The ding of the elevator announced their arrival at the converted SoHo loft of Olivia Fabre's budding fashion empire. The steady pulse of music that wouldn't be out of place in a European club piped through the open space, various well-groomed and stylishly clad young professionals bopping to the beat as they worked with reams of fabric on extra large tables, mannequin forms, and, in the far corner, one statuesque model in a vibrant pink evening gown.

"Can I help you?" The bright voice that greeted them belonged to a woman with a pixie cut and a heart-shaped face who stepped away from a large desk, the piece of furniture the only thing separating them from the workspace beyond.

"NYPD," Kate said, withdrawing her badge from the coat of her pocket to flash it at the young woman. "I'm Captain Beckett and this is Mr. Castle. We need to speak to whoever is in charge, Miss…."

"Brooke," she said, clutching at the iPad in her hands as if it might somehow protect her from bad news. "You'll want Olivia, but she isn't here yet. She's late, actually. I had to reschedule a meeting with Neiman Marcus that she's been excited about for weeks, which really isn't like her at all. But given that she had plans last night…."

Brooke was a talker, the innocent and well-meaning sort who would chatter away with information both important and useless unless one of them stopped her.

"Who is in charge when Olivia isn't here?" Castle asked, stopping Brooke's monologue mid-stream.

"...I suppose that would be me. I'm her personal assistant," Brooke said. "And the receptionist, and the business manager. We're a start-up," she added with a small laugh and a quick shrug, though the lingering smile died on her lips when neither Castle nor Beckett returned the gesture.

"Can we go somewhere a bit more private?" Kate asked, glancing at the open space where a half-dozen people were still sewing and cutting away at fabrics and patterns, oblivious to the newcomers.

Brooke's eyes widened at that, her brown eyes darting around the small area intended to be a lobby with a shake of her head. "Just tell me what happened," she said.

"Brooke…." Kate began, the clench of emotion striking her low in the gut as she watched the light and happiness fade from the woman's eyes. "Olivia was found this morning in Central Park. She's been murdered."

She knew from personal experience that even if you saw it coming, it did nothing to lessen the blow, and Brooke's frame absorbed it with a jerk of her body, the tablet slipping from her fingers to crash to the floor if not for Castle's hand darting out to save the device.

"This is…" Brooke choked, two tears sliding down her cheeks. "How did this happen?"

Shoved in beside the desk was a small seating area, and Kate guided Brooke to the sleek black couch, taking a seat with a soft sigh. "I'm very sorry for your loss," she said and, as always, meant it. "But it's very important that you tell us what was going on in Olivia's life. Did she have any enemies? Anyone in her life giving her trouble or anything upsetting her?"

The shake of Brooke's head was the only answer, the tissues that Rick had unearthed from somewhere being crumpled in her small hands rather than used to wipe the tears that continued to fall. "No, everyone loved Olivia. She had just presented her first collection last month at Fashion Week, and we were taking meetings with major department stores to try and sell some of the more mainstream styles on the rack. It's a huge milestone, you know? She had everything to look forward to."

"How about the business?" Rick asked as he took the lone chair in the cramped waiting area. "Any money troubles? Any investor looking to get their share back?"

"No. The only other investor is Olivia's boyfriend Brady. He would never ask her to return the money; he's been her biggest supporter while she got this place off the ground."

"And they were happy?" Kate asked, her eyes sliding over to the desk that she guessed served as the main hub for the portion of running a fashion line that wasn't just designing, fitting, and creating clothes.

"Very happy," the woman sighed, brushing at another tear. "He sent her flowers yesterday, and she was so excited about them."

The glance that Rick shared with his wife went unnoticed by Olivia's assistant but, at Kate's nod, he eased himself from his chair, and strolled over to the desk. A laptop and piles of paperwork cluttered the surface, along with financial statements, expense reports, invoices for purchases, and one large, colorful bouquet of flowers in a crystal vase.

"Is it unusual for Brady to send flowers?"

"No," Brooke replied, sniffing back more tears as she looked up at Rick and then met Kate's gaze. "He usually would send flowers on special days. Her birthday, their anniversary, but none of that is coming up soon. But Olivia thought that he might be asking her to marry him when she read the card."

"Liv, meet me in the park, in our spot. Tonight at midnight." Rick read from the card still attached to the flowers, feeling the hair lift on the back of his neck for the second time that day.

His wife's eyes had gone hard, the compassion and empathy for Brooke and her loss momentarily eclipsed by anger at the knowledge that Olivia had been set up. "One more question for you, Brooke. Where does Brady live?"

Alone in the interrogation room, Brady Marshall didn't know he was for certain being watched, but like most first-time visitors to the precinct, the two-way mirror kept drawing his attention, as if he could see the cops on the other side.

"Bro, that's Brady Marshall."

"So?"

"So?" Esposito scoffed, digging his elbow into Ryan's ribs. "That guy is one of the best outfielders to have played for the Yankees in the past five years. He led the league in batting average when he played for the Cardinals."

"And he might have killed his girlfriend," Ryan sighed, holding up the folder of crime-scene photos and financial statements for both Olivia and Brady. "But if you want to go in there and talk about his season stats, I can wait."

Scowling at his partner, Espo took the folder, giving one more glance to Brady as he sat at the table. "No, I got this, but if he did it? It's a damn shame."

At Ryan's signal, Officer Hernandez opened the door, admitting him and Esposito into interrogation. Like a puppet on a string, Brady bolted upright, hands immediately moving into view on the table. "I don't understand why I'm here. The cops showed up and asked me to come down here, but no one will answer any of my questions."

"Yeah, that won't be changing," Esposito said, taking his seat across from Brady and tapping the folder edge against the stainless steel. "But we will be asking some questions."

"About?"

"Olivia Fabre."

The smile Brady gave was genuine, turning a face full of frustration and anxiety into one of a man quite obviously in love; not that it ruled him out as her killer. People killed in the name of love and passion all the time.

"What about Olivia?" Brady asked, glancing at both cops in turn. "I mean, I thought she might be mad that I didn't call her last night, but this is ridiculous. Hauling me into jail to teach me a lesson? How did she even convince you to do this…."

"She's dead, Mr. Marshall," Ryan said, those four words sucking the air from the room and freezing an otherwise handsome, All-American face with shock.

"No way," Brady replied, shaking his head and jumping to his feet. "This is just some sick, twisted joke that someone is pulling. You think this is funny, Ramirez?" he yelled, pointing at the two-way mirror, his face growing red with rage. "I'll kick your ass, bro."

Getting to his feet, Esposito met the prized Yankees outfielder toe to toe, leaning into the man's personal space before he opened the folder. "Brady, it's not a joke," he said, slapping the crime scene photo onto the table for maximum effect. "Olivia was found in the park this morning by a jogger. Stabbed to death."

He didn't have many people that he loved in life, but Javier had seen and experienced loss himself. Everyone absorbed the truth differently, and Brady took it in by closing his eyes to shield himself from the photo, his face crumpling up in grief.

"We need to know what you were doing between 11 and 1 A.M. last night," Ryan said, quickly sliding the photo of Olivia's body back into the folder as Brady took his seat.

"I….uhh…." he sighed, hands covering his face for a long moment, visibly fighting back tears. "I went to a bar with a couple of teammates. We're thinking about investing in the place and we wanted to check out the scene. We stayed until nearly one, and I took a cab back home."

"Can anyone verify that?"

"I paid for the cab with my credit card, and I spoke to the night doorman in my building on my way to the elevator."

"So why did you send flowers to Olivia and ask her to meet you in the park last night?"

Brady's face had gone sallow with grief, blue eyes haunted and agonized when he turned them towards each of the cops. "I didn't send Liv any flowers, and I'd never ask her to meet me in the park at night. It's too dangerous. I'd never put her at risk like that, just like I'd never hurt her."

Brushing the back of his hand across his cheeks to remove the tear tracks, Brady gave a sigh. "I bought her a ring last week. Two karats, white gold band, round cut. Thought I'd ask her this weekend, really do it up right. I wanted to marry her, and now she's dead."

"Brady Marshall isn't our guy."

The words were accompanied by the slam of a phone into its cradle, Esposito spinning in his desk chair to face the murder board where Kevin stood, the blue marker squeaking against the white surface to clear their prime suspect.

"Security camera footage confirms that Brady was at the bar until 12:47 A.M. He paid for his cab ride at 1:25 A.M., and the night doorman went on the record to say that he didn't leave his apartment until unis escorted him to the precinct this morning," he explained, tossing the marker back onto the silver tray with a sigh.

"And we know from the park footage that it's likely Olivia was killed closer to midnight," Kate said, cradling her favorite mug in her hands as she took in the new information on the board. "Any progress with the florist?"

"Dead end," Espo replied. "Ordered online and paid in cash via a drop box on the day of delivery."

"What kind of florist has a drop box?" Rick asked, narrowing his eyes in his wife's direction as he approached the group, his suspicions only growing when Kate presented her back to him.

With a grin, Esposito got to his feet, snagging his phone from the

desk blotter. "The kind that also turns a profit in check cashing and title loans."

While Castle tried to picture what that business must look like, and what type of clientele they must draw, Kate seized the moment, stepping away from her husband to put Ryan's desk between the two of them. "Call it a day, boys," she said. "Come back and hit it fresh tomorrow. Someone in Olivia's life must have wanted her dead."

"Unless it's just a random attack," Rick replied, doing his best not to backtrack when three cops turned their well-practiced glares his way. "Haven't any of you been watching the news? Sinister clowns are everywhere, doing all sorts of things. Maybe they're taking over.

Forget a zombie apocalypse, we should really be afraid of the clowns."

Fighting a shiver as he pulled on his coat, Esposito didn't quite manage to hide it or contain his frown. "Clowns," he said. "Messed up, if you ask me. They think they are so funny. They're weird. Anything that happy all the time is just wrong. And how do they all get into those little cars with their big shoes and the weird smiles?"

"Don't worry Javi, when the clown apocalypse comes we'll let them eat you first," Ryan said with a grin, clapping his partner on the shoulder as he headed towards the elevator. "See you tomorrow."

"Night."

"Later."

Answering in tandem with his wife, Rick watched Esposito follow Ryan onto the elevator, the distant tones of the two of them still arguing about clowns meeting his ears until the doors slid closed. But even with his attention diverted to the boys and their bickering, that wasn't quite enough to keep his thoughts away from his wife and how she was yet again angling away from him.

One sniff later, he knew why as rich aroma of the coffee beans that he kept stocked for the machine in the breakroom hit his nose. In three steps, Rick had closed the distance between him and Kate, plucking the mug from her hand before she could take another sip. "You really do want our baby to have two heads."

"Castle!"

Whether she was snapping at him for stealing her coffee or for discussing their child so openly in the precinct he didn't know, but the location of their conversation hardly mattered. Between the day and night shifts, the bullpen was as quiet as it would get until the nightly patrol rounds began, and no one still on the Homicide floor was close enough to hear their conversation. "Kate, one cup a day. That's the deal."

"And that's a lie," she sighed, her eyes lingering on the mug that was less than half full. "I looked it up. 200 milligrams a day is an accepted amount, which equals to twelve ounces. That is a cup and a half," Kate told him, tapping a fingernail against the navy mug she had favored for years. "Not the single cup you keep giving me. I'm being gypped."

Fighting the urge to smile at the way her bottom lip stuck out in frustration, Rick stepped forward to slide a hand along her forearm and down to her wrist, carefully tangling their fingers together. "If you're so tired you are looking for another caffeine jones, then it's time to go home. Change of clothes, warm dinner, late night showing of It in my office…."

Rolling her eyes at him was a default reaction, and hardly as effective when she was fighting a grin. But Kate allowed herself to be pulled towards her office without a word of protest, already dreaming of her comfortable yoga pants, one of Castle's oversized t-shirts, and sinking onto the couch with an enormous bowl of chicken carbonara.

He wasn't dressed for this.

The tiny dog sniffing around the grass in front of him had never mastered bladder control, even approaching three years old, and part of the life he had chosen to live meant months of standing in the freezing cold while Daisy did her business.

A small price to pay for settling in Morningside Heights with the love of his life. If Juliana was devoted to her dog, he was devoted to his fiancée and willing to stand in the cooling night air with their pet.

"Are you done?" he asked the dog once she had put her leg back onto the ground. Daisy, like most dogs, took no notice of him or his question, turning her attention towards the small crop of trees that dotted the hill to their right. Even in the dim lighting, he could see the aggressive stance in her small body and rolled his eyes.

With a tug on the leash, he stepped forward, intent on moving back down the sidewalk and onto the street, where the handsome brownstone he called home was merely two blocks away.

"C'mon Daisy," he sighed, giving another tug as the dog released a growl, small steps turning her body to line up parallel with the path. "It's just a cat." Likely one of the strays that roamed the park, sniffing around for scraps that had yet to be picked up by the maintenance crew.

Another yank of the leash, and he sighed once again, kneeling down to wind up the leather strap and lift the small Yorkie into his arms. "If you won't come on your own, I'll just carry you," he told the pup, tucking her securely against his side and fighting a shiver as a gust of wind picked up, the chill in the air cutting through the thin t-shirt and shorts he'd put on for bed before Daisy had begun barking to go out.

As he straightened back up, the sight of a dark form sitting at the bench on the edge of the path gave him pause, though he continued forward, telling himself it was simply a homeless man looking for a place to sleep.

The distorted features and waxy skin came into view as he moved closer; vivid orange hair falling in kinky waves to thin shoulders encased in a shiny gold jumpsuit and navy undershirt, three neon green balls attached to the front in place of buttons.

"What the hell…?" he muttered to himself, stopping short of the bench to take in the sinister grin painted onto the white rubber mask, the dark slits where eyeholes remained in shadow, leaving an impression of nothing but empty sockets.

"Man, you're sick," the guy shouted, the shot of fear to his system bypassing straight to anger as the reminder of a summer night so many years ago swam to the forefront of his mind. "Screw you," he spat, wondering who in his life would try to play such a mean prank on him as he stomped past the clown without a second glance, both too angry and too scared to look back.

If he had, the man would have run for his life, possibly taken a deep breath to call for help. But arrogance provided its own form of danger, and he never saw the clown coming, nor the glint of a knife being withdrawn from a pocket.

But he felt the blade as it pushed into his skin, the sudden burst of pain leaving him moaning in shock and releasing the dog from his hands. The Yorkie dropped on all fours, scurrying out of the way with a growl, but the assault continued, the knife withdrawing and returning for five blows until the man slumped onto the ground and lay still on the sidewalk, taking his last breath under the watchful gaze of his killer.