SATURDAY, MAY 28TH - Morning

(114 days prior to the incident)

Detective Tom Demming just finished his morning run and was cooling down. He'd calculated his route from his uncle's cottage through the Asbury Park community so he could get in his four miles, ending the run at the short driveway of the bed and breakfast where he was supposed to have stayed this weekend. He wondered if Beckett was here, or if she'd left the reservation sitting on her desk, wasted. Once his breathing had slowed, he took out his cell phone and took a selfie, the B&B sign clearly seen in the background. He made a note of the B&B phone number so he could call them later. If Beckett had blown off the weekend, he'd gladly swap the cramped back bedroom in his uncle's little cottage for his room here.

Under no circumstances did he want to run into Beckett, so cutting through the B & B was not an option. A public beach access was two doors down from the Inn. He took it, removing his t-shirt as he crossed the protected dunes on a raised wooden walk. He paused at the top of the ramp that descending to the beach. The day was spectacular for late May, warm with a soft breeze, and cloudless. The beach was already getting crowded at ten-thirty. He glided down the ramp and walked back to the B&B, staying hallway between the ocean and the dunes. There, he took a picture of the ocean, the surf a startling contrast to the aqua of the Atlantic and the tan sand. He turned a half circle and took a picture of the Bed & Breakfast from across the dunes. It looked, for lack of a better term, quaint.

He then moved down the beach a few yards and sat down in the sand, his back to the sun. With his phone in his shadow, he opened a blank text message. He attached the two pictures he'd just taken from the beach. Then, he scrolled through his recent pictures folder for the two shots he'd taken of Beckett. Neither would be considered X-rated, but were sufficiently racy to win the bet. He found the first. It showed Beckett standing in a door frame, wrapped in a towel, her hair wet and brushed straight back. It was obvious she'd recently stepped out of the shower. The towel ended just a few inches below her ass, showing off her incredible long legs. Tom looked closely, but there was no way anybody could tell where the picture was taken. Great!

He attached that photo and went looking for the other one. This one was also taken without her knowledge. He studied this one, and instantly regretted their split. She was stunning. She was sitting up in her bed, holding the sheets up just enough to cover her breasts. A leg stuck out from the sheets on the side, displaying her leg from mid-thigh down. Her hair was tousled and her lips bruised, looking like she'd just had sex. She was looking slightly off to the side, her face lit in a smile. Demming remembered her stereo had been playing a comedy station in her living room, and she was reacting to a routine by John Pinette.

Once that photo was attached, he impulsively attached the selfie he'd taken on the other side of the Inn. It was a surprising good shot, looking like somebody had taken a picture of him from a few feet away. He had a huge grin and his thumb up. He then typed the message "Pay up" in the text field. Seeing the five photos in sequence, Boling and Laurence would automatically assume he'd won their bet here in New Jersey in the last 12 hours. He added the two robbery detectives to the recipient list. Ha! Just press send and win $800. Easy money.

Well, at least one positive thing happened out of this debacle. Beckett breaking it off with him before the weekend truly sucked, but was only a mild regret in the great scheme of things. What really hurt was that he may have eliminated any opportunity for a six month rotation on Beckett's team. Hell, he would take a three month temp assignment right now. He was still trying to wrap his mind around the bombshell Beckett had unwittingly dropped on him. Beckett's team had solved 92 of their last 94 cases! That was ludicrous, the stuff legends are made of! If anybody else had told him that, he'd have called him a liar. Even TV detectives weren't that successful! Anyone even remotely associated with that kind of track record had their path to higher rank assured. Now, it looked like his opportunity to bask in that spotlight was gone, due to a little over-zealousness on his part. He knew he'd been a little over the top with his hazing of Castle, but it was only because the idiot wouldn't take a hint.

Beckett had seemed very sure of herself when discussing Castle's return to the group. She obviously believed he'd be back soon, a few weeks at most. Demming was surprised to find out that he was coming back so quickly. He'd heard from Hastings he was scheduled to be gone all summer. Not only that, but the way the writer shied away from her yesterday led him to believe that she'd need to do some major fence mending to fix things. Unfortunately, Beckett was certain she could somehow do just that. Christ! If anyone could convince the rich jerk to return to the 12th , it was Beckett.

He stood up and turned north towards his uncle's place up near the boardwalk, but immediately spun around and sat back down. He'd caught sight of Beckett and the ME, Doctor Parrish, not more than 75 feet away. They'd been bending over some towels and what looked like a small cooler. Fortunately, there was a noisy family with small kids and what looked like a large group of college kids directly between where he crouched and them. He risked a quick glimpse, insuring they hadn't spied him. He took the t-shirt off his shoulder and put the neck over the top of his head. He allowed the body of the shirt to flow over the back of his neck and down his back, like the flap of a desert hat. Using that for cover, he observed them by turning his head the least amount possible.

Both women were wearing bikinis. Skimpy bikinis. Both looked really good, yet couldn't have been more different. It seemed they were refilling large plastic cups from the small cooler. Beckett's drink of choice was orange, either a screw driver or a mimosa. Parrish's drink had the distinctive look of a bloody Mary. They were laughing at something. They topped off their respective cups and donned their sunglasses. They each picked up a book, and moved down to the surf line. They took two beach chairs that were sitting in the surf, repositioning them a few feet up the beach towards their towels, most likely following the tide line as it came in. Their drinks in cup holders, they sat and opened their books with their feet submerged in the surf. Apparently they planned to be there awhile, and had left their things above the high tide line.

Demming wanted to wait to make sure they were settled in with their books. There was no way he wanted another confrontation with Beckett. It was way too soon after the ass kicking he'd received yesterday. All he could say was, her reputation was well deserved. He counted to thirty. Twice. He then stood and circled around the college kids and walked past the detective's and her friend's towels. He walked another few feet before realizing that he'd glimpsed Beckett's cell phone peeking out from under her sandals. He veered off away from the ocean and found refuge behind a couple of open sided beach canopies, their residents hiding from the sun.

One notion dominated Demming's thoughts. It wasn't an idea as much as a number. 0109. Beckett's cell pin. He sat down to think this through. The last thing he needed was more problems from the homicide detective. On the other hand, the second last thing he needed was for a dilettante novelist to take a cop's place on a record setting homicide squad. His place. He was fairly confident Beckett and Castle hadn't spoken after his reaming yesterday. He had glanced in the break room on his way out, and Beckett was at the table with her head down, the ME the only other occupant of the room.

So, how does he prevent Beckett from restoring normal relations with Castle? Wait! Wrong question! He should ask, how to insure that Castle won't listen to, or won't believe, the homicide leader's invitation to return? That answer was easier. It had become increasingly apparent that there was some connection between the two, and Castle had strong feelings for Beckett. However, Castle couldn't know the outcome of their confrontation yesterday, could he? Even if he did, it was only from Beckett, via text or call. Still, that wasn't really likely, was it – people apologized in person, not remotely.

Any plan needed to be foolproof. He had to make absolutely sure that there was no chance of this coming back on him. If discovered, he could expect a lot worse than a verbal reprimand. The blowback would be appalling. He thought it through. He knew her phone; they had the same model. He took his phone and called up the last message, then set it to forward to Beckett's phone. He couldn't send it yet on the outside chance she'd changed her pin.

The pictures were perfect. If Castle had an i-phone like they did, only the first two photos were readily apparent in the attachments window. You had to scroll down to see the others. It would look like simple oversight on her part. Now, what to say in the text? 'Wish you were here' wasn't appropriate. 'Having fun on the beach' was too flippant. 'This is how normal folks enjoy a public beach' wouldn't work, either. He finally decided on, 'Thought u might want 2 see Asbury Park Bch'. It was very neutral, applicable no matter what the stage of their reconciliation.

He checked the ladies in their beach chairs. Still there down at the surf line. He got up and walked briskly the way he'd come. At their towels, he glanced at them, then bent and snatched her phone. He walked away, holding his breath. Nobody yelled 'Stop!', or paid him any attention whatsoever. God, people were clueless, and still he spent half his time as a cop looking for eye-witnesses.

He sat behind the college kids once more. He swiped his finger on Beckett's screen, and typed in 0109. Yes! He went to messages. Then he picked up his phone, unlocked the screen, and pressed send. He waited. Nothing. Still nothing. He started sweating. Checked the number of bars on both phones. Strong signals, and still nothing. Finally, the muted 'bing' he'd been awaiting. Beckett had a message from Tom Demming. He selected the message, and verified that all the content was included. He then pressed the little 'forward' icon. Pressed the 'send to' field, and wasted time looking under 'R' before finding what he needed marked 'Castles cell'. Pressed 'send'. He deleted the recently received message, deleted the sent message, and backed out of messages to the default screen.

He looked back at the surf line. The women were still reading their books. Ever the cop, he smiled as he found himself unconsciously wiping his fingerprints from her phone with his t-shirt. He stood and headed for his uncle's, putting Beckett's phone back on his way. He thought about it. How much trouble could he really get in, in the unlikely event he was discovered? The pictures were salacious, but not X-rated. Hell, Beckett was showing more skin now in that bikini than in either of the pictures. He was confident that it would bother Richard Castle enough that it would at least slow down any reunion plans. Maybe derail them entirely. Added bonus, it would get some of his back from Beckett. Ha! Call me 'motherfucker', will you?

He figured he was pretty safe. Only an idiot with suicidal tendencies would show Beckett those pictures. Anyway, even if this got back to Beckett, she wouldn't know it was him. Suspicious, maybe, especially considering recent history, but she wouldn't know. She had no clue either picture had been taken. Both pictures were at her place, taken on a common i-phone. I mean, come on, the woman was not a virgin. She'd had an open box of condoms in her night stand. Oh, wait! The fifth picture was his selfie. Damn! He should have deleted that photo. Oh well, it was done, and it probably didn't matter. The odds of this coming back to haunt him he put at a little less than one percent.

As the Boardwalk came into view, he started to jog down the beach. He was really looking forward to a shower and a cold beer.