there should be stars
"Okay, we didn't work, and all
memories to tell you the truth aren't good.
But sometimes there were good times.
Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep
beside me and never dreamed afraid.
There should be stars for great wars
like ours."
- Sandra Cisneros
They are about to leave when the phone call comes in. They had washed out their coffee mugs, organized the paperwork that just needed to be run down to Records, cleaned off the white board. Coats are on, keys are in hand, and then her phone rings.
"Don't answer it," warns Esposito, so close to just stepping out of the bullpen. "We're off duty, Beckett."
But she picks up the desk phone, ignoring the sigh of frustration from the other detective. The address that the dispatch officer gives her isn't familiar but it is nearby, just on the Upper East Side. She writes it down on one of the Post-Its from her desk. "Come on. We'll get the basics, work on the case tomorrow."
"You owe us," mutters Ryan, getting into the elevator with the other two.
"I'll get you coffee tomorrow morning."
Esposito scoffs. "And lunch."
She rolls her eyes. "And lunch." She hands the address to them. "I'll meet you there."
Her car is neat. It only took a few months to get it that way after him. He always left his mark, whether that was scrapped bits of story littering the floormats or a note left in one of her drawers for her to find instead of her gun or a reddening bite along her collar.
She almost misses the clutter as she pulls out of the parking spot, following Ryan and Esposito's car as they weave through the theatre traffic.
No. She's not allowed to miss him. He left. He left and she moved on.
She's not sure if she's reaffirming a belief or stating a determined fact.
But she doesn't have time to worry about it. She gets out of the car when they get to the address, shutting the door behind her. The lights from the surrounding cruisers paint the caramel wool of her coat red and blue and flashes of white. She tugs a hand through her hair as she digs into the pocket of her jacket for her badge, clipping it onto the belt of the trench coat. The three of them give names, badge numbers to the uniform at the perimeter of the scene before ducking under the tape.
The building is obviously expensive. There are two men at the front desk, a security guard off in the corner. One of the doormen has to unlock the elevator for them with a key from his belt before they can get in and ride up to the seventh floor. Only four apartments on each floor but it's easy to tell which one they're needed at; there's another uniform at the door, more yellow tape across the door.
The boys break off to the left to talk to the first responders while she goes right toward the victim.
And stops in her tracks.
The woman is laid out on the table, naked save for rose petals scattered over her body and a pair of bright sunflowers on her eyes. It takes a matter of seconds to make the connection. She has read the book more times than she can count, knows every detail. Hell, she knows the plots of his novels better than he does sometimes. But never before had the ability to recall each fictional crime scene brought such a sick feeling to her stomach, making it do a slow roll.
"Ryan, Epsosito?" she calls back to the others. "Victim's name?"
"Allison Tisdale," says Esposito. "She's twenty-four. Grad student at NYU. Part of their social work program."
"Nice place for a social worker," mutters Ryan.
"Daddy's money," Esposito counters. "Neighbors called to complain about the music. When she didn't answer, they had a super check on her."
She pushes past the little ball of dread wedged into her throat. "No signs of struggle. He knew her."
"Even bought her flowers," says Lanie, stepping around the corner, gloved hands holding onto a set of tweezers, clipboard under her arm. "Who says romance is dead?"
"I do," replies Beckett, narrowed eyes aimed at her friend. "Every Saturday night."
Lanie rolls her eyes. "A little lipstick wouldn't hurt." When Beckett's gaze turns to a glare, Lanie holds a hand up. "I'm just sayin'."
"What'd he give her besides roses?" Get back on the professional ground. Let the evidence speak for itself.
The medical examiner shifts some of the petals on the girl's body. "Two shots to the chest. Small caliber."
Beckett circles the table, worrying the latex of the glove between her fingers. She has to ask, to see if anyone else is making the same connection. Make sure it isn't just her. "Does this look familiar to anyone?"
"No," Esposito says, tucking his hands into his pockets. "But I'm not the one with a thing for freaky ones. Just give a Jack shot Jill over Bill so I can get my collar and go home."
"Oh, but the freaky ones require more. They reveal more." The boys just stare, looking skeptical. "Look at how he left her. Covered, modestly."
"So?" asks Ryan, playing with his pencil.
"So despite all of the effort, all of the preparation, you won't find any evidence of sexual abuse," Beckett says, letting the lines between what's in front of her and what's in her head blur for a moment.
Esposito shrugs. "You really get that from just this? Roses on her body, sunflowers on her eyes?"
"This. Plus, I've seen this before."
That gets the attention of all three. Ryan stops fiddling with the pencil, Esposito looks up from the body, and Lanie's eyes widen a little as she glances over from the form on her clipboard.
"You've seen it before?" asks Ryan, speaking slowly as if he still doesn't understand the concept. "Where?"
"No," throws in Lanie, shaking her head slowly. "It's not him."
Beckett sighs, shrugging a shoulder. "What other explanation is there?"
"It's not him, Beckett. It's not. He's in Massachusetts."
The boys look confused, eyes darting between the body on the table and the two women.
"It's not who, exactly?" asks Esposito finally.
Beckett shakes her head, walking past Lanie. "Don't you guys read?" she mutters as she heads down the hall to the elevator.
She can't do this with them. If she wants to be totally honest with herself, she can't do this at all. He's supposed to be gone. In Boston. Sure, she didn't expect a phone call or text if he ever came back to New York.
And if this is his way of telling her he's back in town, they've both got more problems than she originally thought.
In the car, she calls up Black Pawn. His number is still in her phone but she refuses to give him a heads up of any sorts. No, it's better to go through official channels, finding his location from the publishing company. A glance at her watch tells her he's probably in the middle of the book launch party – yeah, she tries not to pay attention to his career but sometimes he's hard to avoid – which is perfect. Let's interrupt his spotlight.
It's out on one of the piers along the Hudson. She throws on the dash light, wedging the Crown Vic up along the red carpet. A few of the guys working the door run to stop her but she just taps a finger to her badge.
The place is loud, thrumming music making the floor vibrate under her boots. Shades of red blend together, mimicking the cover of the book which also plasters the walls. Good to know some things haven't changed. Waiters in black pants and white shirts are carrying around trays of finger food and champagne.
She pauses in the entrance, scanning the room. Lots of nice suits mingling with evening gowns. Typical. But she moves to the bar, spotting the red hair of Alexis. The girl has grown up since the last time, filling out the lovely deep pink dress. She's always been pretty, was pretty even as a nine year old when they all went to the zoo in Central Park, the girl's hair in braids that bounced against the back of her sundress. But now she's beautiful. Beautiful and bent over a notebook and open textbook. At a party.
And then she sees him, leaning on the countertop, fingers circling the stem of the champagne glass. The old flair of desire blooms in her stomach. She hates herself for it as she tampers down the little fire, taking a deep breath. The past doesn't matter. Not if he did this.
Beckett unclips her badge, letting the cool metal touch her palm, steadying her. Work first. Personal history doesn't matter right now. It can't matter right now.
"And the ever popular 'Will you sign my chest?'," Alexis adds as Beckett steps closer to the bar.
He's picking up the champagne glass, taking a sip as he shrugs. "That one I don't mind so much."
She rolls her eyes behind his back. It's a façade, this womanizer playboy, but it still annoys her to see him act this way. Especially since she's seen a glimpse behind the curtain at the real man, the one who goes out of his way to be sweet and caring and funny.
"Yeah, well, FYI? I do," sighs the girl, picking up her abandoned pencil, doodling in the margins of her notebook.
"Just once, I'd like someone to come up to me and say something new," he sighs.
Something new, huh? She can do new.
"Mr. Castle?"
He spins, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket. "Where would you like -" He blinks, the Sharpie falling to the ground. "Kate?"
She ignores the surprise that flashes across his face. "I need you to come downtown, answer some questions about a murder that took place earlier tonight."
Alexis grins, snagging the marker from her father's hand. "That's new. Hi, Kate!"