Glint – Chapter 10
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DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe for a wonderful show that has meant so much, to so many.
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Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 12:10 p.m., At St. Bartholomew Church in New York City
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The morning sun bathes the historic building with an eerie, almost mahogany glow as the parishioners are making their way – slowly – toward the exit near the rear of the chapel which faces Park Avenue. The push to leave the building proceeds with turtle-like grace. People stop and chat. They say hello. They offer hugs and handshakes. Some simply stare at their feet, watching one foot go in front of the other, a silent march as they contemplate the message from this morning.
The two men who sit in the fourth row toward the front, still sitting, however, are oblivious to the movement of the throng. Hiding in plain sight, the mayor of New York sits calmly, giving no outward clue of the muzzle that softly kisses his ribcage, courtesy of the stranger who sits next to him. The man smiles – he actually smiles – at Mayor Bob Weldon as he carries the conversation.
Weldon didn't notice the man as he sat directly behind him during the service. As the service ended, however, the silver-haired man calmly – too easily – stepped over and between the rows of expensive chairs separating them, quickly putting pressure on the Mayor's ribs with a simple command.
"Sit back down, Mr. Mayor," Hunt tells the politician. "Tell your friends to go ahead, you will meet them in a few minutes. Do this, and perhaps you actually will be able to keep that promise."
It's a new experience for Bob Weldon, but somehow he manages to stay calm, keeping his composure as he does as he is told.
"I'll be right there, let me say hello to my friend here," Weldon tells his friends, who simply nod and move toward the aisle. The idea that someone here knows the mayor and wants a little time with him is hardly news, hardly out-of-the-ordinary.
"Smooth," Jackson Hunt murmurs with admiration. "I can see why my son likes you."
"And your son might be . . . ?" Weldon asks.
"Richard Castle," Hunt replies, and once again the CIA man enjoys the reaction to this news. Sure, Castle's friends know of his father. But to actually meet the man who these friends know that Castle himself has never met? At least as far as they know.
No, this reaction never gets old.
Mayor Weldon begins to offer a glance to his left, to see the face of his . . . well, it appears this is going to be an interrogation. Here in the church. Before the congregation can even get out. Perhaps it is better that he doesn't see his interrogator.
"Don't give him any reason to renege on his promise," Weldon thinks to himself.
The decision is not lost on the stranger.
"You're avoiding the opportunity to see my face," Hunt begins, "so I can tell you are thinking of how to get out of this alive. Truth be told, I really don't want to kill you."
Carefully, without getting even a glimpse of the stranger's face, Weldon glances down at the arm, covered by a jacket that holds the weapon against his side, causing yet another chuckle from Hunt.
"Okay, that might seem unlikely given I am holding a gun on you," Hunt tells the mayor, and slowly puts the weapon away.
"But trust me, Mr. Mayor, the gun would be the merciful option should you choose that door," Hunt remarks, and waits for a nod of confirmation from Weldon before continuing.
"What can I do for you, friend?" Weldon offers, attempting to disarm the situation as only a politician can. With words.
"My son is a writer," Hunt says calmly. He goes silent for a few seconds.
"A good one," Mayor Weldon replies, trying desperately to fill in the dead air between them.
"I tend to agree," Hunt comments. "He's got a vivid imagination. And he's led an interesting life. He has . . . interesting friends."
Weldon chews on those last words, mulling them over in his head before replying.
"Friends who care for him very much, if I may say so myself," Weldon tells him.
"That's debatable," Hunt tells him. "Which gets to my point. My question, actually. And let me say up front, we don't have much time right now. This church has a busy schedule. They will be moving us out soon enough, so don't bullshit me."
Weldon winces at the profanity used in the church, which draws an almost amusing reaction from the stranger next to him, who quickly marks the sign of the cross, touching his chest in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, before continuing.
"He's heard worse, believe me, Mr. Mayor," the stranger chuckles, and it is a sound that Weldon decides here and now that he never wants to hear again. It's not a laugh of mirth or merriment. Mayhem is more like it.
"My point is," Hunt continues, "I don't have time for you to say one thing, and then backtrack . . . you know, the typical political bullshit," he tells him, intentionally emphasizing the last word, just for effect.
"There are no cameras here running to catch your words. No adoring fans or constituents. You have an audience of one, Mr. Mayor, and this audience is very discriminating. We are already sitting here in the perfect place for you to meet your maker, if that becomes necessary. Are we clear?"
"Crystal," Mayor Weldon responds, his fingers now fidgeting nervously, his palms slowly but surely gaining in moisture.
"Good. So here we go," Hunt replies. "My son is a writer. A good one. It's what he is good at. It's what he does. So I have to ask – what in the world were you thinking when you . . . let's say you allowed . . . can we use that word? Let's say allowed. What in the world were you thinking when you allowed my son into the 12th Precinct?"
"So that's what this is about," Weldon thinks, now having serious second-thoughts as to whether he is going to get out of here alive. "He blames me for Castle getting shot. He blames me for Castle being involved with Montgomery and the funeral in the first place."
"I can see you are searching for the right answer, Mr. Mayor," Hunt tells him. "Let me simplify this for you. The truth. Just tell the truth. Now I know this may not be second nature for you, given your profession, but there are many things that are second nature to us. Breathing, for example. Eating for example. And talking, Mr. Mayor. Talking is second nature. Just tell the truth. Anything that pops into your little head that isn't the truth – just delete it. But don't –"
"I know, I know, don't BS you," Weldon remarks, unable to use the word himself. Not here. Not when he needs the Man Upstairs' help in the worst way.
"Why sponsor Richard?" Hunt asks, and the use of Castle's full first name – something that Weldon has rarely heard, disarms him. Rick. Ricky. Castle. That Bastard. Yeah, he's heard those terms. 'Richard' is not one he hears often.
"Why sponsor my son into the 12th?" Hunt asks again. "See, to my way of thinking – and I admit I don't know all the particulars, I'm hoping you will fill those in for me – but to my way of thinking this is all too suspicious. You placed my son . . . no, let's scratch that. I'll make it easier. You placed a playboy mystery writer into one of the toughest precincts in the largest city in the country – just so he can shadow some hot lady detective? Seriously?"
Mayor Weldon now – for the first time – shudders. It is not lost on Hunt, who takes the involuntary action in stride, but files it away.
"Yeah, there is something going on here," Hunt tells himself. He stays quiet, offering intentional, awkward silence to the proceedings, watching the first bead of perspiration appear on the dark brow of the black man.
"I can tell you are mulling your next words over," Hunt remarks, finally breaking the silence. "That's smart. Continue to be smart for another two minutes, and we will both walk out of here."
Weldon closes his eyes, taking a few deep breaths and raising his chin. To the CIA man, the mayor could almost be praying. It's not a bad idea, considering the situation. Finally, the mayor speaks again. He chooses his words carefully, speaking them slowly.
"There was no . . . ulterior motive on my part," Mayor Weldon begins. "On my part," he repeats, emphasizing the words so that the stranger understands.
"One does not get to become . . . mayor of this city without making a few friends . . . without meeting a few friends who . . . who are willing to drop more than . . . a few dollars into one's campaign."
"So one of your wealthy donors needed a favor," Hunt tells him. "And that favor involved putting an inauspicious mystery novelist into a dangerous precinct? He's a writer, Mr. Mayor. Not a cop. Not a PI. He's never been a soldier. If there was a poster child of someone not qualified to be put in harm's way, it's my son."
"It wasn't what your son . . . it wasn't what Castle did . . . does," Weldon replies, now glancing to his right, finding the front of the church empty. "It had nothing to do with Castle's qualifications. It had everything to do with wanting to put someone . . . what word did you use? Inauspicious. That's the right word. It had everything to do with wanting to put someone inauspicious into position to watch the captain, there."
Hunt's response is silence, eyebrows raised. The silence prompts Weldon to continue.
"My . . . friend . . . my donor indicated that there were people who were watching Captain Montgomery," Weldon pushes onward. "Apparently they were grooming him for something bigger, and I didn't get the impression it had anything to do with law enforcement. They wanted the real skinny on him, and so they told me they wanted me to keep an eye on Montgomery – for a period of time. I, of course -"
"And they wanted a mystery writer to spy on him?" Hunt questions, interrupting, now troubled by this information. Not because it makes sense. But because it doesn't make sense. It sounds like something a man fearing for his life would come up with on the fly. Smoothly, deftly, the gun muzzle reappears in Weldon's side, drawing a small groan from the mayor.
"It's the truth," he mutters quickly, almost harshly. "I questioned the selection. Believe me, I did. I didn't think Castle was the right man. Yeah, Castle got lucky on that first case. But like you said, he's a writer, not a cop. And the only reason he was even involved in the first place was because he was initially a suspect – a murder occurs just the way he writes it? Come on, you know he would be a suspect. Yeah, he helped them solve it – but I figured that would be it. But then he goes all gaga over the detective, and wants in on a more permanent basis. I said no – you have to believe me – I said no. But evidently someone else wanted him there, because later that night I get a call. From one of my friends. He –"
"Does this friend have a name?" Hunt asks.
"Yeah, Smythe," Weldon replies. "Part of one of my donor groups, but I never met him – only spoke with him on the phone. I-"
"You never met the man who you say poured significant dollars into your campaign, and you didn't see anything suspicious about this?" Hunt argues, his voice remaining calm but processing what he has been told.
Smith. Smythe. Different pronunciation. Same name. Same man.
"I said I never met him," Weldon replies. "Only on the phone. But Samantha, Jerry – the people who work for the firm – I meet with them all the time."
"Who are they?" Hunt asks, now putting together a different outline in his mind, working quickly through the scenarios.
"From the beginning," Weldon replies, now warming up to the story. He – like his friend Castle – is a storyteller. Only Weldon's stories are painted on a different page, with a different brush.
"The firm, Future Forward of New York, is small but heavily funded. Samantha is the director there, and Jerry is the controller. I don't know Smythe's position but they both take their direction from him. They are my contacts for any kind of day-to-day communication. Smythe gets involved rarely. Maybe six, seven times in the past three years."
Weldon pauses to brush away the multiple beads of sweat now populating his forehead.
"The deal was simple. They wanted to know what was going on inside the 12th, particularly with Montgomery. Told me to think of it like a spy novel, like a covert military operation. Castle would appreciate that. But the key was that Castle was never to know why he was there. He wasn't supposed to know he was keeping tabs on Montgomery. So I used our normal activities to obtain information from Rick. Poker games. Basketball games. Nights at the bar. I'd ask how things were going at the precinct, with Roy, with the detective, were they treating him right . . . things like that. He would give me tidbits here and there, and I in turn, would pass them on to Samantha. But here's the thing – she never asked me any questions. Never! I would call, I'd tell her anything I thought was interesting that Castle said, and that would be it. No one was getting hurt. Until this week, I mean."
Hunt nods his head absently, considering this new information. In an audacious way – it makes sense. Especially in his line of work, Hunt has found that the best informants are ones who don't even realize that they are informants. You don't ask them questions. You don't prod them for information. You don't interrogate them. You act normal. You just let them talk. In a normal setting. Sometimes they say very little, sometimes they won't shut up. All too often, none of their babble is important.
But every now and then . . .
Yeah, every now and then a gem appears. They never know, of course, that they have given away such a precious stone. And that's why they are perfect. The innocent, unknowing informant.
His son.
Hunt considers what he has learned, and slowly pulls the weapon away, and quickly stands. He's gotten what he wanted. Well, not what he wanted, per se. But what he needed. He has the name of a firm, and a plausible explanation forming in his mind.
He glances down at the man who still sits in the chair, and suddenly smiles. That dangerous smile.
"You do know what this means, don't you, Mr. Mayor?" Hunt asks.
"I . . . I don't . . . I guess not," the politician stumbles.
"You said that Richard asked you for a favor," Hunt tells him.
"Yes, that's right. He asked if he could stay on at the 12th, if I could pull some strings to –"
"And you said no," Hunt interrupts. "This is important. You said no, but then got a phone call later that night."
"That's right," Weldon agrees, nodding his head, wondering if he really is going to get out of this after all, but still making the effort not to look up, not to make eye contact.
"I got a call from Smythe, telling me that Castle had done a good job forcing his way into their little sphere, and he'd be perfect as a . . . as a . . ."
"A mole, Mr. Mayor," Hunt tells him menacingly, the tone darkening. Hunt then bends down, face to face with the mayor, forcing him to look him in the face.
"What it means . . . It means you have a bug of your own," Hunt smiles. "They are also keeping tabs on you, Mr. Mayor. Something for you to consider."
The widening eyes of the mayor almost . . . almost bring a genuine smile of humor to Hunt's face. But nothing is funny right now. Alexis is gone, he doesn't have time for humor, or chit chat or niceties. Every minute counts.
He turns and leaves the mayor sitting, now trembling, in the chair as he moves into the aisle of the now almost-empty church. He pulls out his cell phone as he walks, feeling the vibration. He pauses, and seeing the new text message from Major Terrance Cooper, he smiles – this time a genuine smile.
COOP: "Stone. Found something in the videos. Come for a look-see."
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Sunday Afternoon – May 29, 2011, 1:20 p.m., At Jim Beckett's Cabin in Upstate New York
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"That's it, Mr. Castle," Diane Francis coos, her voice soft, encouraging. "That's fifteen minutes now," she tells him as she glances at her watch. He's been up and walking laps throughout the interior of the house, dragging the portable medical apparatus along with him. His chest burns. He legs burn. Everything is on fire. The sweat pours from his face, dropping to the floor below.
Francis walks in front of him, while Kate Beckett walks alongside him, there only if he needs support, if he needs her balance. For the first ten or twelve minutes he was fine. These last few minutes? He's been going downhill rapidly. Kate's shoulder is underneath him now, as he puts more pressure on her with every step.
"I've got you, Castle," Kate tells him, trying to match the tone of her voice with that of the medical operative assigned to Castle. She is just trying to keep her voice soft and calm. Instead, it comes out as more of a sultry sound than anything, which only reddens her face with embarrassment. She knows they are not in a good place. She quickly puts it away, for now.
"Just a few more steps, Rick," Kate tells him, pointing ahead to the bed that Francis is now only one or two steps from touching. "That's two sessions today. You're doing great."
Castle's response is simply a grunt and a grimace, as he lifts his head with blurry eyes, now focusing on the finish line that is just a few more steps away.
"It . . . burns," he manages to say, as Kate wipes his brow once again.
"True," Francis replies. "But it is a good burn," she offers with a smile – one that is not reciprocated by either the novelist or the detective.
"Alexis," he almost whimpers, his mind capturing an image of his daughter as he takes the final two steps, and reaches mercifully for the railing of the bed.
"Soon, Mr. Castle," Francis smiles, as she skims through a series of text messages on her phone, nodding her head with satisfaction.
"You will have her back soon."