Triumphant: Chapter 4
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
Sunday Evening - October 26, 2014, 8:01 p.m., New York City
The ballroom at the Waldorf Astoria is filled to capacity for tonight's dinner and highly anticipated speech from one William Bracken, former United States Senator. The election is closing in – now less than two weeks away. There is a palpable buzz in the air here at the old, established hotel. Purchased by Chinese insurer Anbang for just under two billion dollars in the last week or so, there is an excitement in the staff here as well. Fortunately the venue was booked well in advance of the sale.
He knew this was going to be a big night – knew that he would be a big hit. He always is. He knows this, and relishes the spotlight. But he also knew that he was going to get questions about what is happening with Richard Castle. It's unavoidable, given his very public feud with the novelist's fiancée. He planned to plead no knowledge about any of that. It isn't enough – but he knew this coming into tonight as well. He's always prepared, if nothing else.
"I understand that Mr. Castle was unfortunate enough to fall into the wrong hands earlier this year. Dangerous hands. And like all New Yorkers – all Americans for that matter – I found the whole matter revolting," he says, answering a question from the audience. It's risky, taking questions at a dinner, but a maneuver he has perfected . . . stop the speech and open it up for questions, right there in the midst of his speech. It gives the appearance of transparency, that he has nothing to hide.
It works every time.
"It does make one wonder – however," he continues, watching a myriad of nodding heads in the audience. "Mr. Castle disappears, and a series of gruesome murders take place – each invoking his name. He comes back, safe and sound – and all of us are relieved – and the murders stop. Then for reasons I suppose only he knows, he disappears yet again – this time with his fiancée, a detective from our own NYPD. And lo and behold, another string of brutal murders begin again. And once again – invoking his name."
He pauses for effect – he is an absolute master at playing the crowd, at giving the right inflection in his voice, the right confused look on his face. He's very believable.
"My friends, if there is one thing I have learned in my life of service to this state, and this country, it is that things are not always as they appear to be."
He pauses one more time, mentally counting off a couple of seconds before continuing, with a single raised eyebrow for emphasis.
"I have to wonder who is behind this – who is stupid enough to do this . . . again. Perhaps things are not what they seem," he repeats.
"What do you mean?" a voice from the audience asks out loud – planted there, of course, by his wife, Elizabeth. Not so transparent after all, but no one is the wiser.
"I've said enough – you can decide what to do with that," he says quickly with a wave, as if dismissing a pesky insect. "Now – can we talk about more important, more pressing issues than a missing author?"
As expected – scratch that – as planned, a roar of approval, complete with thunderous applause greets his dismissal of Richard Castle – again all planted, all planned, all a part of the theatre that is William Bracken. And all of it, of course, is captured by the press – eager for more footage for the late news later this evening.
Sunday Evening - October 26, 2014, 11:04 p.m., New York City
The evening news begins with a report about the dinner gala at the hotel, complete with footage of the ex-Senator's speech, and a panning of the adoring and approving crowd of supporters – well-dressed, seated at their tables – attention completely focused on the gubernatorial hopeful. It is the closing comments of this segment, however, that draw most of the attention.
"In closing, Andrea, it would appear that the ex-Senator is not the only one wondering if something else is happening here," Ramona Vasquez says, looking at the camera with the empty ballroom now as her backdrop.
"We have learned that New York District Attorney Fred Sanderson has issued a subpoena for Richard Castle, the missing novelist, and had this to say to us earlier this evening."
The broadcast cuts to footage of a previous interview, earlier in the evening with the new District Attorney.
"We have no reason to believe that – assuming he is safe, and has simply chosen to disappear – we have no reason to believe that Mr. Castle will not honor the law and appear this Tuesday to answer a few questions. Questions we believe that only he has the answer to," Sanderson tells the camera.
"And what if he does not appear?" Ramona had asked the D.A., still on camera. His 'assuming he is safe' statement had been made fairly tongue-in-cheek.
"Well then that means we have a problem, Ramona, doesn't it," he had replied.
"It is possible, however, isn't it Mr. Sanderson," she had asked, "that his silence might indicate that he is not safe and sound, somewhere?"
"I would have thought that a likely probability, Ramona," he replied, "however, we cannot forget that Mr. Castle was right here in the city to call 911, and report the murder that occurred at his home – again, here in the city. No, Ramona, we believe he is here in the city, somewhere, and very safe."
At that moment – in New York City, and on a tiny distant island off the coast of Connecticut, two separate television sets are turned off . . .
Sunday Evening - October 26, 2014, 11:07 p.m., New York City at Victoria Gates' Home
Captain Victoria Gates angrily turns off the television with the remote control in her hand, and glances down at the sleeping form of her husband. She frowns, agitated with how the media is portraying the events transpiring around her best detective and her husband.
Very few people know that Kate Beckett and Richard Castle are married now – very few – only those who were at the wedding in fact. She shakes her head, increasingly aware that this particular couple just can't seem to catch a break coming or going. She pulls her legs forward, from under the covers and stretches them out on the floor, then pulls herself up out of the bed. Glancing back at his still sleeping form, and satisfied that she has not awakened her husband, she gathers her robe around her and walks to the dresser. She retrieves the business card she placed there last night.
On a whim, she had gone to the station yesterday afternoon – late – just to wrap a couple of things up so she wouldn't have to attack them first thing Monday. She had immediately seen the business card sitting on her desk. A meticulous creature, she recognized immediately the out-of-place, offending card. She immediately wondered how anyone got into her office with it, but just as quickly realized that it was probably dropped off and then subsequently placed there by Gwen.
Then again, Gwen would have left a note.
Which means somehow, someone got into her office. The thought still bothers her tonight.
She turns the card over, and once again, reads the handwritten note on the back of the business card.
'We need to talk, Captain. I hope I can trust you.'
The name on the opposite side of the card simply says 'Ramona Vasquez' and the news station call letters. Upon her first reading of the card, Iron Gates had simply tossed it back onto her desk. She is not a huge fan of the media. Her time in Internal Affairs has caused her to look at the world with a slightly different shade of lens. And the media? Well, they are definitely in the 'not to be trusted' bucket, in her opinion.
Something, however, had caused her to pick it up as she left the station yesterday, and put it in her purse. And once home, she had given it a second glance, then placed it on her dresser.
"Well, there must be a reason I haven't tossed this thing," she thinks to herself as she walks back to the bed, and retrieves her cell phone from her nightstand. She quietly exits her bedroom, closing the door behind her, and walks into the living room, and sits on the large leather chair there. She stares at the card for a few more seconds before exhaling, and begins dialing the number.
"Here goes nothing," she says softly, out loud.
Three rings later, a familiar raspy voice she has often heard on television answers.
"This is Ramona," the reporter answers.
"Ms. Vasquez," Gates begins, "I know it is late, and I apologize. This is Captain Victoria Gates from the 12th Precinct. It appears I had a visitor yesterday in my office."
She hears the woman chuckling at the other end, and smiles. Kind of ballsy that she isn't even trying to deny it.
"I was beginning to wonder if I had misjudged you, Captain," Ramona tells her. "I am glad to hear from you. And please call me Ramona."
"Well, Ramona," Gates replies, hesitating for a moment and then making up her mind. "Let me be transparent with you – I don't have a particular fondness for the media."
"I often share your feelings, Captain," Ramona replies, now causing a chuckle from the NYPD Captain. "However, we are what we are – and right now I think we might be able to . . ."
"To what?" Gates asks, her defensive nature immediately kicking in. If this woman starts talking about quid pro quo, this is going to be a damn short phone call.
"We might be able to help a certain citizen of the city," Ramona says, cautiously.
"And what citizen are we talking about?" Gates asks.
"Mr. Richard Castle, Captain," Ramona says quickly. Yeah, now she has her attention.
"And why would . . . and understand, I ask this question simply out of a well-established distrust of the press . . . but why would you want to help Mr. Castle, Ramona. The bigger story – from your network – seems to be one that paints him in a very negative manner."
"That's why I am having this call with you, Captain," Ramona replies evenly, and easily. "I caught the press conference with the mayor and the Chief . . . I thought I might be able to trust you with this."
"Trust me with what?" Gates asks.
"The 911 call," Ramona tells her. There is silence on both ends of the phone for a few seconds, and Ramona Vasquez smiles, knowing the grenade she has just tossed into the mix.
"What about the 911 call, Ramona?" Gates asks.
"It was a fake," Vasquez tells her. "I know a fake when I see it, when I hear it . . . that call was not real."
Gates is quiet for a few seconds . . . and a few more . . . and suddenly Ramona Vasquez is afraid she is on the phone by herself, when Gates finally speaks up again.
"If this is true . . . and I'm not saying I do or do not believe you . . . but if this is true, then why is your station reporting the exact opposite?"
"It's true, Captain, believe me," Vasquez responds. "And my station isn't reporting this because they do not know it is a fake."
"And why is that?" Gates asks evenly.
"Because I haven't shared this little gem with anyone there," Ramona answers. "In fact, the only person I have shared this with is you. Right now."
"And why is that?" Gates asks, repeating her question again.
"Because I do not trust what they will do with this information," Ramona tell her. "There is a huge story brewing . . . and the truth will get in the way of that story. That's not something my . . . superiors are anxious to hear."
Gates nods her head, well aware of the proclivity of certain leaders in the media to look for the best story, and not always the most accurate one. After all, it is all too easy to issue a retraction and apology.
"So . . . and please, forgive me for asking this . . . but what is in it for you – this truth? How does it help you, Ramona?"
"I'm not sure it does, Captain," the reporter answers, honestly. "But there are people dying out here – brutally – and at some point, I don't think whoever is perpetrating this is going to stop with criminals and mobsters. To be honest, Captain – if I take this to anyone else, I'm kind of scared for my own life."
Captain Gates nods and smiles, pleased. That's the only answer that the reporter could have given that would have satisfied the Precinct Captain. It makes sense. A reporter comes across a conspiracy of some type, where people are already getting massacred. Said reporter has two choices – shut up, or speak up. And unless you are talking to an honest cop or city official, speaking up will get you killed.
"You and I need to talk, Ramona," Gates tells her. "But not over the phone. We need to meet face to face."
"I don't know, Captain – a television reporter and a police captain sitting down and –"
"What makes you think anyone will witness this meeting, Ramona," Gates interrupts. "Give me a little more credit than that."
"My apologies, Captain," Ramona agrees. "When and where would you like to meet?"
Just past Midnight – now Monday - October 27, 2014, 12:52 a.m., in New York City
Elena Markov sits outside the small flat in the city, staring at the living room window. The light has been out for the past hour. An hour is plenty of time. She smiles, and exits her black Cadillac Escalade – leaving the safety of the darkly tinted windows. She walks toward the building, some fifty yards ahead from where she parked. She carries a single envelope in her hand, moving stealthily along the street.
Always thinking two, three moves ahead, she suppresses a smile at this latest move. She knows she is now mere days away from bringing Richard Castle out into the open. She needs to make sure the whereabouts of his father are known to her before that occurs. This next move – and the move after that – will hopefully ensure this.
It is important for enough public pressure – and official distrust – to be brought against the author in order for this to work. These two moves will accomplish both.
She slides the envelope between the cracks of the door, and nods when she sees it disappear inside the door, falling to the floor inside the home. Jogging quickly, she returns to the SUV, puts it into gear, and heads upstate to the Hamptons, to execute her final move before the sun ushers in a new day.
Monday Morning - October 27, 2014, 6:57 a.m., New York City
District Attorney Fred Sanderson takes a deep breath, and then another sip of his morning coffee as he stands in his kitchen, staring out the window. He considers his actions over the weekend, issuing a subpoena for Richard Castle, and the camera time that decision has given him. A faint smile crosses his face. This is going to be a good week.
"Ready to go, dear?" Brenda asks. Married for twenty-four years, the couple is settled into an easy morning routine for workdays for her husband. Coffee for him, breakfast for the kids before putting them off to school.
"Yep," he replies. "Thanks for the coffee, Bren," he replies, as he turns and places a soft kiss on his wife's cheek.
"Will you be home early or late?" she asks.
"Early, I hope," he tells her. "I don't have anything firm for late in the afternoon, so as long as that doesn't change – I should be home at a reasonable hour."
"Okay, have a good one," she tells him, as she does everyone morning as he leaves, accepting the kiss, and heads back toward the bedrooms in the back of the house to awaken the children for school.
Fred Sanderson drops the cup into the sink, and washes it quickly before placing it into the dishwasher. Bren will turn it on later, after breakfast. Once she gets the kids out, she will get herself ready and head down to the women's shelter where she works.
Smiling, he walks toward the front door, a tune in his head and a whistle on his lips, ready to burst out when he sees the one thing out of place as he approaches the front door. A white envelope on the ground at his front door. Inside his home.
He glances to the left and right, nervously, before finally taking the final two steps to pick the envelope up. His hands trembling, he holds the envelope up into the light, satisfying himself that there is nothing dangerous inside. It always helps to be careful.
Slowly – and carefully – he opens the top of the envelope, testing its weight. Satisfied that there is nothing but a letter inside, he rips the rest of the envelope away and takes out the single postcard sized paper, made of similar stock. He reads the three simple sentences there – hand written – and cannot stop his hands from shaking. He blinks quickly, holding the note with both hands now, but both hands continue to tremble, as he once again turns left and right – wondering who has sent this, wondering when it was dropped here.
And more than anything else – wondering what he has gotten himself into.
He glances down at the words, and a shudder shakes him to his core, causing him to drop the note to the ground. He does not hear Brenda Sanderson walking up behind him, or the children rustling in the kitchen behind both of them.
"Fred?" she asks, causing him to jump with a slight yelp.
"Fred!" she exclaims, now nervous herself. This isn't like him. And she has watched the note drop to the floor. She sees the pure terror in his eyes as he turns to face her. She quickly walks past him, and picks up the note from the floor.
"Don't Bren," he warns, his voice shaky, trying to take the note away from her. She holds her arm away at a distance, keeping him away from the piece of paper, and reads the note for herself. The bile that rushes up into the back of her throat catches her by surprise.
'Caught your act on the news. Your predecessor wasn't very smart. Do I have to deal with you – and your family – also?'
Monday Morning - October 27, 2014, 8:05 a.m., In the Hamptons
The small crowd of neighbors stand, gathered in the cool of the morning - all eyes fixated on the burnt remains of the once proud and beautiful structure. The smell of burned wood is strong in the gentle breeze that brushes across the shoreline behind them, as are the whispers flowing easily across the air from concerned neighbors and community officials.
A murder in his home back in New York, and now his beach home burned to ground. And the question burning on everyone's lips is the same.
"Where is Richard Castle?"
A/N: A relatively short chapter, and no appearance by Richard Castle or Kate Beckett, I know. Rest assured, this is moving the story forward – and our couple is right around the corner.
On a sad note – RIP David Bowie – an artist who defined 'undefinable'. I grew up listening to David Bowie, from Space Oddity to Aladdin Sane to Diamond Dogs to Young Americans to Station to Station, Low, Heroes and Lodger. To think that one man – the same mind – created that diversity of music – in one decade – is nothing short of staggering. A true loss, especially for those who did not have the honor and privilege of growing up listening to the man. And I was just listening to Blackstar just two days ago…