown so we need to get someone on the inside. We were trying to track the drugs all the way from Colombia to New York but that's gone now. We might need to target the weakest spot in the supply chain. How do you feel about going undercover Detective Beckett? Do you think that you're up to it?"
"I always did enjoy playing dress up when I was younger," she smiles sarcastically back at him. It was obvious that Dyson was still trying to play hardball with her but it wasn't in her nature to back down from a challenge.
"Curran and Taylor are headed off to Puerto Rico; it's where his latest project is being filmed. It's one of those matchmaking shows, ten women competing for one guy. The final three women get to sail with him on board a luxury yacht from Puerto Rico to Florida. I guess you could call it The Bachelor meets The Love Boat. Our intel says that the drugs will be on that yacht somewhere. We think that they'll transfer the drugs to a speedboat just before they make it to port."
"And let me guess, you want to me to be one of the contestants on the show?"
"No, those women were selected a few months ago. But we might be able to get you on as a production assistant on the show. There are no guarantees though that you'll make it onto the yacht. They'll only be taking a reduced television crew for that part but this is our best shot for getting someone onboard. Curran likes pretty brunettes, in fact you're just his type. If you could catch his eye then he might assign you to the crew." Dyson cautions her though, "I won't lie and say that this isn't risky. You won't have any backup on the yacht and if you got into trouble then help would be at least a few hours away."
"Is it just Curran and Taylor that I have to be careful of?" she asks.
"We've got wire taps of Curran speaking with the bachelor. They're speaking in code but we think that he might be involved as well."
"And who is this guy?"
"Richard Castle, he's a minor celebrity," Dyson explained. "He writes …"
"…mystery novels." Beckett finishes off the sentence for him. She didn't need the FBI agent to explain who Richard Castle was; after all, he was her favorite author.
A/N: So I've got eight chapters of this written so far and I'll release one a week. Hopefully that will give me time to finish off this story without a huge delay for readers (yes I know I can be pretty tardy as those of you who have read any of my other stories will know). So enjoy.