Sarah Richardson was a little harder to find than anticipated, but eventually she was sitting in the interrogation room, her hands clasped tightly on the table top. "Why am I here?" she asked as Kate and Rick came through the door.

Kate sat down, her black pad in front of her, Rick taking the seat next to her. "I'm Detective Beckett, this is Richard Castle."

Sarah glared at them both. "I asked why I'm here."

"Oliver Stanford."

"What about him?"

"You're his girlfriend."

She shrugged. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"We're not joined at the hip." Her eyes narrowed. "Why?"

Kate took a breath. "Miss Richardson, you are aware Oliver Stanford's body was found in the warehouse next to your apartment."

"Wh ... what?" All the colour fled the young woman's face, and if she was acting she deserved an Oscar. "He's ... he's ..." She couldn't say it, just sat swallowing hard.

Rick passed her the cup of water he'd been carrying. "Here."

"I ... uh ..." Sarah grabbed it, gulping half of it down. "You're not kidding me?"

"No, Miss Richardson," Kate said gently. "I'm afraid not."

"How ... who ..."

"That's what we're trying to find out."

"When did you see him last?" Rick asked.

"Um ..." She wiped at her cheek, brushing away the tears that had started to fall. "Not for a week or so."

"Why not?" Kate took over. "As his girlfriend ..."

"I told you, we weren't in each other's pockets!" Sarah snapped. "Besides, when he's out with Clyde I don't get much more than a phone call."

"Clyde Osaki."

"Yes."

Rick's brow was furrowed. "Sarah, how did you not know Oliver was dead? It's been all over the news for the last couple of days."

"I've been sick." She pulled a handkerchief from her purse, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose at the same time. "'Flu. I've been sick for the last five days."

"And you don't watch TV?"

"No. The news depresses me, so I catch up on DVDs. And sleep."

Rick nodded slightly, having been there himself. "Of course."

"I'm not even back at work yet," Sarah said, sniffing. "I had to go food shopping, otherwise I'd still be in bed." The tissue had smudged the thick mascara on her lashes, and shown the red nose she'd tried to hide with foundation.

Kate took the interview back. "When did you last hear from Oliver?"

"Friday morning. He called, asked how I was."

"He didn't come around."

"No, I told you. I haven't seen him for over a week. Besides, I told him not to. I didn't want him catching my cold." She dabbed at her nose again.

For one second Rick wondered how much of the red eyes was because she wasn't well or if she was really upset, then told himself off. From what he could see, she wasn't that good an actress.

"How long did you talk?" Kate wanted to know.

"Not long. Maybe five minutes."

Kate idly tapped her notepad, and Rick glanced down. In her semi-neat handwriting she'd written Last phone call twenty-three minutes. "Is that all?"

"Like I said, we weren't that serious."

"Did he tell you what he was doing?"

A flash of irritation made Sarah seem more human. "Him and Clyde, always saying they were on the verge of 'the big score.'" She even did the air quotes. "And it's been so much worse lately – all he could talk about was how they'd made the find of the century and they were going to be filthy rich and famous. Then he'd go all mysterious and pretend he'd only been joking." She tossed her blonde hair back. "Ask Clyde. He'd know more than me."

"Clyde Osaki is dead."

This time Rick was positive the young teacher hadn't known. He wondered if she was actually going to faint as she groped for the cup of water. "What?"

"Murdered."

Sarah's hand was shaking as she lifted the plastic cup to her lips. "You mean Oliver and Clyde actually found something?"

"It's an ongoing investigation," Kate said, sitting back. "And you're positive they didn't give you any more details?"

"They didn't tell me anything at all!" She jammed her lips shut, embarrassed at having almost shouted. Then, much quieter, "What happened to them? Did it ... did they ... was it painful?"

"Very few deaths are pleasant, Miss Richardson."

"Yes. Yes, of course."

They questioned her for another few minutes, but she kept repeating that Oliver never told her anything important, and Clyde wasn't a friend, more a nuisance. Eventually they let her leave, with the usual request not to go out of town as they might have more questions.

Rick watched her hurry to the elevator, her head down, tissue clasped to her breast, then turned back to Kate who was standing gazing at the murder board. "Do you get the feeling she didn't tell us everything?"

"Most people don't." She inhaled deeply. "Ryan and Esposito are looking into her background, just in case there's a link to ... whoever."

"Whoever." Rick smiled. "I can just see you telling the Commissioner that. No suspects, but there might be a whoever."

She didn't respond for what seemed like an age, and he was just about to make another comment when she finally said, "Call Monaghan."

"What?" He put his hand on his heart. "I thought he wasn't reliable enough."

"He's not. Not as a witness, at least. But you were right – this case has links back to 1963, and he's the closest we've got to an inside lead." She turned to look at him. "Believe me, I'm not asking just for the hell of it. As it stands we have nothing to go on."

He nodded, reaching into his pocket for his cell. "Don't worry. I won't hold it against you. Very often." He glanced down, then the smug look was wiped from his face. "Shit. Is that the time?"

Kate glanced at the clock. "7.15. Why?"

"Shit. Double shit." He grabbed his overcoat. "I'm late."

Realisation struck. "Maggie's thing."

"I'm never going to get home in time." Speed dialling he listened, then disgust flowed over his features. "It's going to voicemail." He waited for the message to finish, then said, "Maggie, I am so sorry. I'll meet you there, okay?"

"I'll drive," Kate said, picking up her own coat and car keys.

"Thanks." He shook his head as they ran for the elevator. "She is never going to forgive me."

"It's okay. I'll get you there," she promised. "I'll even let you use the siren." When he didn't comment, didn't even make a joke, she knew he was too angry with himself, and she nodded slightly.


Maggie sat on the stairs of the duplex, and stared at her cell, willing it to ring. He couldn't have forgotten, not after promising the way he had. Not knowing how she felt about this. He had to be here.

Only he wasn't.

With trembling fingers she dialled.

He picked up after the fourth ring, a smile in his voice as he must have seen the caller ID. "Maggie."

"Hello, James. I ..."

"Maggie, what is it?"

"Could you … would you mind escorting me to this press thing?"

"I thought Castle was going to –"

"He's not turned up."

"What about … who is it, Martha? Alexis?"

"They went on ahead. I sent them in the hire car. Otherwise I'd have …" She swallowed hard. "I was waiting for him."

There was silence for a moment, then his deep voice said, "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"Thank you."

"For you, anything. And you know I mean that."

"Yes. I know."

The call disconnected and Maggie stared at the phone, feeling tears prickling at her eyes.


Sarah Richardson waited until she was outside the precinct house before pulling her cellphone from her purse and dialling with a savage finger. It took maybe thirty seconds for the other end to pick up, and by that time she was halfway down the block, striding angrily away from the police station.

"What did you do?" she demanded, barely waiting for a response. "Oliver's dead. So's Clyde." She listened. "I don't care. I told you all that in confidence." Again a pause. "Of course I haven't told anyone else! How could I? Who'd believe me?" She took a breath. "Yes, I know it. It'll take me three quarters of an hour to get there. Why can't we ... Okay, yes, fine. I'll see you there."

Thumbing the off switch, she headed for the subway station, disappearing into the crowd.


It was worse than she had ever anticipated. Far from being the quiet book party that she had hoped for, all the world's press seemed to be crammed into the large room, and they clustered around, snapping photos, asking questions. Above her, on boards that filled the wall from floor to ceiling, were huge representations of the book cover to Tears at Midnight, the image being the silhouette of a woman's face, a fat teardropped diamond on her cheek under the title.

"I wish I'd never written the damn thing," she murmured, trying to keep smiling.

"It's an excellent book," James said, his arm around her waist.

"You've read it?" She was surprised. "When did you –"

"Maggie, I read everything you write." He leaned closer to whisper in her ear, and the flashbulbs went mad. "I've never managed to put your books down until I've got to the final page."

She leaned into him. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"Being here."

"Whatever you want, Maggie." He held up a hand and spoke to the reporters. "I'm sure you'll all get the quotes you want, but I think perhaps you'd like to get a drink first?"

There were mumbles among the pack, but they dispersed slowly.

"Thanks," Maggie breathed again.

"No problem."

"Maggie?"

She half-turned, coming face to face with Alexis. "Hi, sweetie."

"Where's my dad?"

"Honestly? I don't care anymore."

Martha, at her grand-daughter's shoulder, sighed heavily. "I'm sure he just got caught up with something."

"Of course he did." Maggie didn't want to sound bitter, but the tension and stress of the last few days was getting to her. "Much more important than his promise to me."

"Maggie ..." Alexis pleaded, but it was only half-hearted. She knew her father, how involved he'd got in police work, how it meant he'd sometimes had less time for her.

Maggie sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean ..." She took a deep breath. "I'd better introduce you." Turning to the man at her side she said, "James, this is Alexis Castle and Martha Rodgers. Ladies, this is James Congreve."

He dropped his head and smiled. "Nice to meet you."

"My, you're a good looking man," Martha said.

James chuckled. "Thank you."

"How do you feel about older women?"

"Grams," Alexis hissed.

"What, dear?"

"What about Chet?"

"Darling, I can look, can't I?"

Maggie finally laughed, if only a little. She hugged them both. "Thank you. I needed that."

Martha smiled. "That's what friends are for, kiddo." She straightened up and smoothed her dress. "Now, where's the bar?"

"I'll escort you," James said. "I think Maggie could do with a drink."

"Excellent idea." Martha hooked her arm through Alexis's.

James looked at Maggie. "Any preferences?"

"Arsenic?"

He grinned. "I'll surprise you." He moved off, his height clearly showing his movement towards the bar, the other two following him.

"Darling, wherever did you find him?" Clarissa Levington had materialised at Maggie's elbow. "And I want one."

Maggie turned to look at her. "Back off. He's far too good to be just a notch on your bedpost."

"Good?"

"Good. Nice. As far above the ranks of your normal conquests as it's possible to get."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Pity." The good humour in her face died away, to be replaced by her business persona. "Maggie, Howard Harrison is here."

"He's ..." Maggie closed her eyes, trying to keep her heart rate from going into hyperdrive. "He's here?" She looked at her book editor. "I thought you said he wasn't likely to turn up?"

"I've got someone with him at the moment, keeping him from the press, but he doesn't seem interested in spilling the beans."

"Clarissa, I didn't plagiarise!"

"I know, Maggie. I know." Clarissa patted her arm. "I'm sure he's only here for the free booze, and not likely to make any trouble."

"And if he does? What then?"

"We'll cross that unlikely bridge when we come to it."

Maggie sighed, wishing she'd told James to make a break for the Canadian border, and not come here to her own personal hell. "Just try and keep him away from me."

"Don't do anything stupid."

"Clarissa, you did the stupid thing in inviting him." Movement to her left had her glancing that way, and she could see a reporter heading in her direction, gearing up his notebook. "Just ... try, will you?"

"I'll do my best." Clarissa slid back into the crowd, and Maggie put on her smile, hoping it reached her eyes.


One eye was closed, she knew that, and touching her face had made her throw up into the shadows. Somewhere on the edge of her hearing she could hear shouting – they must have realised she'd got out. She started to run again, kicking off her shoes as the broken heel made her too slow. There. Light. Cars. So close. But the voices behind her were getting closer.

People. Crossing in front of the alleyway's mouth. Help. Safety.

"Hey!"

She tried to speed up, tripped, attempted to catch herself on the wall but her broken fingers couldn't get a grip, and she shot through into the crowd, finding a space but unable to stop. A blur of yellow, a sound that translated through her body, then she was flying, landing on her back, all the air knocked out of her.

Faces gathered around, some afraid, some trying to help, and she opened her mouth, wanting to speak, to tell them, to plead for someone to make it all stop. To breathe.

"Someone call an ambulance."

"Already done."

"Tell them not to hurry. It's too late."

She gazed brokenly into the sky, everything finally at peace.