AN: This is the first chapter of the next fic I've lined up for when Moon In Scorpio is finished. Let me know if you'd like me to carry on with it. Also am willing to listen to prompts if you want to push one my way. I've set it to M for future scenes, though currently it does not need that rating. As always, comments and opinions are very much appreciated. Thanks - Turret

Rick Castle pulled his coat collar up, hunched his shoulders and stepped out into the January rain. The hiss of tyres on wet tarmac whispered along beside him as he made his way southwards along Chrystie Street, his feet unwittingly playing hopscotch as they stepped alternatively in reflected shop windows or darkened patches of sidewalk. Christmas was already a fading memory, 2009 still a brittle, glittering novelty which would soon become tawdry and murky as mundanity pawed it with grubby hands and tasteless yearnings.

He watched his elongated shadow shorten as the next car's headlamps closed on him and then passed him, sidestepped a puddle that caught and reflected the overhead lantern of a Chinese restaurant, a blood-red moon in a shimmering pool, raindrops disrupting the surface and reminding him of the consequences of secrets revealed, ripples expanding and touching the unknown … unknown lives, unknown consequences.

He hunched his shoulders deeper into his coat, wiped a hand over his brow, shaking wet fingers, releasing water drops and returning cold hand to warm pocket. He kept his head down, twisted his neck to view the oncoming traffic, saw the approaching gap and hopped over the kerbside puddle then jogged, zigzagging across to the other side.

Lights were less here, businesses closed for the day, darkness held at bay by lonely street lamps marching away behind and before him; isolated pools of light which seemed to accentuate their individual loneliness.

His phone vibrated as he reached the bins lining an alleyway, sentinels silently guarding the darker reaches of dismal brickwork and wall-climbing pipes. He paused, fished out the insistent device which had now accumulated an annoying buzz to the earlier vibrations. The caller's his editor; friend and occasionally, like now, a pain in the neck. His finger hovered over the ignore button, and then tapped, unwillingly the answer one. He stopped, looked around and took a couple of steps into the alley, finding some sort of shelter under the overhead fire escape which rose above him into the gloom.

"Rick, paper's being put to bed by six, which leaves you less than seven hours to get it done!"

"Larry, you're a pain in the ass, I told you, unless I can confirm with a second source, I'm not signing off on it!"

"Rick, I don't give a shit if you confirm with a second source or the Virgin Mary, I want that story now!" the Irish brogue getting thicker the angrier he became.

"Larry" and he can't help his annoyance showing through, "I'll get it to you when I'm ready, not before, you know that is always the deal."

A raindrop from the fire escape above landed on the side of his head and trickled its way down his neck, he jerked his head sideways and took a step back, glancing up and blinking as more drops landed on his face. He wiped a hand across his eyes, trying to tune out the heated words squawking from his phone, turned and stopped as his foot kicked something which skittered across a couple of slabs of pavement.

He was about to turn away when a glint drew his attention back to the object. Taking a step forward he bent down and picked it up. His eyebrows quirked and he cut his editor short saying "Larry, I gotta go, I'll call you back later", hitting the end call and staring at the object in his hand. It was a leather wallet, unpleasantly slimy in its current wet condition, but what had caught his attention was the NYPD Detective's shield it held, the shield that must have caught some stray beam of light and his attention.

He looked around him, pulled his phone up and tapped on the torch app. Holding the phone in one hand, shielding it as best he could from the rain and gripping the wallet and shield in his other, he aimed the light at the ground, turning slowly on the spot. Bins and cardboard boxes jumped out of the darkness at him then melted away as he continued his turn. Nothing. With a shrug, he stepped out into the middle of the alleyway and began to slowly make his way up towards the far end. About half-way along he came to a stop, crouching and moving his phone closer to the ground. There was a faint red tone to the puddled water here … blood or ketchup? He wondered, glancing around and shining the light on walls, discarded cardboard boxes slowly being deformed by encroaching rainwater, a roll of worn linoleum, a few empty bottles …. nothing here. There was no point in rushing around like mad here, he decided, if it was blood it had long since been deteriorate by rain and contaminated by whatever other substances could be found nearby. He doubted it would offer much in the way of clues.

Standing up again he moved further down the alley, reached the end and retraced his steps back to the entrance. Whoever had dropped the badge had probably lost it during a chase or in the struggle to detain an offender.

Slipping phone and wallet into his pockets, he walked along checking for street numbers, then headed up to the next intersection and turned westwards. The 12th precinct was only about a five minute walk away, not worth getting a cab …. even if he could find one in this weather.

Reaching the top of the steps and pushing through the double set of glass doors leading into the lobby, Castle looked around to orientate himself before crossing over to the long desk set against the right-hand wall. His shoes left squelching footprints as he crossed the worn and cracked tile floor, watched by the desk sergeant and a couple of patrolmen who had obviously been sharing a joke. The once-over he got from all three must have satisfied them, for when he reached the counter, the sergeant nodded to him and asked "How may I help you, Sir?"

Pulling out his own press credentials and then fishing out the wallet from his pocket, he pushed both across and said, "I came across this in an alley just off Chrystie Street, close to number 175, I'm assuming one of your people must have lost it there."

There had been a far from imperceptible tensing as soon as the shield had landed on the counter and Castle hid a smile as one of the patrolmen took a couple of steps away from the counter to position himself between Rick and the doors.

The desk sergeant picked up his press credentials, glanced at it and quickly compared the picture with the person standing before him. Placing the card back on the counter he picked up the wallet, ran his thumb over the shield and turned to the computer at his side. He clicked a couple of times with the mouse then glanced again at the shield and typed in the numbers.

A quick glance his way, then he picked up the phone, pressed a couple of keys for an internal line; Castle thought it was a four and a seven, before returning his gaze to the journalist. The eyes were neither friendly nor unfriendly, just pale blue and calm, but Castle got the distinct impression that if he tried to leave he'd find himself staring down the barrel of whatever sidearm the sergeant went in for.

"Detective Ryan? Donahue here, I have a concerned citizen down here who has just brought in Detective Beckett's shield, says he found it out at one seven five on Chrystie."

"Uh-hum … ok" the eyes had definitely gone a few shades colder, the hand slowly dropping the phone back on its cradle. "If you wouldn't mind waiting sir, someone will be right down to talk with you". The eyes flickered to check on the patrolmen whom Castle knew, had been carefully watching him throughout the one-sided conversation before coming back to meet his. Sergeant Donahue was not about to let him out of his sight. Castle's lip twitched. It wasn't the first time he'd been looked at suspiciously, it wouldn't be the last time either, given his propensity to get himself into awkward situations.

The desk sergeant meanwhile had picked up a radio, "Dispatch, I need a ten-seven at one seven five Chrystie Street, possible ten-thirteen in alleyway, repeat, ten-seven at one seven five Chrystie Street, possible ten-thirteen in alleyway."

He thought about asking for his credentials back and then decided to forget it, whoever was coming down to question him would want to check him out all over again. The pinging of the lift made him turn his head in time to see the doors slide open and two detectives emerge. First to reach him was the dusky, square-set latino who looked like he could take care of himself in a dustup, chin aggressively pointed his way, eyes running over him like he was some second-hand lawnmower that might be more trouble than he was worth. A couple of steps behind arrived the shorter one, pale skin, blue eyes, gelled hairdo, worried look on his face … he'd be the easier to deal with, but Castle didn't think he'd have much choice in the matter.

Sergeant Donahue pushed over the credentials and shield. The latino took one look at the shield, threw Castle a cold look and handed it on to the shorter detective who stared down at the leather wallet with the gold and blue insignia. Castle's eyes flicked back to the latino who was now scrutinizing his credentials, eyes checking him out against the photo on the card the same way the desk sergeant had done before. He was beginning to get a bit bored with all this melodrama, if some cop had dropped the shield then no big deal … if not, they'd best get their fingers out and find out what had happened.

Hardass was holding his hand out "I'm Detective Esposito, this here is Detective Ryan. Would you mind accompanying us upstairs Mister …" he glanced down at the card in his hand "…. Mister Castle?"

Castle took the proffered hand, felt the tension and hard skin, no velvet glove here he mused. He released the hand, turned and shook Irish's … he had to be with those eyes and that name … his shake was milder, less cutthroat, strong, but he'd get a second chance with this one. They stood aside, opening a space between them he was being asked to walk through, closing in on either side as they escorted him over to the lift. He stepped inside, turned, found them both facing him, cool eyes and mild smiles which didn't reach the eyes. He kept the grin off his face, tough NYPD detectives were nothing compared to crazy White Supremacy Militia or the Russian Mob let alone Somali Pirates.

The lift ground to a halt four floors up, the slight shuddering of badly-balanced counterweights adding to the overall impression of lack of funding. Both detectives stepped out, backwards, waving him out into the cramped space between them. Irish took the lead, heading over to a group of three empty desks, Hardass in close attendance behind, like a couple of destroyers escorting a troublesome merchantman. They reached the group of desks, Irish indicated the visitor's chair next to the middle one and Castle took the seat.

Irish slotted himself in behind the desk and Hardass propped his ass on the edge. He was looking down at Castle, imposing himself, taking the high ground and setting himself up for dominance, standard technique for this kind of situation. Castle kept his face expressionless, casually looked around the pen, taking in the cacophony of multiple conversations, the smell of damp, of stale sweat, of fear and despair which seemed to pervade the place. By turning his head to the left he was able to observe the third of the desks, the black and white DET. BECKETT plaque next to the carved elephants, the blue mug next to the legal pad … a cough brought his attention back to the two detectives, "Could you please tell us how you came across Detective Beckett's shield, Mister Castle?"

Irish is obviously playing good cop Castle thought, being polite, calm. He swivelled his eyes quickly to check on Bad Cop and then looked back at Irish. "I was walking down Chrystie, got a call and stepped into the alley for a bit of shelter. I must have kicked that …" he says, nodding at the shield on the desk, "…. didn't realise what it was at first. Once I did, I took a look around, didn't find anything other than a reddish puddle about halfway down the alley … could have been tomato, paint …" he shrugged, "Whatever it was, there wasn't much of it and the rain had diluted most of it anyway. I could have called it in, but being only five minutes away, I thought it better to come in."

"You should have called it in anyway" said Hardass, fists clenching and unclenching in his lap, tone hard, voice sharp. Something there Castle thought, how close was he to the missing cop? Long-time partners? Rookie detective? Definitely some protectiveness going on there. "The five minutes it took you to get here, we might have been able to do something!"

"I'm telling you, Detective Esposito, I looked around, there was nothing there that would make a difference five minutes earlier or five later."

"And you of course would know that because …?"

"Not my first rodeo Detective" Castle said, and left it at that, he wasn't about to churn out fifteen years of journalistic investigation as justification.

The ringing of the phone on the desk interrupted them and Irish picked up, he listened, face creasing in preoccupation, then set the phone down on its cradle. Looking up at his partner he shook his head, "Two units on the scene, they haven't found anything. Area's being sealed off and CSU is on its way. Unis are canvasing the area."

Hardass stood up, abruptly, nervously, "get them to pick up any security cam footage they can get their hands on. You, me and Mister Castle here are taking a trip down there, we need to find out what's happened to her."

At the last word, Castle's ears pricked. Her? Was the missing cop a she? That would explain some of the vibes he'd been picking up, especially from the latino. He thought about objecting, he'd done his civic duty, reported and handed over the cop shield he'd found. He had better things, more interesting things to do than revisit a dank alleyway in a Manhattan downpour. Then, with a resigned sigh he stood up, damp hair, damp coat, damp shoes be damned, he was better to get this over and done with, then he could head home to a long bath, a long whiskey and maybe a long-legged brunette if she felt like coming over tonight.