"Danishes," Rick announced, carrying the large box with discreet silver writing on it into the squad room. He could almost hear the detectives salivating.

Karpowski groaned. "Dammit," she said. "How could you? I'm trying to watch my figure."

"Tell you what. You eat and I'll watch your figure." He made his eyebrows dance.

She chuckled, knowing she was going to give in far too easily. "Did you get –?"

"I got." He grinned. "Of course I got." He put the box down and lifted the lid. "Dig in."

There was a mad stampede as the locusts descended, and Rick had to step back so he wasn't trampled. Never get between a New York cop and a pastry, he decided. When the pack disbursed, thanking him through full mouths, he could see there was less than half the box left.

He snagged one of the remaining sugared donuts, then realised Kate hadn't taken anything. "Aren't you going to …" He paused. "What?"

She had that inscrutable look on her face again, the one where he had no idea what she was thinking.

"What's the bribe for?" she asked.

"No bribe." He took a bite of deep-fried dough, then said, somewhat indistinctly, "Well, not much. More of an incentive really."

"To do what?"

He tried to lick the sugar off his chin and failed miserably, in the end having to wipe at it with the back of his free hand. "Look into Edna Dickson."

Unable to bear it, Kate pulled a paper tissue from the box on her desk and waved it at him. He took it gratefully as she said, "We already have."

"Really?"

She picked up a buff folder. "Edna Dickson," she read aloud. "First arrested ten years ago for vagrancy, been in and out of jail a couple of times since then, including a spell up in Bellevue in 2002. She had a social worker assigned, but never showed up to any of the scheduled meetings."

Rick waited. After a beat he asked, "Is that it?"

"That's it."

"Nothing before a decade back?"

"No."

"Not much for a life."

"You mean, where's the first cause? What put her out onto the street in the first place?" She sat back, contemplating him in gentle amusement. "Always looking for the story."

"It's what I do." He put the half eaten donut on the tissue. "And Edna has one. A story. A family, somewhere, according to Perlmutter. Maybe they're looking for her. Maybe they're worried sick because they haven't heard from her in a while, not even a call or a postcard. Don't you think her children deserve some closure?" For a second he wondered if he hadn't gone too far when her eyes hardened, but it was only a flash before they were back to their normal brown.

"There's no indication she ever spoke about family to anyone," Kate pointed out, tapping the file. "To all intents and purposes Edna was alone in the world."

"That might not even be her real name."

"It was written inside her clothes."

"So? My jacket says Armani, but that's not who I am."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Edna Dickson was a homeless woman who got caught up in something that was none of her business and was killed for it."

"Show me the proof Edna wasn't the intended victim." He hadn't meant to say it, to even suggest it, but as the words left his mouth he realised that was what had been bothering him.

Kate showed no signs of taking him seriously. "Why are you trying to make this out to be more than it is?"

"Why are you only looking onto Harland's background?" Rick countered.

"We're not."

"It looks like it to me."

Her mouth set in the stubborn line he knew only too well, but after a moment her eyes slid from his to the file in front of her, a dead woman's face attached to the front. "He had enemies," she said, but with nowhere near the insistence she had a few moments before. "Those threatening emails from Deeker, the other law suits –"

"I know all that. And I agree he's a pretty good candidate to be the victim of someone more than a little annoyed with him. But he wasn't the only person killed."

Kate wanted to say he was wrong, that it was Max Harland, but the words died in her throat. As much as sometimes she resented it, Castle had the ability to pull her up, question her actions, her assumptions. And she had assumed. Still ... "Why would anyone want to kill a woman living on the streets?"

"I don't know." He could see her about to argue, so went on quickly, "But I can surmise. Perlmutter said she was probably in her mid to late thirties, right?"

"Probably."

"So ten years ago when she was first arrested she was maybe twenty-five to thirty. Married. She had a child, maybe two. Young children, but she felt that for some reason she had to leave them. Felt compelled to." He could feel the story taking shape behind the words. "What had she done that was so terrible she couldn't stay with them? Had to go on the run?"

Kate gazed at him. "So you want me to trawl through all the unsolved crimes from a decade back?"

"No. Just keep an open mind."

"Castle, people fall through the gaps. It's regrettable, but it happens. Maybe she left her family just because she couldn't cope."

"And now she's dead. And I don't think there'd be all this activity if it had only been her who'd been killed."

The squad room seemed to fall into silence as his words rang through the air like a church bell.

"Is that what you think?"

Now he knew he had taken that one step too many, and tried to backtrack a little. "Not from you. I don't think you'd give up no matter what, but Harland has obscured things." He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. "She deserves it, Kate."

She stared at him without blinking for so long that he began to get uncomfortable, tempted to squirm a little on the chair. Then she surprised him by reaching for the phone and dialling. After a couple of rings it was picked up the other end.

"Perlmutter."

"It's Beckett. Is Lanie back?"

"No. She's still at her mother's. What do you want?"

Kate resisted the urge to respond as brusquely. "Am I interrupting something?"

"My breakfast."

She glanced at the clock. "Isn't it a bit late?"

"I had a couple of autopsies to do. What do you want?"

Kate took a deep breath, wondering if she was about to make a very great fool of herself. "A DNA test run on Edna Dickson."

"The homeless woman."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"To prove she really is Edna Dickson."

"And compare it to what?"

"Everything. CODIS, the Federal database, the works."

Perlmutter's annoyance came across very clearly, allowing Rick to be able to hear the other side of the conversation. "We know who the woman is."

"There's ... a question mark over that."

"What kind?" He didn't wait for her to answer, continuing immediately, "Do you have any idea how much that's going to cost? And as far as I can see, it's entirely unnecessary. With the budget cuts, I can't possibly justify it."

Rick tapped Kate's arm. "Tell him I'll pay. Do the test and send me the bill."

"Is he insane?" Perlmutter asked, having heard over the phone line.

"Probably," Kate agreed. "But there are times I think it's best to humour him."

"It won't be cheap."

"I don't think he cares."

They could both imagine Perlmutter throwing his hands up into the air. "Fine. I'll just interrupt everything else I've been doing and go and take an entirely unnecessary swab and send it to the lab."

"How long will it take?" Kate asked, seeing Rick mouth the question.

"If your man really doesn't mind how much, they could probably turn it around in about twenty hours."

"Great. Thanks," she added, but Perlmutter had already rung off. She put the phone down and looked at Rick. "If I've just put my head into the noose for you ..."

"Don't worry," he said, patting her hand. "I'll be right there with you."

"Oh, I'm not worrying. I might just kick the stool out from under your feet myself, though." She sat back, looking at Rick as if she was weighing up how much money she'd get for him per pound. "So now what?"

"What?"

"Can we get back to investigating why someone would want to kill Harland, or do you have any other big ideas?"

"Well …" He wondered whether he should duck. "Alexis did happen to mention that the church close by to where Edna was found had a shelter this time of year …"

---

The hall was bright and welcoming, with paper streamers strung from every available light, and a gaily lit tree sitting in the corner, wrapped in so much tinsel and hung with so many baubles it was almost impossible to see the branches.

It was also full of narrow cot beds, as many as could be crammed into the space, and still there were people on the floor in the cracks between. Trash bags full of belongings claimed the beds that were currently empty.

As they waited to talk to the priest, Rick and Kate knew they were being stared at from behind newspapers, hats and hair, and some of the looks weren't on the friendly side.

"They know you're police," Rick commented quietly.

"It must be my perfume."

"Eau de NYPD?" he joked.

"Something like that. Or perhaps it's about having to deal with beat cops on an almost daily basis who might not be as sympathetic as they should …" She shook her head. "It's why it makes it so hard to find witnesses sometimes."

A man bustled up to them, wearing all black apart from a white dog collar, one of Kate's cards in his fingers. "Detective Beckett?" He smiled and held out his hand. "What can I do to help one of our city's finest?"

Kate shook. "You're not quite what I was expecting."

MacLean laughed. "I've been told that a lot. I blame my mother for my youthful good looks."

"Perhaps you should." She took a moment to study him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with light brown hair brushed back from his forehead. His eyes were hazel, almost green, and there were tiny laughter lines at the corners that suggested maybe she should revise her guess of his age upwards somewhat. About her height, he gave the impression of being muscular under the uniform, but there was an aura of kindness about him that made her wonder fleetingly if he wasn't perhaps too soft for the kind of work needed in an area like this.

"And you're Richard Castle." MacLean grinned wider. "I have to tell you, your books are very popular with my parishioners. They seem to really enjoy the mystery. And the sex, of course."

Rather than being wrong-footed, which was probably the intention, Rick just nodded knowingly. "I have that effect."

"I'm sure you do." He turned back to Kate. "So, what can I do for you?"

"Do you know an Edna Dickson?"

MacLean inclined his head. "She's not exactly one of my flock, but we've crossed paths." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Your card said you're from Homicide. Does that mean –"

"I'm afraid so. She was found dead early yesterday morning."

"Murdered?"

"Yes."

"Dear God." MacLean closed his eyes, crossing himself, and both Kate and Rick knew he was praying for Edna's immortal soul. After a moment he looked up. "I think we'd better talk in my office."

He led the way up the hall, taking perhaps longer than necessary because he had a kind word for anyone that needed it. Going through a door at the back they found themselves in a small room, almost entirely filled with filing cabinets, several of them with drawers open, overflowing files erupting from inside.

He saw their look and had to smile. "Paperwork. The bane of my life," he said, somewhat ruefully. "As is yours, I'm sure. Of course, a lot of this is to do with the people I care for." He lifted a double handful of loose leaves from the chair behind an untidy desk, balancing it precariously on an already dangerous looking stack. "I try to keep as many details as possible on them, so that if something happens, at least we'll know their name, who to contact, that sort of thing. Of course, at this time of the year, that's all too often." He shook his head. "Not murder, generally, though."

"Do you have a file on Edna?" Rick asked.

MacLean disappointed them. "No. Sorry. She was never very talkative about her past, and it was just about all I could do to get her to tell me her name. I think she was from around here originally, but that's only an impression."

"Did she talk about her life at all?" Kate wanted to know. "How she came to be on the streets, for instance?"

"Circumstances." MacLean waved his hand to indicate the shelter behind them. "Every single one of those people is here because of circumstances, and of them perhaps only two are homeless by choice."

"By choice?" Rick tilted his head in enquiry.

"You'd be surprised. It doesn't happen often, but occasionally someone wants to leave everything behind them, to have little or no responsibility for anyone but themselves."

"Which was Edna?"

"I have no idea." He looked uncomfortable. "It wasn't until a couple of years ago that I got to know Edna at all, and mostly then because of the arguments we would have."

"Arguments?" Kate's ears pricked up.

MacLean shook his head. "Nothing like that, I can assure you. Most theosophical, on the nature of faith, whether what a person believed had to colour their lives, that sort of thing. I have to say, Edna might not have been educated, but she certainly had intelligence."

"Her records indicated she had mental problems."

"If she did, I never saw any evidence."

"Did she ever talk to anyone else?"

"Honestly, not really. I would have said talk to Grace Mackintosh, as she seemed to be about the only friend Edna had, but Grace died a month ago. Edna came in for a meal two nights ago ..." He swallowed, obviously realising that was the evening she died. "But I didn't speak to her. We were so busy, what with the cold. She left before I could."

"She didn't use the shelter?" Rick was shocked. "In this weather?"

"Mr Castle, as much as I'd like to take every unfortunate inside and make sure they had a bed, with our funding being so limited, we can only open for the three weeks around Christmas and New Year. Otherwise the most we can offer is hot soup and warmer clothes from our donors, and Edna – like far too many of them – was very independent." He touched the edge of an old, worn blotter still visible under the papers. "How … did it happen, if I might ask?"

"She was shot," Kate said gently. "With a man named Max Harland."

"Harland?" MacLean's eyebrows went up.

Kate took a step forward, feeling the threads tightening. "You know him?"

"Yes. He's one of our benefactors." MacLean breathed out heavily. "He was killed too?"

"Yes."

"His poor wife." Again there was a moment in silent prayer, then, "Not that I ever met her. But he'd drop in at odd times."

"Father, was he here two nights ago?" Rick asked slowly.

"Not that I'm aware. I've not seen him for perhaps a week, although he was fairly regular for a while before that. He'd had trouble sleeping, and sometimes he'd come by, just to talk," MacLean added conspiratorially.

"That explains why he was driving in this neighbourhood," Rick said to Kate.

She nodded, but asked, "What did you talk about?"

This time MacLean smiled. "I'm afraid I can't possibly tell you."

"Did you take his confession?"

"No, nothing like that. But our little chats were private, and as such I can't divulge their subject matter."

"Even though he's been murdered?"

"Even then." MacLean stood up, knocking the desk so that the piles of paper trembled. "I can say that he mentioned no names, and although he was troubled, I think I was able to show him the right path. Whether he followed it is another matter." He rubbed his hands together as if he was cold and stood up, stepping out from behind the desk again. "And now, if that's everything, I have stew to make."

Kate's lips curved. "You do the cooking as well?"

"We have a rota, but I like to get my hands dirty. It makes me feel that I'm helping rather than just preaching." He led them, somewhat against their will, back through the hall, and when Kate went to ask another question, he forestalled her. "Honestly, I don't have anything I can tell you. Both Edna and Harland were private people, and there's nothing they told me that can help you."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Kate said.

"But I will remember them in my prayers. And you as well."

"And the killer?"

MacLean chuckled, but only briefly. "I know I'm supposed to turn the other cheek, but in this case … I'll pray you catch him too. For his own good, of course."

"Of course."

At the main entrance Rick noticed a corkboard covered with envelopes. "What's this?" he asked, moving closer and trying to decipher some of the handwriting.

"We operate a sort of post office," MacLean explained. "No matter their situation, some of the people we look after do have families, friends, and they know they can contact them via us."

"Did anything ever arrive for Edna?" Kate asked.

"Not that I'm aware. But then, not everyone uses their real names."

Rick reached into his pocket for his gloves, and something crackled. "Oh, I nearly forgot. Father, I think you'd better take this now, before I walk off with it." He handed over a cheque.

MacLean studied the other man without looking at the amount. "What's this? A bribe?"

"If it was, I'd have given it to you before we asked our questions. No, it's a gift. From my daughter and me."

The priest looked down, then did a double take as he stared at the amount. "That's … very generous."

"It's a drop in the ocean, but then we both know that."

"Enough drops, Mr Castle, and even an ocean can overflow."

Rick had to smile. "Then consider this a start."

Back at the car Kate didn't immediately open up, but turned to look at him, an odd expression on her face.

"What?" he asked.

"You confuse me."

"Must be doing something right." He grinned. "What over this time?"

"Not sure. But I think you just may have hidden depths. Very well hidden, but they might be there."

"Nope. I'm shallow. Very shallow. Shallowness personified. Barely ankle deep." He twitched his eyebrows. "Want to wade through me?"

"Why do you do that?"

"What?"

"Pretend."

He chuckled. "So I can surprise you, Kate Beckett."

"You must have a very boring life."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Not hanging around with you. And certainly not in your hearing if I wanted to stay unbruised." There was a pause. "Ow."

"Baby."

---

The golden hour – that mythical amount of time when it was the most likely that a crime would be solved easily – had passed, followed by a lot more frustrating ones, and as Kate stood waiting for the espresso machine to finish burping and frothing the next morning, her mind was on the difficulties of finding one specific murderer amongst the population of New York. Ryan and Esposito had turned over a lot of stones, and a surprising number of slimy things had crawled out, but none would fit the picture. For a man who had a lot of enemies, Harland seemed to have died at just the moment in time when each and every one of them had an alibi.

She sighed. She hadn't slept well the night before, tossing and turning, her mind working over the case until in the end she'd climbed from her bed, pulled her thickest dressing gown on and slid her feet into the bunny slippers she would never admit, even under pain of death, to owning, and gone to read a book. She'd woken the next morning still on the couch, a crick in her neck and cold toes, staring at the same page of Storm Warning that she remembered reading five times the night before, but no closer to an answer.

Glancing out into the squad room, she consoled herself with the thought that at least she wasn't the only one who looked like they had a bad night.

Rick, his feet on Kate's desk, read through the file on Harland for the thousandth time, putting himself in the man's shoes. Why had he gone to the church? What possible motive could he have in talking to a priest, even one as obviously able and considerate as Father MacLean? Sighing, he rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"You'll wear the words out," Kate observed, coming back into the bull pen with two cups of coffee in her hand.

"I'm thinking."

"I'll stand by with the first aid kit." She sat down, checking the half dozen pink message slips on her desk, not one of them concerning their current case, before sliding one of the cups across to him. "Here. You look like you could do with it."

"Thanks. I didn't sleep too well last night."

She gazed coolly at him. "Must be a guilty conscience."

Rick wasn't about to let her teasing get to him. "Do you suppose Harland was going to change his ways?"

"What, you mean become a real-life Scrooge?"

"It's possible." He sat forward, picking up the cup. "It's the right time of year for it, after all. Not exactly visited by three ghosts, but maybe his conscience was pricking him. There's something about Christmas makes a lot of men examine their lives, and perhaps his was found wanting. Maybe he was about to turn it around. After all, he was already supporting the homeless shelter." He took a sip of coffee, feeling its expected heat travel through him.

"Are you going to say 'bah humbug' if I point out that sort of donation could be classed as a tax write-off?"

"Okay, maybe," Rick conceded, but went on doggedly, "Except the late night chats with Father MacLean suggest something wasn't right in his life."

"His wife didn't indicate he was having second thoughts."

"She thinks he was a good man anyway."

"And if he did, wouldn't that make a lot of people happy, not want to kill him?"

"Maybe nobody knew."

Kate looked at him, all the tenacity of a bloodhound wrapped up in a – as he had commented himself – ruggedly handsome exterior. "So you're coming around to the opinion Harland was the target."

"I'm keeping an open mind."

"You weren't yesterday."

Rick didn't answer. He was thinking back to the conversation he'd had with Alexis the night before when he got home, more or less accosting him as soon as he got through his front door. She'd insisted on being told everything, sad that they still knew nothing about her, but hugging him when he said he was paying for the DNA test. Talking of which ... "Aren't the results back on Edna's DNA yet?" he asked.

"Nothing here." Kate indicated the slips. "Perlmutter will let us know as soon as he hears anything." She paused a second. "You know there probably isn't anything, don't you? Edna Dickson is exactly who she appears to be, a woman who through circumstances left her family and ended up on the streets, living in a cardboard box."

"I don't accept that," Rick said stubbornly. "Everyone has a story to tell."

"And some are boring." Damn, but the man was looking downcast, Kate realised, and felt like she'd kicked the biggest puppy in the world. "Look, if it helps, if we don't hear anything by lunchtime, I'll call, okay?"

He smiled, the warmth back in his eyes. "Thanks, Katie."

"Castle ..."

"Beckett." It was Karpowski. "Someone here to see you."

Kate turned in her chair. "Father MacLean?" She got quickly to her feet.

The priest was dressed in a heavy navy overcoat, a thick woollen scarf around his neck. His head was bare, his hair windswept. "Detective."

"I'm afraid we don't have any more news. Not yet."

"That's not why I'm here." He held out a black sack. "One of my volunteers found this in the clothing donation bin this morning. She brought it straight to me and I knew you had to see it."

Kate took the bag carefully, tipping the contents onto her desk. Inside was what appeared to be a man's overcoat, its black fabric stiff in places. It was wrapped around something, something hard and metallic. Pulling on a pair of latex gloves, Kate eased the material apart.

Rick leaned over her shoulder. "Is that –"

"A forty-five," she confirmed. She looked sharply up at MacLean. "Did anyone else touch this?"

The priest shook his head. "No. And Mary – my volunteer – always wears gloves when she goes through the clothes. You'd be surprised what people toss into the bin."

Rick had a sudden mental image full of things he'd rather not think about, and shuddered slightly. "Right."

"And as soon as I saw what it was, I didn't touch it at all."

Kate was studying the coat again. "This looks like dried blood." Without lifting her head she called, "Ryan!"

The detective stuck his head around the corner. "Boss?"

"Get this down to Forensics."

He walked to her desk, his eyebrows lifting as he saw what was on it. "The murder weapon?"

Kate looked at MacLean. "When was the bin last emptied?"

"Four days ago. Normally with the weather, and the number of people needing food and shelter, we have to check every evening, just to hope to keep up, but this year we had a large donation of clothes from..." MacLean seemed to become aware he was letting his mouth run away. "Not since then," he finished.

"Hell of a coincidence if it isn't," Kate said to Ryan. He nodded, and between them they manoeuvred the coat and its contents back into the sack. "And get a CSU team down to the church. I doubt there's anything to find on the bin itself, but you never know."

"On it."

As Ryan hurried out, Kate turned to MacLean. "Thank you."

He smiled tiredly. "It's my civic duty, Detective."

"And what if the murderer turns out to be one of your flock?" Rick asked, unable to stop himself.

"Then I'd like to think I've set him on the path to redemption." He nodded to them both and walked away.

---

"Same gun." Ryan had waited while the weapon was test-fired, the striations checked. After having annoyed everyone for the best part of two hours, and chatted up one of the female techs just to keep in practice, he'd hurried back to the squad room. "There's no tie in with anything in the system, so it's probably a Saturday night special, but it matches the one Perlmutter took out of Edna Dickson, and there's even a partial correlation on the through and through."

"Prints?" Kate asked, turning from the murder board where she'd been staring at the pictures and hand-written notes.

"Well, that's where it gets interesting." Ryan looked smug.

"Tell me," she commanded, seeing Rick get up slowly from his seat at her desk, a hungry look in his eyes.

"Guess."

"Ryan."

"Fine." His feathers only slightly ruffled, he went on, "They found a fingerprint on one of the bullets in the magazine." He snorted. "I'll never understand why people forget about wearing gloves to load it."

"It's a handy plot device," Rick pointed out. "If every criminal remembered, half the crime novels on the store shelf wouldn't exist."

"And we're trying to catch a real criminal here," Kate said shortly. "What did you come up with?"

"Nothing," Ryan said.

"You said –"

"I said it got interesting. The enquiry threw up a flag."

"A what?" Rick asked.

Kate ignored him. "Fed?"

"Looked like it." Ryan handed her the hard copy.

She sank back against the desk, scanning it through quickly. "Damn. Now I've got to put in an official request to get the information." Her brows drew together as she bit her lip in thought.

"Would someone like to shed some light on this development for me?" Rick asked.

Ryan took pity on him. "The Feds like to keep some records under wraps, usually protected witnesses, undercover informers, that sort of thing. Running an enquiry lets you know something's there, but not what. And being flagged usually informs them you were asking."

"Ah," Rick said, understanding now. "That kind of flag."

Kate stirred. "Which probably means the Captain's about to get a call."

"Not quite." It was a new voice, a man's. And all too familiar.

They all turned to look at the person standing just inside the entrance to the bull pen, his square jaw and short haircut proclaiming him to be an FBI special agent. Even if they hadn't known who he was.

Kate stood up. "Will."

"Kate." Will Sorenson smiled at her. "How have you been?"

"Good. You?"

"Couple more scars to add to my collection. But I survived."

"I'm glad." It seemed such an odd conversation to be having with a man she'd once thought she'd given her heart to, until he took a job out of the state, leaving her behind, particularly since they hadn't spoken more than a couple of times since he got out of the hospital and went to Washington to recuperate.

"Me too."

Rick felt an odd surge of jealousy pulse through him as he watched as Sorenson moving closer, large as life and twice as ugly, talking to his Kate. Not that she was smiling, which was a good thing, but still it made his stomach roll a little. Which was ridiculous, of course. Why on earth should he be jealous? No reason. None at all.

He gave himself a mental slap on the head, then very pointedly coughed.

The agent's eyes slid to him. "Castle," he said coolly.

"Sorenson." If anything the temperature dropped another degree.

Kate rolled her eyes.

Sorenson glanced at her. "And I see your shadow's still around."

"Three book deal," Rick said. "Lots of money."

"Not exactly saving the world."

"And you do?"

"Once in a while."

Kate suppressed a sigh, but only just. "Why don't you two just drop your pants and compare?" she asked, annoyance showing in her tone. "Then we can get on with the job in hand."

"I will if you will," Rick said, a slight smirk on his lips.

Ryan had to hide a smile.

Sorenson ignored him, deliberately turning away. "The truth is, Kate, I'm here on business."

"Oh?"

"Yes. What are you doing with our witness?" he asked.

"Witness?"

Sorenson nodded at the murder board.

"Max Harland?" Rick couldn't help interjecting, shock running through him.

"No. Pamela Michaels."

"Who?"

"Pamela Michaels." Sorenson crossed to the board and tapped the photo of Edna Dickson. "We always thought she was dead, but obviously we were wrong."

"Come on," Kate said, heading for the interview room. "We need to talk."

"No," Sorenson contradicted. "What we need to do is go and arrest the killer."

"And who would that be?" Rick asked, curiosity winning out over dislike.

"Nolan Michaels. Her husband."

---

For once Rick was relegated to the back of the car as Sorenson had taken the passenger seat, Kate driving north as instructed.

"Pamela Michaels witnessed a murder, and she and her family were put into protective custody," Sorenson was explaining.

"You mean you locked them up," Rick commented.

"Does he have to be here?" Sorenson looked at Kate.

"Yes." She took a deep breath, waiting for a red light to change to green. "Go on."

"Her husband worked at a bakery owned by a mob family, just a man doing an honest job for a day's pay. Except one night when Pamela came to pick him up and she saw the youngest son off an informant."

"The son?"

"Joey Franciosa."

Rick whistled softly. "An up and coming wise guy," he muttered. "No wonder Edna ran."

"Pamela," Sorenson corrected. "And we always thought they found out about her, had her killed. Anyway, without her testimony there was no case, so Joey went free, and as there was no further danger to her family we let them return home."

"So it was the fingerprint on the bullet that led you to us?" Kate asked.

"And Pamela's. Your ME ran them through AFIS, I was alerted, and was on my way to see you when Nolan Michaels' print hit the fan." He smiled grimly. "I can't wait to hear him try and explain his way out of this."

"Where are we going, exactly?"

"West 143rd."

Kate glanced sharply at him. "What?"

"I know. She didn't exactly go far."

"When?" Rick wanted to know.

"What?" Sorenson half turned in his seat to glare at him.

"When did all this happen?"

"Five years ago."

"Five ..." He sat forward, his arms on the back of the seats. "Edna was first arrested ten years ago."

"She wasn't Edna Dickson."

"But that means someone was." Another Edna Dickson on the street, perhaps with family ...

"We'll probably never know," Kate said quietly, watching the homeless shelter go past as she turned onto a side street.

"No," Rick echoed unhappily.

"We're here," Sorenson said, sitting up straighter.

---

Nolan Michaels broke down almost as soon as the three of them walked into his home.

"It was an accident," he said, kept saying, for at least a minute after Kate read him his rights. "I didn't mean to shoot, but we were arguing, and I heard a noise behind me and ..."

"We're going to take you back to the precinct," Kate said. "You can make a statement –"

Michaels wasn't listening. "There she was, only a few blocks from our home, from her children, and she ..." He pushed his hands through his thinning blond hair, his grey eyes taut with tension. "We thought she was dead."

"Mr Michaels –"

"Except I found some letters. To Rachel, my daughter. She's fourteen. Letters from her mother."

Kate tried again. "Mr Michaels ..." but Sorenson shook his head. Better to let the man talk, he was saying. She lowered herself into the armchair opposite where he sat on the couch.

"She said they threatened us. Me and the girls. And something snapped. Sometimes she didn't have a strong hold on reality, and she just snapped. She knew she had to get away, to protect us, so we'd be safe."

"Why didn't she tell the agents looking after you?" Sorenson asked.

"She didn't trust them. She wasn't even going to go to the police after she saw the murder, but I ... I persuaded her." He laughed, but there was no humour in it. "All my fault," he murmured.

"What happened?" Rick spoke gently, quietly. "Two nights ago. What happened?"

"I went to talk. I got the address of the shelter from the letters, and I waited. For hours, sitting in my car, in the cold, waiting for her to ... then there she was. I followed her back to ... back to that alley. To where she was sleeping." He wasn't looking at them, only staring into the past. "I couldn't believe it. She left us for that."

"It was like you said. She was shielding you." Rick could almost see it in his mind's eye.

Sorenson glared at him, then went back to Michaels. "And the gun?"

"I bought it for protection. That time of night, that area ... I just wanted it for protection."

"I think you went to kill her."

"I went to try and persuade her to come home." A trace of belligerence crept into his voice.

Kate silenced the agent with a single glance. If they were going to let Michaels talk, then she was the one who was going to direct things. "Go on," she encouraged.

"She was shocked to see me. Tried to make me leave. But I finally managed to get her to talk to me, tell me what had happened. After she left." He swallowed. "She slept rough for a few nights, then made friends with someone, a woman called Grace. Apparently she confided in this Grace, who promised to teach her how to survive. She wanted Pam to leave, to get out of the city, but Pam wouldn't. She said she had to be close to us, even if we didn't know it." Again there was the humourless laugh. "All those years ..."

"And Edna Dickson?" Rick asked.

"Who?"

"Edna Dickson. Your wife was wearing her clothes."

"Oh, her." Michaels dismissed this other person, and Rick couldn't help but feel a touch of hostility towards the man. "Pam said Grace gave her the clothes. They belonged to a woman, a friend, who'd died a little while before. They weren't doing anyone else any good, so ..." His lip curled. "How could she? A dead woman's clothes?"

Kate took up the reins again. "Mr Michaels, tell me what happened. You had the gun ..."

"I had the gun," Michaels repeated. "We were arguing, about what she should do. I wanted her to come with me, come home, at least have a meal and a bath, see the girls, but she kept pulling away. Telling me to leave her alone. She was getting hysterical, starting to shout, and someone came into the alley. It was a man, demanding to know what was going on. I told him it wasn't any of his business, but he wouldn't listen. I pulled out the gun to make him leave, and it went off ..."

They could almost hear the loud retort echoing down the alley.

"And Pamela?"

"She lost control. Came at me, tried to scratch my face, kicking at me. I didn't know what I was doing, there was an explosion, and suddenly she was on the ground, bleeding."

"Why didn't you call the police? An ambulance?"

"She was dead. I could see that. And I have two children to look after."

Kate sat back. "That's not really your concern any longer," she said quietly.

---

They put Nolan Michaels in the back of a black and white and sent him on his way to the precinct for processing. Rick leaned on the top of Kate's car, watching it disappear around the corner.

"I'm sorry."

Rick turned to look at her. "What for?"

"Not listening. Not wanting to even consider Edna was the intended victim all along."

"You did listen."

"Eventually. But I should have trusted your judgement."

He gave a half-smile, oddly sad. "Don't want to break the habit of a lifetime, Kate. Besides, I'm only a writer."

A thread of anger lit inside her belly. "Stop that. Stop putting yourself down."

"Easier than waiting for someone else to do it."

The truth of his words bit deep. "Anyway, I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. You did listen, and we've got the killer under wraps. And you get to go and tell Mrs Harland that her husband was doing the right thing, and died trying to save a woman from being murdered."

"It's cold comfort."

"It's better than nothing."

Sorenson walked towards them. "We have to be getting back."

"Don't let me stop you," Rick said, his good humour back. "I'm sure you've got a lot more questions to ask Michaels."

"Questions?"

"Mmn. Like how come there was stippling from the close range gunshot on Max Harland and not on Edna? Particularly if she was attacking him at the time."

Kate couldn't help the slight smile. "You noticed."

"If you want my opinion –"

"Which we don't," Sorenson interrupted.

Rick ignored him. "Michaels might not have gone to that alley with the specific intentions of killing anyone, but that doesn't make what happened an accident."

The Federal agent grunted, then said, "As it happens, I don't think he went to persuade Pamela to come home. He's got a very attractive, very young woman in his life, and apparently his kids adore her. I think maybe he decided Pamela was going to rock the boat too much. Now, if you don't mind ..."

If it hadn't already been cold Rick would have had frostbite from the look Sorenson gave him as he took Kate by the arm, leading her a few steps away.

"Don't mind me," Rick said.

"We'll get the truth out of him, you and me, together. Then there's the paperwork, but after ..." Sorenson gazed at her. "Kate? Tomorrow night? We can go out. Talk."

"Tomorrow?"

"I could pick you up about 8 pm. I'll make a reservation at Luigi's. You always did like his pasta." He waited a beat. "Well? How about it?"

Rick, standing by the car, looked from one to the other, his eyes finally settling on Kate as they both waited for her decision. He wanted desperately to say she was busy, that she was coming to Alexis's play with him, but it wasn't his call. Not his call at all ...

---

He spent the next day writing, or at least sitting on the sofa in front of the realistic fire, his laptop on his knees, staring at the white space where words were conspicuous by their absence. He'd taken time out to make half a dozen cups of coffee, grilled a sandwich for his lunch – although he left half of it – and finally finished that half pint of chocolate ice cream, all to no avail. His muse had left the building, and there was no sign of her returning.

"Come on," Martha said, fixing her ear-ring as she descended the stairs. "You don't want to be late."

He stirred himself. "Has Alexis already gone?"

"Two hours ago, which you'd have noticed if you weren't sitting there feeling sorry for yourself." She smoothed the black pants she was wearing and adjusted her red sweater.

"I'm not feeling sorry for myself."

She leaned over the back of the sofa so she could see into his face. "You look like someone's taken away your favourite teddy bear."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"Yes." He stood up and stretched. "I was just ... thinking."

Martha shook her head. "Why you don't kiss that girl and have done with it, I don't know."

"Because she'd probably shoot me."

"Since when did that ever stop you?"

He crossed towards the stairs. "Since I grew up."

She stood with her hands on her hips. "Really? I must've blinked and missed it."

"She doesn't want me," he said, going up to change his shirt.

Martha raised her eyebrows but for once forbore to comment.

Now they were standing outside the school theatre, watching as other parents and grandparents sauntered inside, voices chatting amiably, breath crystallising in the cold air around them.

"If we don't get inside soon, there won't be any decent seats left," Martha pointed out.

"You go on. I'll wait a few more minutes." He rubbed his hands together for warmth, even though he was wearing his leather gloves.

His mother put her hand on his arm. "Darling, I'm sure she'd be here if she could."

"I know. I guess she just got a better offer."

"Then she's a fool."

He had to smile. "No. If there's one thing Kate Beckett isn't, it's a fool."

"Then one day she's going to see what's right in front of her." She patted his hand. "And you know what they say, the best things come to those who wait."

"You think she's worth it?"

She reached up and kissed his cheek. "I think you are. But perhaps I'm biased."

"For which I'm glad." He widened the smile. "Honestly. Go inside before you catch something."

"I don't mind waiting with you."

"No. Really."

"Looking for us?" Esposito grinned as he and Ryan appeared from the crowd.

Rick chuckled. "I knew you'd make it." He looked over their shoulders.

"She's not with us," Ryan said astutely.

"She left about half an hour before we did," Esposito finished. "She saw Michaels through processing, then announced she had to get ready for a date."

"Sorenson." Rick sighed.

"She didn't say."

Rick shook himself. This wouldn't do. Alexis had put her soul into this production, and had even persuaded the powers that be at the school to donate most of the proceeds for the evening to the homeless shelter where Edna Dickson – or Pamela Michaels, as he seemed to have difficulty thinking of her – had occasionally argued with Father MacLean. She'd even asked if he would talk his poker buddies at their annual Christmas game to shell out ten percent of their winnings. He had to smile. His daughter was far too perfect to be true. "Then I hope she has a good time," he said, willing the truth from the lie. "And I wasn't looking for her. Where's your girlfriend?" he asked Ryan, attempting to change the subject.

"Last minute shopping," the detective admitted. "She said she'd try and get here before it starts."

"Honeymilk," Esposito murmured, and Ryan looked pained.

"Come on," Martha said, linking her arms through theirs. "In which case I think I'd like to be escorted to my seat by two handsome police officers."

Esposito laughed. "Whatever you say, Mrs R."

They strode inside, Martha calling back over her shoulder, "Don't wait too long."

Rick smiled. His mother had never had trouble making friends, in all levels of society, probably because she actually liked people, something she seemed to have passed on to him. Some of his best friends were crooks. And cops, for that matter.

A chill breeze made his smile fade, and he burrowed a little deeper into his overcoat. Looking up and down the street something caught his eye, and he focused on it. A snowflake, drifting earthwards, dancing in the exhaust fumes from the cars hurrying by. Perhaps it was going to be a white Christmas after all.

He sighed. Maybe his mother was right. Not the kissing Kate to get it out of his system part, but the whole waiting thing. He was the first to admit this wasn't his usual style. In the past, if he'd fancied a woman, he'd made an immediate play for her, and if she'd smiled at him – which was the usual outcome – he knew he'd won. If not, well, there were plenty more fish in the sea. Except maybe he was settling in for the long haul. If she'd let him.

"Penny for them?"

He jerked, spinning on his heel. "Kate."

She smiled, her red coat buttoned up to the neck, a black knitted hat pulled low over her ears. Only a few locks of hair poked from underneath. "You seem surprised."

"I ... it was just ... the time and I thought ..." He pulled himself together, berating his inner author for acting like a schoolboy with a crush. "I didn't think you were going to make it."

"I said I would, didn't I?"

"Yes, but ... Sorenson ..."

"If he's worth it, he'll wait. If not ..." She didn't finish the sentence, just left it hanging in the air with the snowflakes that were falling faster and thicker now.

He breathed out, his lips curving. "I'm glad you came."

"Me too." She laughed lightly. "I wouldn't miss this reimagining for the world."

"Did you just do air quotes?"

"No."

"You did."

"Optical illusion, Castle. The cold must be getting to you."

"I'm not generally one for hallucinations. Except maybe after a decent bottle of St Emilion. And I know what I saw."

"No, you didn't."

"Katie –"

"Don't call me Katie."

"Excuse me?" An attendant was peering out of the doors. "We're about to start?"

Rick put his hand under Kate's elbow, a gentle smirk on his face. "Shall we? We don't want to miss the beginning."

She glanced down but didn't pull away. "We wouldn't want that." She let him lead her inside.

"And you did the air quotes."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"I've still got my gun, you know."

As the doors closed on their gentle bickering, behind them a swathe of white flakes fell silently on the city, settling on the sidewalks and the cars, turning New York, even if only for a few hours, into something bright and shining and new.