Holiday – Chapter 10
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they were very memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that meant so much, to so many, and still does today.
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Wednesday, December 18, 2013, 7:39 p.m. At The Dugout bar across from Yankee Stadium
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"Here you go," Theresa Candela tells the cab driver as he pulls up to the curb at the bar on River Street.
"Keep the change."
"Thanks, lady," the obviously happy man replies, glancing down at the large bills being placed into his hand. "Need a receipt?"
"No thank you," she replies, intentionally placing a bit of a British accent into her dialect. He will remember a red-headed brit if ever questioned about a passenger he dropped off.
She walks from the cab, and cannot help but glance at the large baseball stadium looming across the way. Her breath tells her how cold the night is.
"Perfect weather for a killing," she thinks to herself as she shakes the stadium out of her mind and focuses on the task at hand. She stalls for just a second at the door to the bar, steeling herself with a deep breath, and walks through the cold smoke that escapes her lips, entering the establishment. She glances around quickly, and finds her mark. She resists the smile that threatens to canvas her face and makes her way directly to the women's restroom.
She enters the restroom and smiles, realizing there is no one inside to see her. Anyone in here right now is inside a stall, and won't be a witness to anything. She enters a separate stall at the end, and quickly gets to work. She removes the red wig, allowing her dark hair to fall naturally. She fluffs it with her fingers. She will finish the work in front of the mirror.
Next, she sits on the toilet commode, with the cover top down. She pulls out flat, ankle-high boots with no discernible heel from her large over-sized bag, and removes the taller, heeled boots from her feet. Quickly folding the larger boots, she places them into her bag, joining the discarded wig. She takes her time now, slowing down – and slowing her breathing as she takes longer, deeper breaths – as she puts the ankle boots on.
Taking one more breath, and silently giving thanks that she hasn't heard anyone enter – or leave – the restroom, she opens the stall door and walks to the large mirror on the wall above the water sinks.
"You first," she whispers to the blue-green contact lens as she pops it out of her left eye. She then follows suit with the companion lens from her right eye. She carefully places both lenses in their liquid containers. To finish the look – her normal look – she takes a hairbrush out and brushes out her hair, her dark eyes smiling into the mirror. She reaches down to take out a small bottle of perfume and gives it a couple of short, quick squeezes.
"Idiot always liked this one," she mutters softly, putting the perfume back into the bag. Stepping back to admire her work, she smiles one last time, satisfied that she looks exactly as she needs to look.
Like Theresa Candela.
Walking out of the restroom, she walks directly to the table where Alfred Candela, her ex-husband, sits waiting. She is three or four steps away when he takes his eyes away from the television screens – and the Knicks game that is just starting – and smiles broadly.
"Wow," he begins, immediately getting a whiff of the perfume she traps him with. "You look . . . you look great Theresa," he continues. She can see he is cautious, though, and she cannot blame him. Still, she will pull him in. Once he entered this bar, he was in her web. She had texted him last night, setting up this meeting. She had told him that she has gone away on business, and it afforded her time to think.
About her family. About them.
"Thanks," she replies. "And thanks for agreeing to meet me. It's been a long time since we tried . . . well, since I tried to have a civil conversation."
"Is that what this is?" he asks, so many questions in his mind. He stands, pulling a chair out for her.
"Hopefully more," she promises with a smile. "But it's a start, right Candy?"
He can't help but smile at the intimate nickname she uses. He hasn't heard this term in years – and that includes the last year or two of their marriage. She smiles inwardly, knowing she is just pulling him closer.
He nods in agreement, as he sits down at the same time she does.
"Are you still drinking mojitos?" he asks.
"Of course," she answers, making sure she keeps eye-contact with her ex-husband. She finds it curious that he remembers. In fact, she finds the entire evening curious. It was a long-shot in her mind that he would even want to meet. She has not been kind to this man. That he would still harbor positive feelings toward her, that he would even want something with her . . . it almost makes her reconsider tonight.
Almost.
All it takes for her is to think of Angela, to think of what married life was like to this man, and the die is cast. She's in this for the long-run. Which, if all goes to plan, won't be that long.
Alfred flags a waitress over, and places their drink order. A mojito for her and a glass of vodka and cranberry juice for himself.
"So," he begins, "where in the world have you been for three months, Theresa? I mean, I know you texted me after a couple of weeks, and told me you were away on business, but –"
"I was out of country, setting up a new direction for my life," she interrupts. "I have worked hard my entire life – our entire marriage – and an opportunity came my way. I figured you have grown . . . changed," she lies.
"I knew I could leave Angie with you for a few months," she tells him, proud of herself for such a great acting job. "I'm just grateful you agreed to meet."
She glances at the paint residue underneath his fingernails, and forces herself not to react.
"He hasn't changed at all," she reminds herself. She has gone to many steps to make sure she looks more than presentable for this faux reunion . . . but he shows up in nice jeans and a button-up shirt – on the surface, it is progress. But one glance at his nails, and a strong breath pulls in his stale body odor. She wants to vomit. Oh how she hates this man who has all but taken her daughter.
No, he hasn't changed at all. She has watched from afar and knows that the nanny he hired once they divorced has been spending most of the time with their daughter, while he spends his time in his art studio – painting and watching television. She knew bringing him here – to a sports bar across from the stadium he loves so much – would put him at ease.
For the next half hour, she is more than civil. She flirts a tiny bit, but shows the quiet strength she knows attracted him in the first place. They talk about Angela, they talk about his studio, they talk about the new opportunity presented to her, and she makes certain that he orders a second drink, and then a third. As he downs the last of the third drink, throwing his head back as he throws down the pinkish liquid, she glances at her watch. Time to end this.
"Still drinking a lot," she offers, without a smile. The switch is harsh, and not lost on the artist.
"Geesh, Theresa," he remarks. "I thought we were trying a new leaf here, get to know each other again."
"Some things, evidently, don't change," she tells him, offering a bit of disappointment in her voice and fire in her eyes. It's not hard, because it is no longer an act.
"Evidently not," he replies with equal disappointment.
"I wonder what else hasn't changed," she asks, intentionally allowing her voice to rise in volume. All part of the plan.
"Lower your voice, Theresa," he hisses angrily, knowing full well what her temper is capable of. "Please don't make a scene!"
"Don't make a scene?!" she now yells questioningly. "You can't be serious!" she continues, her voice raised, as she quickly stands. It is important that they be seen. That she be seen. That she be identified.
As she hopes, he wants to disappear. And the easiest way to disappear is to take this increasingly-awkward moment as an opportunity to relieve his now-full bladder.
"I need some air," he tells her, standing. "I will be right back."
He leaves her standing at their table as he makes his way to the men's restroom. She glances around quickly, feigning embarrassment, while she catches the eye of two larger men who stand at the bar. Without hesitation, the first man walks toward the restroom. Within seconds, the second man, wearing an old Patrick Ewing jersey top, follows.
She puts on a sad face, lifting fingers to her eyes, making sure that those closest to their table see her imaginary grief.
"Screw this," she says aloud, loud enough for surrounding tables to hear. She picks up her purse and pulls out a fifty dollar bill, and drops it on the table. Without a backward glance, she heads to the front door, pulling out her cell phone to call for a cab.
Closing the door behind her, she stops for a couple of seconds, wrapping her coat around her against the winter cold.
"Goodbye Alfred," she whispers to the wind. She begins walking, whistling a Latin tune.
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Wednesday, December 18, 2013, 11:27 p.m. At Richard Castle's Loft in New York City
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Richard Castle lies in his large, over-sized bed, the covers pulled up just under his chin. The throbbing in his head has subsided somewhat, thanks to the painkillers. The local news is on. The sports report has just finished dissecting another early-season Knicks loss, and the lead co-anchors will be back on in a minute with the final story of the night.
"At least there hasn't been another Holiday killing," he tells the universe at large, out loud. He takes a sip of water – wishing it were something much stronger, but smart enough not to mix the alcohol he craves with the painkillers he has been taking.
He glances at his phone, at the incoming text message. He knows, from the ring tone, who this note is from, and he cannot suppress the small smile that appears with her name.
"Hey Rick – still awake?"
He types his response quickly.
"Hey Eliza. Barely. Watching the news."
He waits for a few seconds for the reply he knows is coming. He glances at the commercial on television that exhorts the values of a local plumbing company who is sponsoring the final segment. His phone chimes again.
"Nothing good on the news. You know that. How's your head?"
He quickly types a reply as the final news segment begins.
"You're right about that. And I'm fine. I told you already."
In truth he is far from fine. But he has learned – and decided – long ago that showing weakness to this woman – or her father – is not the best road taken. Rescuing the mobster's daughter from an exploding building has built a ton of goodwill . . . goodwill that he doesn't want a different explosion to dampen.
"You tell me a lot of things, Mr. Writer."
He smiles at her pet name for him, recalling a similar name given to him years earlier by a different set of friends. But his attention is split now, as the final news segment catches his attention as the male anchor begins speaking.
"The murdered body of a local New York artist was found this evening in the men's restroom stall in the last hour. A patron of the Dugout restaurant and bar on River Street noticed blood seeping from the stall next to him."
The scene switches from the two anchors to an in-the-field reporter at the local establishment bar in question.
"That's right, John – and the owner of this well-known sports establishment tells us that the victim was found by a patron who he was personally serving at the bar."
The camera pans out as a large man wearing a Patrick Ewing Knicks jersey steps into the camera's view.
"Mr. Sungress, I understand you found the victim about an hour ago – is that correct?"
"That's correct," Jerry Sungress replies. "My friend and I were spending the evening here watching the game, and I've had to make a few trips to the men's room to . . . you know . . . relieve myself," he snickers.
"I went into the stall and that's when I noticed blood coming from underneath, from the other stall next to me. I hollered at the fella there, but no one responded. So I finished my business, if you know what I mean, and I stepped out and banged on the door. I came out and got the bartender over there, and he opened the door and . . . well, the poor guy was pretty dead as you know."
The scene switches back to the anchors in the studio, with the in-the-field reporter still in a small box in the background behind them.
"Ramona, is there any evidence of this that points to another Holiday killing?", the anchor asks.
"No, John, at this time the police are not calling this another Holiday murder. The victim – Alfred Candela – was a local artist, and there was no note left, no names or messages carved in his body. He was wearing jeans and a Yankees jersey. This seems to be just another tragic murder in our city. That's how the police are treating this."
The victim's name is what draws the first gasp from the lips of Richard Castle. He knows this man – and this man's wife. Both were key players in one of the earliest cases that he worked on with the 12th Precinct, back in the day. The irony is not lost on him.
Neither is the jersey.
He glances down at his phone, at the messages from Eliza that have come in that he has not yet read, while watching the news segment. Ignoring the messages, he quickly pulls up a contact and hits the CALL button. He is rewarded after three rings.
"This better be good, Castle. I have an early morning," a very tired Detective Javier Esposito tells him.
"Javi, just trust me on this," Castle begins. "Call your friends on the force. Alfred Candela was murdered tonight. He –"
"I know Castle," Esposito interrupts. "We all know. We have been in contact with –"
"Javi, it's Holiday," Castle cuts him off.
"No, it's not, Castle," Esposito argues, now getting a bit irritated. He was hoping for an early night, and when the murder from the Dugout was called in, everyone was on edge, thinking it was another Holiday killing. Needless to say, despite the death, they were relieved that it wasn't deemed a Holiday murder. The force has been under a lot of pressure to find this madman. Getting a day away from Holiday is a welcome respite.
"I admit it's weird, because we know that guy," Esposito continues. "And we have to find his wife, because by all witness accounts, he was with her tonight when –"
"Javi!" Castle bellows, quickly grabbing his forehead which reminds him that raising his voice and emotions is not a good idea right now.
"Trust me – just find out one thing for me. Make the calls, but find out one thing. Alfred was wearing a Yankees jersey. Find out which one, and call me back."
With that, Castle hangs up, leaving an agitated and confused Detective Esposito on the other end. They don't know it, but this is a Holiday victim. They don't see it. But Castle does. It's just the writer in him. Once he knew that the killer was following the Christmas song, the author had been considering possibilities – how would the killer strike on Day 6. He has his range of suspicions, thanks to his very vivid writer's imagination.
Another ping from his phone interrupts his off-the-track train of thought.
"Are you still with me, Rick?"
He glances above at three other messages from Eliza that he has not responded to. He quickly apologizes, telling her he went to the bathroom. Immediately as he types his excuse, he wonders aloud why he is lying to this woman. Over something so simple. They continue their exchange for a couple of minutes before he signs off, telling her he is tired.
"At least that's the truth," he says aloud, still staring at the television. The news is off, and a late-night host is in the middle of his opening monologue. Minutes later, his phone rings again.
"Yes, Javi," he replies.
"Number 54, Castle," Esposito tells his friend. "Now what is the all the fuss about wanting to know –"
"It's Holiday, Javier," Castle offers, is voice barely a whisper.
"Castle, they checked the body," Esposito reminds him. "There was no writing, no carving, no –"
"Number 54 is Rick Gossage, Javi," Castle interrupts. "Relief pitcher extraordinaire. And do you remember what his nickname was?"
The call is quiet for a few seconds. Castle actually smirks, counting off the numbers in his head while his friend figures it out.
"One, Two, Three –"
"Oh shit!" he hears his detective friend mutter on the other end.
"Yeah, my friend, oh shit is right," Castle agrees. "Number 54 was Goose Gossage. And the next stanza in the song pertains to six geese a-laying."
"And we just had a victim found laying in a restroom stall, wearing Goose Gossage's jersey," Esposito finishes their thought.
"This is Holiday," Castle tells his friend, with conviction. "And he's changing up his M.O."
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A/N: I hope everyone had a great Halloween, and enjoys the Christmas and Holiday season that is quickly coming upon us. The next chapter should be up in a week or so. They will be coming more frequently now.