Triumphant: Chapter 10
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 12:37 p.m., at Ellen's Stardust Diner in New York City
The rendition of 'Memory' from the Cats production fills the diner as the young, dark-haired woman stands on the ledge, allowing her voice to soar above the lunch-goers, closing in on the song's end. Patron's heads are lifted, their eyes bright and smiles brighter, amazed at the talent that takes orders and serves plates at this eating establishment. Veronica Walker and Gina Cowell are no exceptions.
The attorney-dominatrix finds herself lost in the song's words, indeed thinking of past memories and how different things might have been. Her publisher companion is no different as her thoughts travel along a similar track.
The two powerful women decided to meet here because it is loud – full of both tourists and city dwellers, and it is not the kind of place where people are watching other people. No, here all of the focus is on the singing waiters and waitresses – most of whom are very good and some of whom are downright outstanding. Some are between theatre gigs, and others are looking for that elusive first shot. Either way, the food is good, the atmosphere electric, and – ironically – here in this noisy arena of sorts, they find the privacy they seek.
The cab ride from Walker's office had been quiet, at Veronica's insistence. She doesn't want to have to talk in riddles, and doesn't want any ears – even a nondescript cabbie's ears – to hear this conversation. And being in a cab, there was always the possibility of electronic 'ears' of a different kind.
Now, however, they sit, smiling, enjoying the current song as a somewhat large waiter with a gorgeous tenor voice takes their drink order – water with orange slices for both women, who smile at the memory of that particular discovery.
The last notes of the song hang in the air, when Veronica chooses the momentary silence to jump right in.
"So, let me get right to it, Gina," she tells her lunch companion.
"About time," Gina chuckles. "Not like you to play all nice for so long."
Both women smile and Veronica lets the comment go. She knows the woman across the table from her well enough to realize no malice was intended.
"Why did Black Pawn let Richard Castle go?" Walker asks, taking another sip of water, ignoring the straw and moving an orange slice out of the way with her tongue.
Gina Cowell visibly retreats at the question, sitting back further into her chair. For a moment, Veronica wonders if she has miscalculated, if she should have been a bit more forthcoming on the phone.
"So this is the 'old case' you were talking about?" Gina offers, not hiding her disappointment. "Richard Castle?"
"I have good reasons for asking, Gina," Veronica interjects quickly. Gina is a friend. Veronica doesn't have many of these. She doesn't want to lose this one.
"Something is up with your former husband," she continues. "I can't say a whole lot, but I have had conversations with two different people in the past few days about Richard Castle – and both conversations scream that something dangerous is going on."
"Do tell," is all Gina says, her posture still defensive. Walker knows she has only seconds before her friend shuts down. She finds it an interesting reaction. Yes, Castle is Gina's ex-husband, but he's also Gina's ex-client, and the only reason he is the latter is because of Gina. Or at least that's how it looks. But things are not always what they seem. Walker is living proof of that little axiom.
"Your ex-husband - your ex-client - is being framed. From where I sit, it appears to me to be a very well-orchestrated job . . . which begs the question – who is doing it? And why?"
"The bigger 'why' here is why you care about it?" Gina comments, still leaning back, but now reaching for her glass of water, and sipping – through the straw – eyeing Veronica warily.
"Richard Castle is an . . . old acquaintance as you know," Walker replies. "From a past case, with the detective."
"Yes, I know," Gina responds. "But –"
"The 911 call after that murder in his home was bogus," Veronica offers up, suddenly, now opting for a more transparent approach.
"How do you know this?" Gina asks, now leaning back toward the table, engaged once more.
"I have it from a good source," Veronica replies. "A source that technically would know the difference, and a source that has no axe to grind, either way."
Castle's ex-wife takes in this information, knowing that her friend will not give up a source. She also knows that her friend's sources are always solid. Still, she finds herself wondering why her old friend would be involved with – or care about – this current situation with Richard Castle.
"So, he is being framed," Gina repeats. "What does that –"
"You don't seem surprised in the least by this news," Veronica interrupts, now reciprocating the wary eye her friend had afforded her. "You don't seem surprised – at all – that Richard Castle may be in the midst of a well-planned frame job, and yet your company released him anyway, losing millions of dollars in the process. All of that publicity – positive or negative – had to be good for Black Pawn. And for book sales. The marketing department of publishing companies like yours would kill for a Richard Castle. They desire publicity like air, and are supposed to be able to turn any publicity into revenue. That's their job."
She takes another sip of water, holding Gina's eyes with her as she does so, before continuing.
"So why bail on Castle? He was – and still should be – a publisher's wet dream. You killed the golden goose while it was still laying glittering eggs. Now tell me, my pet, where is the business logic in such a move?"
Gina Cowell is completely disarmed by Walker's usage of her old term for her friend and former client. The dominatrix never used the term in a derogatory manner. In fact, 'my pet' became Lady Irena's clear, affectionate term for the publisher who was searching for herself a few years ago. The effect is instantaneous.
"I . . . we . . ." she stammers momentarily. Walker releases her temporary hold on the woman.
"Gina," she begins, now reaching across the table, placing her hand atop Cowell's hands. "I know you. I know you are aware of what Mr. Castle is – and is not – capable of doing. You knew that these charges, these insinuations were false, yet your company released him anyway. Why?"
Gina is quiet for a moment, staring into the eyes of the woman across the table, eyes glancing downward at the lips – bright red – that seem to just hover there. The woman is intoxicating, and it bothers Gina that this is still the case.
"Forget my lips, my pet," Veronica tells her, allowing the Lady Irena persona to again step forward momentarily. "You allowed a man you still love – and respect – and were banking solid revenue against – to be railroaded out. This makes one wonder –"
"Did you know," Gina begins, her eyes now staring out at the waiter climbing the table across from them, just seconds away from beginning a new song. "Did you know that Richard was incarcerated on an island during those months he went missing?"
"Yes, I heard about that," her companion replies. "It was on the news and in –"
"He killed two men to escape," Gina states almost mechanically, still watching the climbing waiter. "Brutally. Slashed them with makeshift weapons. Hasn't gotten over it."
This takes Veronica by surprise. Yes, it is not news that there were casualties down on that island. But done in so brutal a manner? By the author himself?
"I have to wonder . . ." Gina continues, 'Who is asking the questions here? Veronica Walker or Lady Irena?"
"Both," Veronica answers, and chuckles as Gina cannot contain her surprise. It isn't only the answer that surprises her – not just the answer itself – but that her friend would even offer an answer. This is the type of question that usually draws an easy deflection from people like Veronica Walker, and deflecting is something her friend is very good at doing. That she chooses not to deflect the question this afternoon is telling in itself.
"Let's just say that Richard Castle and Detective Kate Beckett are of interest to me," the attorney replies, her voice rising slightly as she leans in closer as the first notes of song leave the waiter's lips, just across the table. His singular tenor voice quickly rises toward the ceiling. Gina Cowell mimics the action, moving her head closer as well.
"As you know, I have history with them, from a prior case, and no I am not going into any more detail than that. But we all have friends, Gina, and one of mine came to me regarding our mutual novelist. This friend is convinced – and has convinced me – that Mr. Castle is being set up. Mr. Castle is being framed here. I have told you this already," Veronica repeats, her voice rising slightly.
"It did not take my friend long to convince me of this, Gina. Which begs my question to you: Why did you let him go? How hard did you fight for him? And why do you avoid answering these questions?"
"I did fight for him, Veronica," Gina tells her friend, and now the frustration is evident on her face, bubbling into her shaky voice. "I did! I fought as much as I could, as long as I could, to keep Richard on board."
"Okay, so that is what I would expect, Gina," she tells her friend, and Gina is confused by the relief she sees on the face of her friend.
"What's going on here, Veronica?" she asks, but the attorney ignores the question, pushing forward.
"I know you, Gina. I know your stature at Black Pawn. I know the incredible level of influence you wield there, for many reasons. Yet here you sit, telling me that you were you unsuccessful in retaining your best client? Your most profitable client. This can only mean that someone at Black Pawn wanted Richard Castle gone. Badly. The question is who? And why? Who is pulling the strings of the emperor there?"
"You know the board members at Black Pawn as well as I do," Gina counters. The two women have moved even closer, their heads almost touching across the table in order to be heard above the singing.
"I do," Veronica agrees. "And none of them reek of such a streak of hatred for Richard Castle. But we know board members. They are connected to others outside. It is those connections I am wondering about."
"But I don't understand why this is so important to you, Veronica," Gina counters, undeterred. "It's not like you to –"
"It is a favor for a friend," the attorney tells her flatly, her steely gaze boring into Gina Cowell's eyes. "A friend whose life could be in danger if word gets out that she has concerns about how Mr. Castle is being portrayed. I need to know who has the hard on for Mr. Castle, and the likelihood that my friend gets caught in these crosshairs."
Suddenly Gina Cowell smiles, and leans back into her seat again. Their eyes never leave each other before Veronica returns the smile and leans back into her seat also. Both are quiet for the next couple of minutes, listening to the singer across from them. The song finishes, and the restaurant bursts into applause, with the two women joining in.
"So . . . how is Ramona these days?" Gina asks her companion.
"She is well," Veronica smiles, "and she is worth my time to determine what is going on here . . . for her sake."
"That must be quite a debt you owe to her," Gina muses, then shuts down as the waiter steps off the table platform across from them and walks to their table.
"Can I take your order, ladies?" he asks, smiling.
Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 12:45 p.m., at a restaurant just off Times Square
"You haven't touched your food at all, Will," Elizabeth Bracken notices. "We don't have much time before your next press conference this afternoon."
"I know that," he replies affably. "Just deep in thought is all."
"About the conference?" his wife asks.
"Please," he grunts with a dismissive wave of the hand. Nervousness over public appearances have long been a thing of the past with the politician. He stares out the window from their second floor vantage point above the narrow street below.
"What then?" she asks, her fork moving the shrimp and pasta noodles around the plate. "Based upon this morning's polls, this is looking less like a race and more like a slam dunk, Will. Everything with Elena is moving nicely," she says, her voice dropping in volume as she mentions the woman's name.
"That's the point," he tells her, still staring outside. "The calm before the storm. Things are really lining up nicely. And that just doesn't happen. There is always a hiccup, always a speed bump. I just am not seeing it right now."
"Perhaps it isn't there," she tells him. It is a surprise statement from her, a woman known to him more for her ruthlessness than optimism.
"It is there, trust me," he counters. "I just don't see it. And what I don't see, I don't like."
She merely nods her head, even though she disagrees with him. No matter. He is often out of the real inner workings of her strategies – and that of their assassin. William Bracken not knowing all of the intricacies is part of her plan. She enjoys her position as the power behind the player. It's a position that affords her greater vision of what is happening. And it's a position that – from his vantage point – often does not allow him to see the bigger picture.
He glances at her, and for the first time in a long time, begins to wonder about his wife's real motivations. Yes, he is out of prison because of her. Yes, his enemies are suffering because of her.
Then again, he has many enemies because of her. Her plans, her advice, her influence.
The waitress stops at their table, refilling the water glasses. William Bracken eyes the woman warmly. Her long brunette hair is pulled back into a ponytail, highlighting sky-blue eyes hidden behind wire rim glasses. She returns his smile, the braces on her teeth shining in the bright light coming through the window.
"Is the meal not to your liking, sir?" she asks, glancing warily at his largely untouched meal. She offers a nervous look to the couple. Ex-Senator Bracken is a well-known and respected patron here, and his satisfaction is of paramount importance this afternoon.
"Everything is fine, dear," Elizabeth Bracken replies for her husband, enjoying the minor discomfort being displayed by the waif of a waitress.
"He . . . we . . . are just a bit pre-occupied," Mrs. Bracken continues. "We are very pleased with our meal, though."
"Okay, thank you . . . thank you," the young woman expresses, almost taking a slight bow as she backs away from the table. Elizabeth cannot suppress a small chuckle at the sight.
"Really, Elizabeth," Bracken exclaims with a hint of disgust. "Intimidating young waitresses now, are we?"
"Oh, I do more than intimidate young girls," she replies darkly.
"I swear, sometimes this man forgets his role," Elizabeth Bracken thinks to herself. "If he weren't so good with the public . . . and in bed . . ."
She allows the thought to float away in the air of the small dining room, as she pushes herself away from the table, using her napkin to dab at her lips.
"Well, it's clear you aren't eating, so I am going to go and freshen up," she tells her husband, rising from the table. She walks briskly to the ladies room in the corner, passing the young waitress who is piling drinking glasses on top of the kitchen bar counter. She offers the young woman her best smile, which is returned sheepishly by the younger woman.
Back at the table, William Bracken takes his phone out of his pocket. He stares at it for a moment before replacing it back in the jacket inner pocket, and pulls out the smaller phone from the other side. Nodding at the burner phone, he quickly types in a text message as his wife disappears into the restroom.
"When can I see Anna?" he types quickly, whispering the words aloud as he types. He quickly checks to confirm that all notifications are turned off on the device. He doesn't need any incoming alerts or notifications to catch the ear of his wife when she returns, and there is no guarantee when this particular message will be replied to. Elizabeth – as she does prior to every election he has been a part of – morphs into this draconian beast as Election Day draws closer. The last week is usually hell with her, and for this gubernatorial race, she is starting a few days early, unfortunately.
Elizabeth knows of Anna, of course. No, she was never aware that Elena was pregnant. The assassin hid their baby from Mrs. Bracken very well, all the way through delivery. However, both the then-Senator and his assassin decided that hiding the child forever would be nearly impossible, and when finally discovered . . . well, that just would not have gone down well. Better to concoct some believable story up front – about Elena getting pregnant in the midst of a mission – which was the truth, ironically.
And so that had been the story for these past few years. Elena had been on a mission that had taken her to Europe. A simple mistake of leaving a package of pills at home ended up with the assassin returning to the States – but not alone. It was a simple enough lie to tell the Brackens that she hid this news for two reasons. First, it was none of their business. Second, it was none of their business.
Those two reasons were enough to shut down Mrs. Bracken's curiosity . . . almost. Her final question to the assassin finished the job. The future governor of New York chuckles to himself at the table as he recalls that conversation.
"But where is the father?" Elizabeth had asked Elena, warily. "Doesn't he want to be involved with his daughter?"
"Her father is not here," was Elena's simple reply.
"I can see that," Elizabeth had responded. "What I mean is –"
"And what I mean is that her father is not here," Elena interrupted, repeating herself, this time with special emphasis, more force, and that deadly smile that the woman usually saves for their enemies.
It had been enough. For a few years, Elizabeth dropped the matter completely. Over time, however, the more Machiavellian tendencies of the woman began to rise up, and when Elizabeth suggested to her husband that this young child now afforded them a bit of leverage over their assassin that they had never had before – well, such news was not received well by either the father or mother of said child. Of course, for appearances sake, William Bracken has had to appear favorable to such an idea. And unknown to either of the Brackens – and fortunately for Elizabeth Bracken – Elena Markov's European masters had determined that eliminating the wife of the Senator was not consistent with their plans. They wanted both Senator and wife alive and well. As Boris Vasilyev had reminded his protégé, the best covert operations were executed with the participants never even suspecting they were a part of anything. The emotional reactions and misgivings of Mrs. Bracken would end up playing into their hands.
Still – the ex-Senator is unaware of all of this. He knows nothing of Boris Vasilyev, or Elena's real mission in the United States. All Bracken knows is that his wife considers the young girl – who she does not realize to be her husband's daughter – to be nothing more than leverage. It matters not that the young girl considers the couple to be 'Uncle Will and Auntie Liz'. The girl means nothing to his Elizabeth. Why would she? All the better that Elena keeps the girl at a location even he is not aware of. He and his wife 'know' that the assassin and her daughter live in Georgetown. He alone, however, knows that Elena's real address is somewhere else. And the woman has gone to great lengths to keep that even from him.
He can't blame her. To be honest, it is a welcome gap of knowledge on his part. He knows that Elena's 'story' is that she killed the baby's father before returning to the United States. He also knows – deep in his heart – that Elena would not hesitate to kill the baby's real father if it came to that. He means to ensure that day never arrives.
He hears the heels of his wife's shoes clicking on the wooden floor, indicating her return. He glances up, seeing that she has reapplied lipstick and looks every bit the bombshell that she is.
He stands as she takes her position again, and sits at the table across from him. He, in turn, takes his seat, and glances up toward the waitress standing near the upstairs kitchen. He lifts a hand, and makes a writing motion in the air, indicating they would like to have the check. He watches the young woman as she vigorously nods her head, and disappears behind a makeshift half wall to prepare the bill.
"Feeling better?" Elizabeth asks, noticing that he does, in fact, look calmer than before.
"Actually, yes," he replies honestly. He glances at his watch. "Almost game time."
"Yes, it is," she agrees. "You do your part, Will. Leave the rest to me."
"You're talking about Castle?" he states – as both a question and a statement.
"Yes, the author," she replies, "his wife, his father. All will be taken care of shortly."
"Let's hope so," he concurs. "It would be nice to enter my first 100 days without the distraction of the detective and her husband. Let's hope Elena can take care of things on that end."
"Has she ever let us down?" his wife asks, nodding her head in understanding as he gives her a wink and a nod toward the approaching waitress. It is their cue to shut the conversation down.
"Thank you, my dear," he tells the waitress, handing her a hundred dollar bill. "Please keep the change, and give my regards to Marco," he winks.
The couple stand, as Bracken makes his way around the table to his wife, reaching down for her coat and wrapping it around her shoulders as she slips one arm in, then a second. It's a brisk autumn day outside, and the wind is just picking up. They exit down the stairs, Elizabeth's arm inside her husband's. To the outside world, they appear to be the perfect power couple – in tune, in lock step, in love.
Upstairs, the young waitress stands at the window, waiting until she sees the couple enter into the black limousine that has been waiting for them during their lunch. As it drives off, she quickly approaches the table just vacated by the Brackens. She reaches down into the soft flower arrangement and retrieves the small, white-colored bug that had blended in so well with the white roses and carnations. Her black ponytail has effectively hidden the earpiece in her right ear.
"They're gone," she speaks into the small bug.
"Roger that," Detective Kevin Ryan replies quickly. "Get your ass out of there now, before your dad hands us our asses."
"Roger that back at you," the young woman smiles, making her way to the ladies' room. Once inside, she loses the wire-rim glasses and quickly pulls off the dark wig, takes a couple of bobby pins out of her own hair and shakes her head, allowing her long red locks to fall past her shoulders. Then she glances up at the mirror, opening her mouth and extracts the mouthpiece with fake braces, offering a sigh of relief as the obstructive piece is removed.
"Thank God that's out," she exclaims quietly to herself, noting that it was far more uncomfortable than she had predicted.
"What was that?" Ryan asks her.
"The mouthpiece. The braces," she offers. "Whose bright idea was that?"
"All Beckett's, you know that," he reminds her.
"That's Castle now, you know," she corrects him with a chuckle.
"Nope – always will be Beckett to us," he laughs in return. "Gotta admit, Alexis, it was a good plan. They never suspected a thing." He pauses for a second before continuing.
"Hold on a second, Red, the Cap is here."
She hears a bit of rustling and then the voice of Captain Victoria Gates is ringing in her earpiece.
"Everything go smoothly, Miss Castle?" the captain asks.
"Yes, ma'am . . . er. . . Yes sir," Alexis Castle corrects herself, smiling to herself at the terminology the captain requests her people to use with her.
"Good," Gates continues. "Then get out of there – and make sure you are still in disguise. Wherever the Brackens are, we have to assume that their assassin that Detective Beckett speaks of could be nearby at any time. Detective Beckett's plan . . . Detective Castle's plan, forgive me, did not include you getting caught."
The reminder freezes the smile on the young woman's smooth, pale face. She involuntarily glances around, and sees only Nate, the nice young man who buses dishes – whom she just met hours ago.
Getting Alexis Castle onto this shift had been easy enough. Fortunately, the Brackens dine here at this establishment for lunch every Wednesday they are in town – without fail. When Kate Beckett – now Castle – had decided to take the fight to the Brackens, she did so thinking like a cop. First step – surveillance.
It was no surprise to anyone that Kate knew so much about Bracken. It did surprise most everyone, however, that she knew the ex-Senator and his wife so well as to know their eating tendencies, down to restaurants by date and time.
As they put their plan together last evening, approaching the management of the restaurant was out of the question.
"Too big a chance that he is in Bracken's pocket already, given they dine there every damn week," Kate had told the team last night. Everyone agreed that was far too risky.
"Our better chance is to approach one of the wait-staff," Kate had continued. "Bring them in on a police action."
"It has to be someone, though, who is probably unfamiliar with the Brackens," Alexis had warned. She was clearly nervous since she was going to be the canary in the cat's lair, but it was tempered with a more than mild tinge of excitement.
"Better plan," her dad had offered up. "Let's put Alexis in there, but call Marco away. Tell him the police need his help with a line up, his wife has a flat tire – I don't care. But let's get him out of there, so that inserting Alexis goes off without a hitch. Get her in, get her out."
"You're sure you good with this, Red?" Detective Kevin Ryan had asked, drawing a glare from Javier Esposito.
"Little Castle will be fine," Esposito had countered, glancing at the red-head. "She's pretty good at role-playing," he had quipped, recalling an island debacle a month or so earlier. "Just make sure we get the girl she is replacing out of there."
"Already done," Captain Gates had replied. We already approached the young lady, under police business, and told her she was under surveillance until tomorrow afternoon. Detective Flannery is with her, and she is making sure she stays to the script."
Alexis shakes her head back to the present, returning now to the ladies room, where she had stashed her bag under one of the sinks. She retrieves the bag, pulls out a New York Mets baseball cap attached to a blonde wig, and once again pulls her hair back into a bun. Stuffing the cap atop her head, it allows the fake blonde hair to fall to shoulder length. She puts the wire-rim glasses on again, and competes the outfit with gothic black lipstick. The look will be exactly what Kate wants. She wants the young woman to be seen leaving the restaurant. She wants people to remember the Mets cap, and blonde hair, and green tinted wire rim glasses hovering over dark black lips. The look is nothing like Alexis Castle.
She walks out of the restroom, and down the stairs, looking like a misguided and lost customer. She glances left and right, then makes a motion of 'recognizing' the front door.
"Sorry, had to use your bathroom and it just couldn't wait," she offers to the passing staff. As expected, she gets a couple of looks – mostly frowns – as she steps into the sunlight a block off Broadway in Times Square.
She takes out her phone and sends a quick text. Three minutes later, as she stands on Broadway, a passing dark gray SUV stops at the curb in front of her. Opening the door and climbing into the backseat of the vehicle, she smiles at the couple in the front seat.
"Are you all right, pumpkin?" her dad asks, hurriedly. She has to smile. Early twenties and she is still his 'pumpkin'. She won't complain.
"Is everything okay, Alexis?" Kate asks, talking simultaneously with her father.
"Everything went fine, guys," Alexis tells them, while exhaling a breath of air she didn't realize she was still holding. She glances down at her hands, which are still shaking just a bit – enough that she notices. She forces herself to take a couple of deep breaths while listening to the conversation taking place in the front seat.
"We heard everything, Alexis," Kate tells her. "Nice placement of the bug, by the way."
"Did we get what you wanted?" the younger Castle asks the couple as Richard Castle makes a right turn, getting them away from traffic and heading to the small helipad just a few miles away.
"Oh yes," Kate smiles. "We just got a few questions answered."
"More importantly," Castle interjects. "We just found a new question to ask," drawing a nod of the head from his wife.
"What? What is it?" Alexis asks.
"Not what, Alexis," Kate corrects. "Who. As in, who is Anna?"
"And who was he posing that question to?" Castle asks aloud, as he drives along the busy back streets. Kate Castle – nee Beckett – is quiet as she ponders his question, a series of thoughts now formulating in her mind.