XIII
Here's to thirteen being their lucky number.
A New Year's Eve story. This can be read independently or as a companion to "Wishes."
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God damn it! Why will nothing go right today?
Kate scrubs a hand across her face just outside interrogation. This guy will not crack. He's guilty; she knows it in her gut. But his brother insists on supporting the deadbeat's alibi, and Lanie still has absolutely nothing useful.
She needs a confession, and she needs it in the next hour, or she has to let him go. At least that's the only reason she's allowing her conscious mind to admit.
The fact that Castle has something planned for them, is sitting in his loft right now probably canceling reservations or giving away tickets or undoing whatever he admitted had taken him "a little time" to plan, is not the underlying cause of her slightly over-exaggerated frustration.
Working holidays is something all cops have to do, and moreso, something she needs to do. It's what she has done ever since she was a uniform, and though some of the guys she's dated had offered to make plans for them to watch the ball drop or toast at midnight, most had been all too happy to do their own duty, work through the holiday as she had.
But the past week, all this holiday spirit and warm, family fuzziness with Castle and Alexis and Martha, well, it's like some cog that had slipped out of its groove, jammed up her inner workings, shut off any desire for a holiday glow, suddenly hitched back into place, and all of a sudden, she wants things again.
Things like walks in the park through the snow, and kisses under the stars, and cocoa with peppermint schnapps and extra marshmallows, drunk while snuggled on a couch wearing reindeer pajamas surrounded by red headed women and her sappy boyfriend.
And now it's after ten PM on December 31st, and everything inside her feels unsettled somehow. She wants to be wrapped around Castle at whatever exclusive restaurant or fancy party he had planned to take her to, not chained to the interrogation room window watching Esposito have a go at Chuck the Duck. "Convictions slide off like water... " And he's so cocky with it that he hasn't even bothered to lawyer up. Castle had appreciated the nickname this morning when they had hauled his fowl ass in, but her partner has been gone for a couple of hours now, "rearranging" plans.
To be perfectly honest, regardless of what they are or are not doing, Kate would just like to have him with her when the year ticks over to 2013. And she isn't sure if that makes her as much of a sap as Castle is, or more of one.
Castle is waiting for a call from her telling him that either they've broken Duck-boy and she's booking him on murder one and heading home, well, heading to his loft-that isn't home-or that the slime ball has gone free, and she'll be at the precinct until they come up with a new lead or a new way to net their feathered friend.
The drone of her one remaining detective's voice, since sending Ryan home a few hours earlier, rehashing the details of Chuck's alibi, his relationship with the victim, his significantly more intimate relationship with the victim's wife, and on and on, has begun to sound hopeless, grating, a waste of everyone's time.
The fifth check of her watch in the past hour shows 10:34. Bleak. The prospects are looking bleak. Even Espo sounds disheartened, despite his use of phrases like "public indecency with a bevy of prostitutes dressed as superheroes," that would usually at least make him smirk.
When her cell phone buzzes from her pocket, she assumes it's Castle checking in again, and she can't bring herself to hear that same plaintive note of optimism which is growing more disillusioned by the hour. She'll let it go to voicemail just this once, call him in half an hour when the Duck flies.
But as soon as the buzzing ceases, it starts up again, and she pulls the phone out with a huff of exasperation. Knowing Castle, she should also know that patience is not one of his most prominent virtues, but seriously, she texted him 15 minutes ago with an update.
So when she sees Lanie's name and face lighting up her touch screen, Kate nearly fumbles the device, barely catching it in time to answer.
"Well, it's about time, Miss I'm-Gonna-Ignore-My-Phone. You on the other line with Lover-Boy? No, you know what, never mind, because I do not need to know those details. You, however, do need to know one very important detail that I have brilliantly uncovered just over an hour shy of midnight on New Year's Eve, when I could have been dancing off my fourth glass of champagne at the top of the Rock."
The medical examiner hasn't stopped for air through that whole speech that Kate can tell, but with one tiny pause, she continues her tirade.
"We've got your killer."
"What? But you said there was no DNA, no prints." And who is "we?"
"I've got something better than DNA and fingerprints. I have a witness."
"Lanie, you you work in the morgue. Your witnesses would be dead bodies. What the Hell are you talking about?"
"See how much you know? Sometimes witnesses show up in the funniest places. His wife was here to formally identify the body."
"I know, I was there, too."
"Yeah, but you weren't here obsessively checking tox results when she came back half an hour ago, sobbing about how it was almost New Year's and she'd never meant to hurt him, how she needed to see him one more time, how she couldn't live without him, and how she couldn't believe she'd agreed to cover up everything for that lowlife, Chuck."
"Lanie, tell me you didn't let her leave."
"She's sitting right here, having a cup of camomile with Little Castle."
What? Why is Alexis even there tonight? Kate is sure she's heard something about a party at her dorm...
"Alexis is the one wifey opened up to, actually."
"I'm going to send somebody for her right now, Lanie. Traffic's a mess, but I don't want her out of our sight."
"Thought you might feel that way. Now what's my special prize for solving this one singlehandedly?"
"You're starting to sound like Castle now. No prize until we break this guy, Lanie."
"Little Castle says I can have their place in the Hamptons for a weekend."
"Liar."
"Hey, it was worth a try."
Knocking on the window, Kate watches Esposito's face brighten at the opportunity to escape the interview.
Fifteen minutes later, Kate goes back in, even though her witness is still en route, because now she has something to bluff with.
The Duck is on the verge of singing when his mistress arrives, just in time for a well-timed walk by the cracked door of the interrogation room.
Seeing her, he blows up, starts in with obscenities, stands to tip the table, until she pins him to it, screeching out so perfectly it's almost scripted "I should have just killed you, too, when I knocked off your no-good bastard of a husband!"
Esposito has the most pressing paperwork nearly done by the time Kate is finished with their now-sobbing perp, who is cuffed and shuffling off to booking.
Eleven thirty five. If she hauls ass, and every traffic light between here and his loft swings her way, there's probably still no way she'll make it in time to watch the Ball drop with Castle. Thanks to the mass of humanity out roving and partying, the triple threat of insane traffic, clogged sidewalks and over-filled subways conspire to thwart the best of commuting intentions on a Manhattan New Year's Eve.
Her heart actually hurts when the realization washes over her. She's not going to make it in time.
It's silly, and childish, and good grief, this is one minute of one day of the rest of their lives, and it should be totally inconsequential. But it's not.
And she can't bring herself to call him, to break the news, to hear the placating tone when he tells her they can just pretend they're in Chicago and celebrate on central time. Her coat is on, gloves and scarf in progress, when Espo waves, taps his watch.
"If you hurry, you just might... Well, probably not, but you still gotta try. Go on, get outta here. Tell him I said happy New Year."
He's right; she does have to try, because this is worth it, this one, tiny, magical tick of the clock that starts everything fresh, that makes everything new and bright and light, doesn't have to mark another year's start in darkness, another anniversary of an end.
And so she takes the stairs two at a time, tears through the lobby and down the steps toward the snowy night, plotting a course to jog and weave rather than drive, thinking that way, at least, she's not at the mercy of the honking gridlock.
The first crunch out in the freshly-fallen flakes buoys her hopes. She can sprint. There's still a chance. Glancing down, her watch says she has fourteen minutes. Shit. There's just no way.
A blast from a cheap paper horn sounds somewhere nearby, no doubt from one of the roving packs of revelers. Never in her adult life has she envied the crazy bands of tourists and locals who brave the usually freezing temperatures just to be out in the buzzing, sparking energy that is Manhattan on New Year's Eve. But tonight, she sort of wants her own horn. And maybe a sparkler.
Jogging down the block, putting useless thoughts out of her mind and channeling that want into a quicker pace, she suddenly hears music playing, coming from the same direction as the partiers. About to dismiss it as she had the horn, something about the melody sinks in, resonates. Lyrics waft out through the crisp cold, twining in hopeful tendrils around her, turning her slowly to seek their source.
"Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow..."
And then she sees him.
Silhouetted in the streetlamp in his tux, long, dark overcoat dusted with snow, leaning against a limo with its windows down, silver-tasseled paper horn in hand, a smile curving at his lips as a frosty exhale curls about his face.
Icy disappointment, though so recently frozen tight around her hopes, has a chance to unfurl and fall away, shattering into millions of tiny, perfect flakes to dress the scene.
And now she's really running, boots kicking up the powdery flakes just starting to pile up on the curb. The starkness of line and shadow blurs with the fluffy layer of white; the city loses some of its edges, its cold reality.
But to her eyes, his figure remains crisp, sharp, so very real.
Strong, familiar arms stretch out and catch her, pull her in tight to his warmth, swing her up just off her feet. Soft lips find hers and press gently, then release. His voice is a smile.
"Hey."
"Hey yourself."
Those blue eyes shine, twinkle down, might as well be stars.
"You happy to see me or something?"
Incapable of tamping down on her joy, she lets him see it all. It belongs to him, after all.
"Maybe just a little."
Her heart swells, takes a slow turn, and then settles in her chest, because he's here. And at this moment, there's nothing more she could wish for in the whole, wide world.
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Thanks and the happiest of holidays to Joy, beta extraordinaire. Margaritas in TWO DAYS!
A big sparkly thank you note to all who read and reviewed "Wishes." Every comment was like a Christmas present, and made me bounce up and down in my jingle bell earrings.
This is possibly a short series.
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