The door to the penthouse suite was already open as they exited the elevator, and framed in it was a man in his early thirties, thick black hair swept away from his face. He was wearing a monogrammed blue silk shirt, the letters M and C intertwined on a curlicue background stitched into the breast pocket, and stonewashed denim jeans. On his feet were loafers, the pennies shining. Expensive, Kate thought. Trying too hard, Rick considered.

"I gather you're the police?" the man asked. "I'm Merrick Canfield." He held out a hand.

Kate took it, shook briefly, noting slight calluses on Canfield's fingertips. "I'm Detective Beckett. We'd like to talk to you about the report you made regarding your double bass."

His eyes widened. "You mean you found it?"

"We just have a few more questions. Can we come inside?"

"Oh, of course. Where are my manners? Please." He stepped back so they could enter, and he smiled warmly at Kate as she passed. He more or less ignored Rick, which gave Kate a momentary frisson of pleasure, which died quickly as they walked into what felt like a goldfish bowl.

The apartment was big, open plan for the most part, with a fireplace burning merrily in the centre of the room, using pine scented logs from the fragrance being produced. Various musical instruments, including a flute and three clarinets, were on stands poised on top of bookcases, while a large plasma TV hung on the wall in front of three black leather sofas, placed just … so. Everything was tidy, everything was in its place, with not a scrap of paper or even an open book sullying a bare surface.

But it wasn't the extreme tidiness that took the breath away.

In front of them, an expanse of glass ran down two of the walls, floor to ceiling. Except it had to be tilted so as not to reflect the contents of the room, remaining invisible, because outside was New York, lighting up now the sun had finally dropped below the horizon, testimony to the fact that perhaps this really was the city that never sleeps.

It would never catch the full daylight, being angled more towards the north, and Rick decided it was by the choice of the owner. It reeked of control freak, and knowing the sun wasn't going to damage his expensive furnishings, let alone the original 1954 Fender Stratocaster hung on one of the only walls, was probably top of Canfield's apartment-hunting requirements.

"It is rather spectacular, isn't it?" Canfield said, smiling as he recognised the slightly stunned looks on their faces.

"It certainly is," Kate agreed, feeling she could just walk out into the darkness and fly over Manhattan. She caught the smug expression on Rick's face and knew he knew what she was thinking. She made an effort to pull herself together. "Mr Canfield, can you go over the details of the theft again?"

"Of course. But first, would you like a drink? Or a coffee?" Canfield asked.

Kate shook her head, but Rick said, "Coffee sounds good. Lots of cream."

"I'll just be a moment." Canfield nodded and headed for the kitchen area visible to their left.

"Coffee?" Kate hissed.

"I just want to see what happens if I spill anything. Place looks like it came out of Vanity Fair, the anal-retentive edition," Rick muttered from the corner of his mouth.

"You read Vanity Fair?"

"Only for the naked women."

"Anyway, I like it."

"OCD like you? I think you'd love it."

She glared at him, one of those that threatened intense bodily harm if he didn't shut up, but he just smiled infuriatingly.

Canfield came back with a tray containing a cup and saucer, napkin on the side, and a small jug. He held a glass cafetiere in his other hand. "Are you sure I can't tempt you?" he asked Kate, indicating the coffee.

"No. Thanks."

"Your loss. This is a Columbian, made to my own recipe. Of course it's far better drunk black, but …" He put the tray down on the table and poured very carefully.

"Thanks," Rick said, sitting down and adding so much cream the liquid was almost white.

Canfield made a moue of distaste, but covered it well, looking up at Kate instead. He must have seen something on her face, because he asked, "I'm sorry, is there something wrong?"

In fact she'd been thinking what a waste of good coffee, but instead she covered with, "You didn't ask to see my badge."

Canfield smiled again. "No, well, Harrison downstairs would have looked."

"Still, it's a good idea to make sure."

"Then let me see it." Kate handed the badge across, and he made a show of studying it, comparing the person in front of him with the representation on the card. "You're much prettier in real life," he commented.

Rick bridled a little, but for once restrained himself, just making sure he spilled some of the over-full cup onto the tray for later.

"Now," Canfield went on, ignoring the other man again. "I interrupted you before. How can I help?"

"Can you go over the details of the last time you saw your double bass?"

"Well, technically it's a Busetto contrabass, but you don't need to … you know, this was all in the report your officer took. When I first reported the theft."

"It's procedure. Particularly when it's an expensive item. We like to check to make sure you haven't forgotten anything. No matter how trivial." She smiled, the kind that didn't really reach her eyes.

"Of course. Well." He looked thoughtful. "I was at the Lincoln Centre, and we'd just finished final rehearsal. We were playing Beethoven's Third … do you know it? The Eroica?" Kate nodded encouragingly. "Of course you do. Anyway, I went for something to eat, came back ready for the actual performance, and … it was gone." He shook his head in irritation. "I had to send someone for my alternate instrument, which of course isn't anywhere near the same standard, but …"

"Did the concert go well?"

"Fine."

"And you didn't you see anyone suspicious loitering around?"

"Suspicious? Not particularly. I mean, the place is always bustling with electricians, lighting crew … but you don't look at people like that, do you? Well, perhaps you do. Being a detective." He leaned forward again. "Do you actually trust anyone?"

"Not many," Rick put in.

"No, I can imagine." Canfield sighed. "I've reported it to the insurance company, of course, but I doubt it will turn up. Not now. Probably in some pawn shop in Queen's, for all I know."

"More than likely," Kate agreed.

"Is it worth a lot?" Rick asked, sipping at the cup and ignoring the fact that it was virtually cold and tasted like coffee-flavoured cream.

Canfield favoured him with a glance. "Only if you consider a minimum of $85,000 a lot."

"I think most people would."

"Of course it's insured, but that isn't the point."

Kate nodded. "I understand."

Canfield looked at them, his head on one side. "Look, if there's something else going on here ..."

"No. As I said, it's just a follow-up."

"Only you seem too senior to be doing such a menial task." He smiled at her, straightening the cuffs of his shirt.

Rick was astounded. The man was hitting on her.

Kate either didn't notice or chose not to. "There is a possibility we've new information regarding the theft, but at the moment I'm not at liberty to say."

Canfield moved closer. "I hope you do find it. It's my primary instrument because of the richness of the sound. There's a depth, an opulence I've rarely found in any other bass, and that magnificence makes even the most mediocre piece sound …" He stopped and grinned, probably the first honest facial expression since they'd arrived. "Sorry. I can be a little boring when I get going."

"No problem."

"Do you have any enemies, Mr Canfield?" Rick asked, standing up and earning a warning look from Kate but feeling unrepentant.

"Enemies?" Canfield raised his eyebrows. "Why should I have enemies?"

"Someone you stepped on, maybe on your way to the top. Someone who might think it fun to steal your bass."

"I'm not at the top. If I were, I'd be the guest soloist."

"Then all this …" Kate indicated the apartment.

"Inherited," Canfield explained. "My father was rich, he's dead, so now I have the money. It gives me the leeway to do what I want, when I want. And I'm afraid that's the reason I have to ask you to leave now, no matter how much I've enjoyed your company. I have to get changed. I'm playing at The Blue Cat tonight."

"Blue Cat?"

"It's a jazz club in Greenwich," Rick said quickly.

Canfield was surprised. "You've been there?"

"Once or twice."

"Research, I should imagine." He laughed. "Mr Castle, I know who you are. I doubt there's many in any of the entertainment industries who don't. You're not exactly reclusive."

"Not a word you could ever use about him," Kate agreed. "Well, thanks for your time."

"Not at all." Canfield moved even closer. "How can I contact you? In case I think of anything else?"

Kate handed over one of her cards, the ones with only her work number on, and took a step back towards the door. "They can get a message to me."

"Good."

Rick slapped his hands together and rubbed the palms. "Well, time to go."

"If we hear anything, we'll be in touch," Kate promised.

"Any time."

They walked out into the hall, Canfield stopping in the doorway, waiting until they were in the elevator before waving slightly and going back into his apartment.

"Do you think he's involved?" Rick asked, barely waiting for the doors to close before speaking.

"I doubt it."

"Only you didn't tell him about the body."

"No." Kate stared at the lights moving irritatingly slowly down the floor numbers.

"So you were thinking you might interview him again."

"Maybe."

"Kate, talk to me. Tell me what you're thinking."

"So I can find it all down on paper in a few months?" She shook her head. "No."

"It's why I'm here."

"No. Why you're here is because you know the Mayor, and you like to make my life difficult."

"Well, I try."

"Very trying."

"Hey, did you see his shoes?" Rick asked, smirking just a little because he'd got to her again. "Penny loafers."

"My father used to wear them," Kate admitted. "What's wrong with that?"

"With real pennies?"

"Well –"

"No-one's ever made loafers with real pennies in them. That was a fad with the prep schools in the 1950's. They must be custom."

"Want me to go back and ask him where he got them? I'm sure they do them in your size."

"I wouldn't be seen dead in them."

"Pity."

The doors opened and they strode through the lobby towards the waiting cold, Rick smiling at the guard. Harrison lifted his newly-signed copy of Storm Fall and grinned.

"I still think he's involved," Rick said as the freezing air hit them, and he pulled his coat collar higher around his neck. "Canfield. He knows more than he's telling."

She turned on him. "Do you really think he'd use his custom-made case to dump a body in? After the way he talked about his double bass like that? I'm surprised he doesn't sleep with it."

"Double bluff."

"Excuse me?"

"Make you believe that he's innocent by giving up something valuable and personally important, when he's actually a manipulative son of a bitch."

She stepped forward, right into his comfort zone. "Doesn't it occur to you that perhaps the simplest explanation is the right one? That he's just another victim here?"

He gazed down into her grey eyes, her subtle perfume tickling his nose. "You listen to those formidable gut feelings of yours and tell me he isn't in this up to his monogram." He raised an eyebrow. "Or is it old money talking to old money? Is that it? Because he's wealthy, he can't possibly –"

She jabbed him sharply in the ribs, eliciting a yelp of pain. "Don't even think of accusing me of that."

Rick rubbed at the sore spot. "That hurt."

"Good." She exhaled heavily. "Maybe the girl met someone she shouldn't, it got rough and he killed her. He went to dump the body, found the case and decided to put her inside, just to confuse things."

"Why would the thief dump the case?"

"Too recognisable."

"And the bass isn't?"

"I'll have Esposito and Ryan do a sweep of the local pawnshops. The perp probably ditched the case, tried to sell the bass but no-one'd touch it, and dumped it in the East River. It's probably half way to the Atlantic by now."

"Then why steal it at all? There must have been something easier to fence lying around."

"Crime of opportunity. Probably one of the people working there."

"It's too neat."

"Sometimes neat is good. It makes life easier." She suddenly became aware of the warmth of his body reaching out to her, his personal scent in her nostrils, and turned away, taking the last few strides to the car. "It can't always be a complicated conspiracy."

"And sometimes it is." He kept rubbing his ribs. "You know, you could offer to kiss this better."

"In your dreams."

"Which can be very detailed. Did I tell you the one about the whipped cream and –"

"Castle."

"Fine." He followed her. "I still think Canfield's in on it."

"You really didn't like him, did you? Just because he ignored you." She unlocked the door and got behind the wheel.

"Plenty of people ignore me!" He climbed in next to her.

"I tried and you still didn't go away."

"Oh, come on, Kate. You know you love me really."

"Maybe you should see a doctor. These hallucinations of yours are getting worse." She started the engine, and welcome heat slid into the interior.

"I'll grow on you."

"I can get a cream for that."

He pouted in mock indignation, then glanced at the dashboard clock. "Is that right?" he demanded, checking his own watch.

"More or less."

"Damn it." He hit the glove box with the flat of his hand before turning to her. "Kate, I need a favour."

---

Maggie stood in the lobby to Rick's apartment building, her shawl tugged tightly around her shoulders. Every so often she'd glance at the big clock above the concierge's desk, then sigh heavily.

The door opened and she looked up expectantly, but it was only the driver of the limousine. "We have to go now, miss," he said. "Otherwise we'll never get across town, not with this traffic."

"I know." She managed a little smile. "But a couple of minutes. Two minutes won't make any difference, will it?"

"No. No, I suppose not." He went back out to the car, passing Martha on the way in.

"Maggie, darling, he's not coming," the older woman said, taking note of the slumped shoulders, the dejected expression.

"He promised."

"I know. And I'm sure he meant to be here. But there are things … people …" She patted Maggie on the arm. "You'll just have to put up with Alexis and me."

Maggie sighed again, and nodded. "You're right. Let's go." She followed Martha outside. The cold air bit into her exposed skin and she tried to pull her shawl even tighter. "I should have stayed in Los Angeles," she muttered. "At least there I'd be warm."

Martha climbed into the limo, and Maggie was about to follow when a man's voice shouted.

"Maggie!"

She looked up and saw Rick getting out of a car across the street. Slamming the door he waved a thank you to the driver then jogged across towards her, dodging traffic that hooted at him.

She felt a surge of anger. "Rick …"

"I'm sorry I'm late," he said, grinning widely. "But you'll never guess –"

"We have to go. Get in."

He glanced up towards his apartment. "I have to change."

"There's no time. Martha has your suit inside. You'll just have to change in the back."

Surprise washed through him. "Martha? You mean my mother?"

"I invited them both."

"Why? I mean, I know you were –"

"Rick, I'm freezing my ass off here. Will you get in the damn car?"

He held up a hand in surrender, and clambered inside. Maggie rolled her eyes to the heavens and followed.

---

Kate watched as Castle jaywalked across the road, making the other cars toot at him as they sped by. She should really have arrested him, taken him down to the precinct, given him a strip search, thrown him into the tank with all the big boys and seen if he came out in one piece … but he might have enjoyed that. She certainly would. Not the strip search, of course. But seeing him deal with real criminals, not just the ones on paper.

Still, at least she finally got a glimpse of this Maggie. All the way back to his building he'd been talking about her, animated even for Rick, telling her about how they'd been friends for a long time, about some of the antics they'd got up to in college, and after. AJ Maguire, as he was proud to tell her. The author.

She knew the name, of course. The entire Castle oeuvre sat on her bookshelves, where they rubbed, cheek by jowl, with the Maguire novels. There were differences, though. The Derrick Storm stories – and those that preceded – were procedural, every detail lovingly researched, while Maggie's books were somewhat more relationship driven, often with a love story at the centre. True crime-officionados were somewhat scathing of her style, but in a way Kate often found them more satisfying. Sometimes even a hard-boiled detective needed to read something more … escapist. And it wasn't as if they were lacking in realism either, just different.

The limo had pulled away, melting into the traffic, and she prepared to do the same, but her cell rang.

"Beckett."

Ryan's voice. "CSU got a whole load of fingerprints from the case, but they mostly look to be one guy, probably the owner."

"Canfield."

"That's him."

"What about the victim? Any ID on her yet?"

"The doc's taken her prints, but no dice as yet. The whole unit's pretty backed up." There was a pause. "You think Rick might be able to pull his magic act again? Get us moved up?"

For one long moment Kate actually considered it. Breaking police protocol. Getting things done unofficially. Then she shook her head. He must be getting under her skin, influencing her. "No," she said firmly. "Remind them it's a murder investigation, but no trying to circumvent things."

"Well, you're the boss. Only they're saying it's likely to be late tomorrow, and that's if they get a match."

Kate closed her eyes. There was a golden window in a murder investigation, a certain number of hours before the trail got more difficult to follow and the file got put on the metaphorical back burner. Oh, it would still be on her desk, and she'd work on it, but each and every detective knew that if they didn't solve the case within that time, it was going to take weeks of back and soul breaking work to even get close.

And the longer it took, the less likelihood of a successful conviction. Not that it didn't happen, of course, but cold cases often tended to stay just that – cold.

"Then we wait, like everyone else," she said. "In the meantime, get a list of the pawnshops in the area, see if anyone tried to sell that double bass."

"They'll be closed by now."

"Do what you can."

"You got it, boss."

"What about the autopsy? Did we get anything there?"

"Dr Parish said she'd have something first thing."

Time. It always took so much time. And a murderer was likely sitting somewhere right now, smug in the thought that he'd gotten away with it. "Okay. I'll be back at the precinct shortly."

"Why don't you go home?" Ryan sounded sincere. "There's not much we can do tonight. Maybe it'd be better to start fresh in the morning."

She found herself nodding. "Okay. Just run any last checks, then … But I'll be expecting everyone bright and early."

"When aren't we?" He chuckled, and the line went dead.

Leaning back on the headrest, she stared out at the people hurrying along, trying to get home to their loved ones, back to the warmth and safety of their homes. Some might not make it, and they'd turn up the next morning, victims of casual crime, or maybe not turn up at all, and families would be left wondering what happened to them.

Maybe she was just trying to keep a candle alight in a howling gale, but if she gave just one person closure, brought one killer to justice, it helped make her life worthwhile.

Gunning the engine, she pulled smoothly into traffic and headed home.