Chapter 4: Won't be fooled again
Ka – Beckett's – frustration is rapidly encroaching on irritation, or possibly fury. Castle's a little irritated by the delay too, but the detectives don't seem to have any other answer but wait. He doesn't much like waiting for what he wants. He also notices, and more, remembers, that K - Beckett – is not at all keen on waiting either.
She never had waited for him. If he wasn't there, she simply went on. She hadn't waited for an explanation, either. Condemned him on the facts she had, and looked no further. She must do now. His earlier conversation with Montgomery had been illuminating. Star detective, hotshot crime solver. Montgomery had been very blunt: the trio are the outstanding team in the precinct and probably in NYC and it had all gelled around Detective Beckett. Castle was not to do anything that might screw that up, or he'd be out the door with Montgomery's shoe tread branded on his ass. Menacing sincerity had pervaded every word. So clearly she deals with the whole of the evidence, now, not only the obvious.
Okay, so they – a collective they, the team, not just Katie, but clearly led by Katie – Beckett, Beckett, for God's sake – solve cases better. A tendril of desire to be helpful writhes into his head, fertilised by his own desire to know this story, to develop his new story, and to make Katie – Beckett, dammit – see that he can be useful. Well. Just to see him would be an improvement. It's clear, only on two days' renewed acquaintance, that solving the case is her driving force. And, very fortunately, he thinks he can help. Of course, he doesn't put it like that. He makes a flippant, thoroughly annoying comment. He is not going to parade around like a love-sick puppy begging for scraps and treats and forgiveness. That's not who he is, or who he was, or who he wants to be. He simply wants to show her the facts: that she made a mistake back then; that they should try again.
He'd used to be able to blindside her by taking one line of argument and then switching at the last possible moment – he'll use that now. He'll show her a flirtatious celebrity, and then he'll switch it when he gets her alone. And he will. Soon. He's forgotten that it only worked, at best, one time in two, and she's all grown up now and has a career for which success depends on her never being caught off guard or deceived. He's just been told she's astonishingly successful, and he hasn't understood what that means at all.
"A week?" he says, disbelievingly.
"Welcome to reality, superstar." He's heard friendlier tones from a state executioner. (Research. He'd nearly thrown up. The nightmares had lasted for weeks.)
"Well, I never did much like reality." He certainly doesn't like this version of reality, and he has every intention of changing it to one which he does like. One in which he tells Katie Beckett the truth she wouldn't listen to fifteen years ago, and then he can have her right back where she belongs: by his side. (He'd never led. She'd never followed. Side by side, hand in hand.) He's met her again only two short days ago in the most peculiar of circumstances and suddenly it's as if he's nineteen again: as addicted to her as he was then.
He makes a call, gets what he wants – results: prints will be available in an hour – and waits for the expected enthusiasm. Instead, she looks like she wants to shoot him (this is becoming unpleasantly familiar and he's only seen her for two days) and then lays into him for jumping the queue. What is her problem? He's got her the results that she wanted, that she'd have been fretting about not having for a week, and all she's doing is complaining that he's done it. What's the point of having the ability to improve matters and solve problems if you don't use it?
He's annoyed, and he shows it.
"Oh, I think somebody feels threatened."
"I'm not threatened." Not by Ricky pulling his celebrity status, anyway. She is beginning to acquire the extremely unpleasant feeling that he isn't just going to go away. Well, she won't be fooled again. If she were still little bespectacled Katie he wouldn't have looked at her twice. He certainly wouldn't be involved in this case. Since he didn't want her when she didn't look like this, she doesn't want him now.
"No, no, I get it; I can call the mayor and you can't." He can do something she can't, that will benefit her. Just like at school, when he could protect her when she couldn't do it for herself. She certainly doesn't need protection now. (She hadn't asked for protection. She had never asked him for anything.) But he can get her a faster answer.
"We have procedure. Protocol." The case is important to her, but so are all the other cases important to other people. She needs to be able to rely on other detectives, not just her team, and steamrollering over their priorities is not likely to incline any of them to help her out when she needs a favour. Then again, steamrollering other people regardless of their feelings was a speciality of Rick Rodgers's. Seems that hasn't changed, either.
"Yeah, and you always come to a complete stop at a red light, and you never fudge your taxes. Tell me something: you ever have any fun? You know, let your hair down, drop your top, a little cops-gone-wild?" She'd never seemed to have any fun at school, either. Except when she was arguing with him. Or when he was kissing her. Presumably she'd had a better time after he'd left. After all, she'd been with the most popular boy in school. Even if she hadn't gone to prom, surely she must have managed some social kudos from that?
It never occurs to him that the last act of his so-called friends might have been to trash both of them.
"You do know I'm wearing a gun?" She looks as if she really means to use it on him, too.
"Oooh." It takes everything she has, every ounce of control, not to slap him silly and throw him out bodily. Not that she could manage it, any more than she could have done fifteen years ago. He's still much bigger and much heavier than she and even if she's trained in defensive drills and sparring she is well aware (and regrets more with each passing minute) that a good big guy will always beat a good little guy. She's not that good, and she simply doesn't have the physical mass to make up for it. She returns her focus to the case and ignores anything else.
There's been another murder. The third murder. This is looking more and more like a serial killer, not a single death plus a distraction. Beckett is ordered to take Castle with her, which does not improve her mood in any way. She's even less happy when he starts meddling in the latest body. Lanie should know better than to be impressed by a pretty face and a good mind. Haven't they seen enough of those, just before they go down for Murder One? And he's showing off. Again.
She's just starting on reaming him out for not obeying orders when he starts to change the subject and talk about the case and at least that's vaguely useful and bearable and relevant and doesn't go near any difficult areas. And thank God her phone has rung at last and the lab has got a match on the prints and they can finish this thrice-damned case and she will never ever have to see Rick Rodgers ever ever ever again. At least he seems to have bought her story of never having met him.
They've got the guy. It's horribly sad: mentally disturbed, fixated on Castle and his books, trophies from the victims: and all the evidence points in one direction: straight to him. Even better, since the case is now closed, guy put away, there is absolutely no reason for Rick Castle to show up again. As a consequence of that delightfully reassuring thought, Beckett is, for the first time in three days, thoroughly relaxed and pleased with the world. She even manages relative civility when Castle does, annoyingly, show up, and she finds him prowling round her desk, leafing through her files.
However, it looks like he was simply waiting for her to show up. He's even brought her a present, of sorts: an advance copy of his latest book. That's a little arrogant, to say the least: how does he even know she'd want to read his works? Still, he writes well, though the knowledge of who he really is does not add a good flavour to the story. She'd half expected a rerun of the argument that had begun over his fan mail, but it seems like he's really, truly, believed that she is not that Katie Beckett. (She isn't. That Katie Beckett died in an alley with her mother.) She's fooled him. He's swallowed her barefaced lies. Well, he's done that before too: she'd lied to him for longer, in more exigent circumstances, and she's much better at misdirection now. Her sigh of relief is heartfelt and utterly sincere.
Until he puts a hand on her and pecks her on the cheek. She can't stop the shiver. She desperately hopes that he hasn't noticed. But – he's leaving. Without ado. So she's got away with it.
She hadn't got away with it at all. Castle had most certainly noticed, but now he's playing a different game altogether. One he intends to win. It's called Let's prove Beckett's got it wrong. Because he's still intent on reminding her that he is as clever as she, and then going back to those first days when it was all about the intellectual battle. It's how he won her over originally, and it's where he intends to start again. Right back where we started from, in fact. He hums a few notes of the song as he exits the precinct, patting the papers in his pocket happily.
It suddenly occurs to Beckett that Rick Rodgers-now-Castle had only ever behaved like that when he thought he'd got one over on her. A dreadful suspicion sinks into her brain. Two seconds of checking the file confirms it. That bastard has removed papers from the file and walked off with them.
Her temper fries its last shreds of control in an instant. She wants to shoot him. She wants to scream loudly and throw punches. She does none of these things. Instead, she takes the politically precautionary route of going to see Captain Montgomery to gain formal approval of her proposed actions. This is going to be done strictly by the book. There will be no question about its propriety and correctness.
Montgomery is also very unimpressed by Castle's actions, though he's not nearly as incandescently angry as Beckett clearly is.
"Sir, friend of the Mayor or not, he can't go removing evidence from our case files and taking it out the precinct." Montgomery nods, slowly. An odd thought is percolating gently through his brain, of which not one hint appears on his face.
"Go pick him up, Beckett. You're right. We can't have civilians misappropriating key pieces of our case files." He watches her satisfied swing as she leaves with a pair of burly uniformed cops, and goes back to the extremely interesting and amusing thoughts that are crossing his mind. He assembles his evidence and deductions, grinning evilly all the while.
First, having Castle around is a political and PR coup for the Twelfth. He likes that. It's good for the city, good for the NYPD and therefore good for him.
Second, Castle is very clearly into Detective Beckett, who is equally clearly not into Castle. Montgomery likes a good soap opera as much as the next man, and this is shaping up to be the funniest soap in years. What had Esposito said? Ah yes. Better than Shark Week. He emits a small snigger. Looks like the irresistible force just shook hands with the immovable object.
Third, Beckett needs to get her head out of homicide occasionally, and Castle prowling the precinct and bothering the bullpen has already ensured that she's left (or fled) at a rather more reasonable and civilised hour than at any time in the previous six months. Her unofficial overtime has been creeping rapidly up ever since she broke up with her Fed, but it's ballooned recently.
Montgomery digresses from his present issue for a moment to spit, metaphorically. Boston? He wasn't having his best detective waltzing off to Boston, for God's sake. What use would she be there? The only crime in Boston is social solecism. Using the wrong set of cutlery. Boston? Not if he could help it. Fortunately it had all collapsed. Anyway, back to the main theme.
Four, Beckett not only wasn't into Castle, she'd taken an instant dislike to him: in fact, she'd displayed complete abhorrence. This is unusual. She normally shrugs off attempts at flirtation and cheap come-ons or crude suggestions without a quiver. She's had plenty of practice. This immediate anger is… well, odd. He'd almost have thought that they had a history, except that he's sure he'd have seen it on page six, and she could never have kept that secret from the bullpen. They know, and gossip, about everything.
Five, flirtatious or not, Castle can think. Moreover, he thinks differently from everyone else in Beckett's team. It's possible, Montgomery thinks, that he's as clever as Beckett, but in a very different way. Hmmm. Beckett's team get all the weird ones. Maybe what they need to be even better is someone who thinks outside the box. Maybe what they need is a little – mmm – competition. Beckett never rests on her laurels, and she doesn't let the other two do so either, but a little spur to the sides never hurt.
Okay. When Beckett hauls Castle in in cuffs, which probably won't take much longer, Montgomery is going to kick his ass for screwing around with the files when Beckett can hear it, and then very quietly suggest that if he feels like reappearing in a day or two looking a little penitent then Montgomery will allow him back.
He likes soap operas.
Some little while later Beckett reappears at his door and informs Montgomery, with an expression of vicious satisfaction, that Mr Castle is in Holding should the Captain wish to speak to him; and in the meantime how long should she give it before calling his family to bail him out? Oh – and she's recovered the papers.
When she'd gone after him, she'd gone first, without any real hope of success, to his apartment, a loft in a very expensive part of SoHo. Still, badges beat doormen, though she'd asked the uniforms to stay a little behind her when she knocked. Naturally, he hadn't been there. The door had been opened by an older redhead in an eye-wateringly bright outfit. It must be his mother. (She'd never met his mother. He'd never met her parents, either.) She regards Beckett coolly, at first, but on discovering her name and purpose becomes slightly less formal and directs her to the New York Public Library. Beckett decamps at considerable speed.
Behind her, Martha considers for a moment. From the late night clicking, Richard has clearly found his next inspiration – and it has just stalked off to arrest him. Again. She didn't look friendly at all. Well now. Richard's had it all a little too easy recently, and in addition Martha had always been sure that there was far more to that prom night debacle than he had ever admitted. Admitted once he'd sobered up, anyway.
She, Martha Rodgers, Grande Dame of off-Broadway, is certainly not inclined to fall on Katie Beckett's neck and shower her with enthusiasm. She'd left Richard appallingly hurt, after all. But. But Martha is inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. Because Richard's drunken ramblings had been extremely interesting. The spoilt brats he'd unfortunately continued to hang around with and called friends had believed that Richard had been stringing Katie – such a ridiculous diminutive: what's wrong with Katherine? – along for a bet and somehow she had found out. If Katherine (that's better) had thought Richard was involved, then it was hardly surprising a young teen had reacted as she had. It was a pretty unusual relationship, anyway. She'd never met her, Richard had never talked about her until prom night, and it was only because he'd been out of his head drunk that she'd known anything about her. Hardly Richard's normal style, before or since.
But the tall, poised, beautiful and thoroughly hard-edged woman who has just left bears absolutely no resemblance to the child-girl Richard had drunkenly wept over as he described her. Surely he's mistaken?
Beckett and the burly uniforms find Castle perusing the purloined papers. It's intensely satisfying to place him under arrest: it's even better than hauling him in for questioning. She even manages to ignore his nasty comment that it's because he made her look bad and the salacious comment about bondage. (But it makes her remember how it felt when he first asked her to prom and kissed her hard and held her tightly and she understood the dangerous attraction of big, broad male in control of events. All her partners since have been big.)
He tosses out a smart remark about Cabot being innocent, because the roses were wrong. She ostensibly ignores it. It keeps squirming around her head, however, and gnawing at her brain and adding to the sense of wrongness she's been feeling on and off ever since she arrested Cabot. She glares at her murder board. It would be so nice and so easy and so simple and so convenient. But the more she thinks it over, the more it feels all wrong.
In Holding, Castle is sitting unenthusiastically regarding the bare walls, the bars and the sensation of the cuffs which someone seems to have forgotten to remove. He's fairly certain that this may have been deliberate. It's not comfortable, and even his general happy interest in life, the universe and everything is somewhat dented. He knows he really shouldn't have pinched Beckett's papers – ha! He got it right that time. Must have been the shock of the handcuffs. He doesn't like service-issue handcuffs. Not on his own wrists. But he is sure she's got the wrong man. The details aren't right, and Cabot's pathology should have driven him to ensure that every single tiny detail was precisely and perfectly correct.
She's got it wrong. He only hopes that his inflammatory statement will prick her pride enough for her to try to prove him wrong. She likes to be right, and she likes to win, and she had always taken new facts into account in their arguments.
Except that last time.
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