It had been a bad summer. Oh, not the weather – as always the sun shone down onto a sweltering New York, where anybody who had even a modicum of sense had made a beeline for cooler shores, leaving only those who were too poor to afford a train ticket, or those who were insane enough to want to stay sweating it out.
Kate, had she actually allowed herself to think about it, would probably have put herself in the latter category – no inclination to leave (although she hadn't lost her mind – yet). As it was she simply put away her coats and got back to work. She didn't think about Castle. Not at all. Not once.
Right.
Every time she looked at the espresso machine, she didn't think of him. Every time she interviewed a suspect she didn't hear his voice in her head asking some pertinent question. Every time she wrote on the murder board she didn't ... oh, who the hell was she kidding?
Worst of all she couldn't stop thinking about him leaving, his arm around his ex-wife. She'd tried to tell him how she felt, what she wanted, that she was willing to try ... and he'd smiled as he walked out, and she hadn't asked him to stop.
It was like a blow to her solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her.
Although, if anything, the looks on her friends' faces were worse.
So she'd walked back into that room, picked up a beer, taken a deep draught, and made like everything was fine. They'd taken the hint, didn't ask if she was okay, and she hadn't cried. Even when Lanie took her out and loudly pointed out a number of very presentable young men in the bar, each of them giving her the eye, she didn't show anything.
And the next day there was a murder, and when they locked up the man responsible, she told herself that at least she hadn't needed a hack writer to break the case for her.
"Good job," Montgomery said, packing his briefcase with the papers he needed to update the Mayor in the morning. He looked up as he snapped it closed. "Why don't you take a few days off?"
She shook her head. "No, thank you, sir. I don't have enough vacation days left." Too long spent looking for an apartment after hers had been blown up. After Castle had walked … no, run into an unknown, possibly highly dangerous situation to save her life. He hadn't even paused to consider the risks. She could still hear him calling her name …
Montgomery was still talking. "I'm sure we can come to some kind of arrangement. You work more hours than most people around here." He picked up his jacket, but for once didn't slip it on, instead carefully draping it over his am. "Take a week. I'm pretty sure Ryan and Esposito can cope without you for that long."
"I've got paperwork. And murderers don't take holidays."
"And cops who don't tend to burn out. I've seen it happen all too often. Don't make me order you."
"I'm fine," she insisted.
Montgomery sighed. "Well, I tried."
"I know." She allowed a slight smile. "But thanks, sir."
"If you change your mind, let me know." He walked past her into the squad room. "At least go home now."
"Soon. I promise."
He shook his head ruefully, then strode for the elevator, ready for some quality time with his wife and kids.
With a sigh Kate crossed back to her desk, staring down at the tan files, the handful of pink message slips (none from Castle – she'd already looked), at the email icon blinking on her computer (that wouldn't be from Castle either – not that she wanted it to be, of course), and for about a millisecond she considered taking a long weekend, finding a beach somewhere, blue seas, maybe some companionship of the male persuasion ...
She closed her eyes briefly then sat down, sliding her chair under the desk with a squeal. Picking up the file marked Kingsley, Francis from the top of the heap she began to work.
This was, Rick decided, a lot less fun than being interviewed by Kate. For a start Detective Buckman wasn't anywhere near as pretty, his shirt sweat-stained under the armpits, his buzz haircut giving his bullet head a strong likeness to a GI Joe, and he smelled of cheap cigars. He also seemed to believe that if a cop was belligerent and loud enough the suspect would confess.
The suspect, in this particular case, being Richard Castle, well-known author.
The police had arrived quickly – first a black and white, then a newish grey Chevy, its wheels drifting on the sand, followed closely by a CSU truck. Rick would have found it amusing if he'd been of a mind to laugh as the occupants disgorged – the two detectives were in suits, the Crime Scene people in identical smart polo-shirts and chinos – but it was probably simply because it was the Hamptons, without doubt one of the most expensive zip codes in the country, and it was expected.
They quickly taped off the area, interviewing the family discreetly before sending them back to their hotel. Rick, on the other hand, was invited to sit in the Chevy. With no wallet on him to prove who he was, that was quickly extended to visit the station.
"Can I at least go and lock up my house?" he pleaded, but it fell on deaf ears as they drove away from the beach. At least they didn't handcuff him, but it was made clear it was an option if he tried anything stupid.
The East Hampton Police Department was housed in a new building, all glass and steel, with nothing like the homely feel of the 12th. It smelled wrong, too, like a dozen brands of expensive aftershave instead of honest sweat and hard toil. As they showed him to an interview room to wait, he honestly began to miss the slightly peeling paint and occasionally rusty pipes of the New York squad room.
Nearly an hour later, when Rick had half managed to convince himself they'd forgotten him and he could just walk out, Detective Lyle Buckman walked into the room, using his bulk for maximum intimidation.
"Richard Castle," he said.
"That's what my driving license says."
Okay, so the quip and the smile didn't even register as Buckman's face remained impassive. "I'm surprised you haven't called a lawyer."
Rick's eyebrows raised a fraction. "Do I need one?"
"I don't know. Do you?"
"Not lately, no. Look, I just found the body. I had nothing to do with her death."
"It's not the first time a murderer's made it look like they found the body. It's classic."
Rick shrugged. "I know. I used it in A Skull At Springtime."
Buckman opened the file and slide a photo forward. "Know her?"
Rick looked down. It was a photo of the woman, her hair moved from her face, her eyes closed, but it was definitely her. Now it was just a picture, he was able to take in her delicate cheekbones, the scatter of freckles across her nose, the bow to her lips. She looked like she might have smiled a lot once. But recognition? "No. I've never seen her before."
"Not at one of your book signings? Or a party. Perhaps you invited her for a little visit. You were drinking, things got out of hand ..."
"I said I don't know her," Rick insisted. "I only found her on the beach."
"That's what you say." Buckman crossed his arms, his rolled up sleeves stretched taut across his biceps.
Rick tapped the file on the table between them. "No, that's what the witness says."
"And another witness said you had a woman with you when you arrived."
"My ex-wife."
"You often go on holiday with your ex?"
"No, this would be a first." And last, he silently added.
"And you're sure this isn't her?" Buckman moved the photo forward half an inch.
"Gina is a blonde. Besides, she went back to the city three weeks ago. I'll give you her number. You can call her."
Buckman smiled, only there was little humour in it. "Oh, don't worry about that. We will."
"And while you're about it, call Captain Roy Montgomery of the 12th Precinct. I've been working as a consultant with the NYPD. He'll vouch for me. Or the Mayor."
"Name-dropping now." Buckman shook his head. "What next, the Vice-President?"
"Well, we have met, but we're not exactly on first name terms."
Buckman glared at him. "You know, I don't like you."
"I gathered that."
Suddenly Buckman was standing, leaning on the table, his hands in fists, his face barely six inches from Rick's. "I was born here, in East Hampton. Lived here all my life. Married my childhood sweetheart in the church we both went to. Just ordinary people. And then here come visitors like you, arriving with your fat wallets and your expensive way of life, and suddenly nobody local can afford to buy a house anymore."
This was so not good, Rick realised. Buckman had a chip the size of Manhattan on his shoulder, and a murder he needed to solve quickly. Or at least hang on someone convenient. Maybe he should call that lawyer after all. But for the moment all he said was, "I'm sorry."
"Yeah."
Maybe charm would work. "Look, Detective Buckman, like I said, I've helped out the police in New York on a number of cases, very successfully. If we put our heads together, we might be able to figure this out."
"Figure this out." Buckman sat back, his eyes narrowing. "You think we're hicks, don't you? Out here in the wilds of nowhere. And you're from the big city, used to getting exactly what you want, when you want it."
"It doesn't quite happen like that," Rick said, pushing the image of Kate standing there as he'd walked away with Gina from his mind.
Buckman ignored him. "And if the person you want doesn't want you, well, you just take her. Isn't that right?"
"No."
"And she was someone you wanted, only she fought back."
"No."
Buckman gazed at him, then glanced down at the file. "What were you doing yesterday?"
"What?"
"Yesterday. Our ME puts preliminary time of death around twenty-four hours ago."
Twenty-four hours. But the clothes were evening wear ... (Just answer the man's question, his inner demon reminded him.) "The same as I was doing the day before yesterday. The same I was doing today. Writing."
"Can anyone corroborate that?"
"No," Rick was forced to admit. "I haven't spoken to anyone in that time." Not even Alexis. He'd told her to have a good time, to ring ... dammit, to ring tonight. "Look, can I make a call?"
"What, decided you want your lawyer after all?"
"I just need –"
Buckman didn't let him finish. Instead he took the photo back and placed it carefully on top of the papers in the file, and said, "Let's start again, shall we?"
Rick suppressed a groan.
"Why don't you just call him?" Lanie asked from deep in her second Passion Pounder, or whatever the violently orange-coloured cocktail was called.
"Who?" Kate sipped her own glass, tasting the fruit before the hit of alcohol burned it away.
"Castle, of course."
"Why would I do that?"
"Girl, sometimes I think the heat's scrambled your brain."
Kate waved her hand in dismissal. "I'll be seeing him in a few weeks."
"You're sure about that, are you?"
"That's what he said."
"He also asked you to go with him."
The stabbing in her heart was drowned as she finished her drink. "And I said no."
"And for the life of me I don't know why you did that."
"Because I was seeing Tom." She signalled the barman for two more.
"Who you then proceeded to dump."
"I know what I did, Lanie," Kate said, perhaps more sharply than she had intended.
"For the life of me I still don't know why." Kate mumbled something that in the noise of the bar Lanie couldn't pick up. "What was that, sweetie?"
"I said, because I don't cheat."
Lanie looked at her friend. "You really do have it bad."
The barman placed two more of the electric hued drinks on front of them, and Kate picked up one. "Lanie, I have no idea what you're talking about."
"No. Maybe you don't. Or maybe you just won't let yourself." The ME shook her head. "What you need is a good man."
"I had a good man." Kate stared into the depths of the drink and seeing the future amongst the paper umbrellas and slices of lemon and lime. This was going to be her last, she knew. Many more and she wouldn't be able to stop herself telling Lanie exactly what had happened, and worse, how she really felt. And that would never do.
"Then go to the Hamptons and tell him."
"I'm talking about Tom."
Lanie sighed mightily. "You know, if you weren't a girlfriend, I'd want to slap some sense into you."
"And I'd arrest you for assault."
"Kate –" she began in exasperation.
"Lanie, stop. I'm fine. Honestly. Whatever you think you know, you don't. I'm fine. Really."
"Well, if you say so, honey." Except Lanie didn't look convinced.
"I do." Kate dredged up a smile and took a pull at her cocktail. Besides, if she kept telling herself that often enough, it might just turn out to be true.
