Hunt the Hunter: Chapter 11
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.
Sunday, July 28th, at Finn Rourke's Bar in New York City, at 6:25 p.m.
Richard Castle arrives at Rourke's establishment a few minutes later than he had anticipated, given a small fender bender along the way that slowed the taxi traffic. Not wanting to keep the man waiting, Castle opted to hop out a block away and walk the remaining distance instead of sitting through the traffic which has slowed to a crawl.
Opening the door, his eyes have to quickly adjust to the darkened interior. The bar is noisy, with laughter and merriment already in full swing on the last evening of the weekend. By now, Castle knows the routine. He doesn't need to ask for Rourke. The man likely already knows that he has arrived. No, Castle will keep their established protocol and simply walk over and take a seat at the bar counter, order a drink, and wait for the slightly eccentric and not-so-slightly frightening mobster to make his presence known. Members of the Westies have noticed his arrival, but have turned back to their drinks, their stories and their pool games. It's a good sign that the crew has – if not accepted him – at least has progressed to the point that they ignore him.
He sits at the bar, feeling just a tad on edge as he has opted for blue jeans and a black button-up shirt. No jacket, this is a radical change from his typical outerwear. Somehow, though, it does make him feel both comfortable and out of his element in this setting. No matter, he sees Lizzy walking toward him, and, yeah, sure enough, she is bringing a bottle of whiskey and two glasses with her.
"Hello, Lizzy," he greets her with a smile, while remembering the not-so-subtle warning from the woman's father given just yesterday.
"It's Eliza," she corrects him. "Dad is the only one who calls me Lizzy," she continues, pouring a quick drink into the two glasses. Each glass has a two single ice cubes. "Mom's name was Elizabeth. They named me Eliza, which is what I always go by. Except with Dad."
"You said your mother's name was Elizabeth," he comments, noting the past tense she uses. He lets the thought hang for a few seconds.
"Died when I was thirteen," she replies, filling in the blanks. "A drug deal gone bad. Very bad. Somehow Mom was caught in the crossfire."
A large number of puzzle pieces fall nicely into place with the woman's admission. This explains Finn Rourke's outright hatred of the drug business, and anyone dealing with drugs. Drugs have taken away someone very important in his life. That loss has left a very permanent mark on the man's psyche.
"That explains a lot, Eliza," he notes softly. "I'm sorry."
"Yeah, well, life happens sometimes," she muses just as softly, where only he can hear. He wisely chooses not to press the issue for details, although his writer's brain and newly-emerging private investigator's curiosity screams at him to ask, ask, ask. Instead, he grabs a hold of the glass in front of him and takes a long swallow of the drink, enjoying the slight burn that accompanies it.
"So, Eliza," Castle begins, as he waits for her father to show, and looking to change the topic to something more upbeat. "Is bartending the extent of Eliza Rourke's daily life, or does she hide a secret identity being protected in this kind establishment?"
Eliza laughs, and her laugh is loud and genuine, clearly unaccustomed to such an articulate banter being laid at her feet. Not by the patrons of this 'establishment.' Still, laughing, she decides to play along.
"Why Mr. Castle," she chuckles, "there is so much behind this counter that you are unaware of," and she takes an equally long swallow, her eyes sparkling. She notes the clear interest in his eyes, smiling to herself. Then, just as quickly, she sees when the interest leaves his eyes, replaced by a dullness, replaced by a . . . it's almost a sadness. She mentally nods, understanding.
The photo. Whoever she is, she has left a scar of unimaginable pain on the man in front of her.
"You lose interest so easily, Mr. Castle," she comments, eyeing him carefully.
"Not a loss of interest, m'lady," he offers with a wistful smile. "More a loss of courage."
"My father's words carry that much weight with you?" she asks, mischievously, as she watches her father approach he counter, unbeknownst to the writer.
"No," he responds simply. "It is more recent events that have dampened my willingness. Your father's words would not influence me as much as you suspect."
"Is that so, Mr. Castle," the older man bellows in his ear.
"Eep!" Castle almost screeches, his voice an octave higher, and the patrons at the bar burst out in raucous laughter, joined by Lizzy Rourke. That's twice now the mobster has snuck up on him in this bar. Clearly he is going to have to work on that sixth sense that every P.I. he has read about in books and seen on the big screen seems to possess. Rather than backpedal and try to explain, Castle takes the different road. He's spent little time here, but has already learned that respect must be earned here. No apologies tonight, he will get right to business.
"Mr. Rourke," he nods his head and holds up a glass in a mock salute. "Thank you for seeing me again."
Rourke smiles inwardly, taken aback by the writer's sudden courage. Perhaps his daughter is good for the man, or perhaps the man is finally finding a pair of long-lost stones. Either way, Rourke is delighted with the development. If he is going to help this man, and if this man is going to be of any use to him, he's going to need this man to grow a pair, indeed.
"I will get right to it, Mr. Castle," Rourke tells him. "The night, she is still young, eh? I'd like to enjoy her company before it gets late," he says affably, as he grabs the third glass on the counter that his daughter has placed down, already filled. He takes a swallow and continues.
"I've decided to help you, Mr. Castle."
"That's great news," an obviously happy and somewhat surprised Richard Castle replies, the excitement on his face plain to all. "Can I ask why?"
"You may," the grizzled old man replies, taking another swallow.
Castle pauses, then chuckles at the joke. Finn Rourke is making a joke with him?
"Okay, I'll bite," Castle nods, as he takes a swallow himself. "Why help me?"
"Because I know of the man of whom you speak," Rourke tells him, his smile now gone and a glint of something sinister in his eyes. No, this is not a man to make an enemy, Castle notes.
"He is of a dark lot, that one," Rourke continues. "I don't mind the leader of the free world being a bit ruthless. You can almost appreciate that trait sitting in that office. But the truly dark ones? They belong here, in the streets, in bars like this one. Where they can be watched. Where they can be dealt with. They do not belong in the White House."
Castle doesn't move, doesn't respond. He is simply intrigued by the mindset of the man next to him, and silently wonders how many others of his ilk share his beliefs.
"And," Rourke presses onward, "he will have our streets running red with blood without the slightest hesitation."
With this, Castle nods. Yeah, he has just described Senator William Bracken perfectly. However, Castle now recalls that he has never mentioned Bracken's name to the mobster. Now is not the time for assumptions. He has to be sure that they are on the same page.
"I don't want to insult you Mr. Rourke," Castle begins, "but I do need to make sure that you and I aren't talking past each other. The man I referred to yesterday –"
"Is Senator William Bracken," Rourke adds testily in his gruff voice. "If you are coming to me for help, Mr. Castle, give me credit to understand your little riddles."
Castle nods respectfully. "My mistake, Mr. Rourke. Please accept my apology."
"No apology needed," Mr. Castle. "Just some mutual respect," he says, spitting the last word out with clear emphasis.
"Where do we start?" Castle asks. He turns and eyes Eliza, who stands next to them behind the bar, clearly intrigued with the discussion – and the foreplay – being conducted in front of her. She notes that her father is making allowances for Castle – and it surprises her.
"Can I get a refill, please, Eliza?" he asks,
"Eliza?" Rourke comments, an eyebrow raised suspiciously.
His daughter simply smiles, and pours more whiskey into Castle's glass before turning and walking – very slowly – to the other end of the bar to take an order from a loud patron who has slammed his mug on the counter.
"We start by following the money," Rourke begins, still eyeing Castle warily. "Watching the runners, following their trail. They aren't going to just take their drug money and walk into a bank with a deposit slip," he chuckles. "No, the banks have caught on to the typical laundering procedures. So, somewhere there is a pile of cash. A mighty big pile, Mr. Castle. And where there are piles of cash, there are counters. And where there are counters, there is a vehicle, a means for them to get the counted cash offshore. Once offshore, it will be funneled back here – legally. Once here, it is impossible to trace. So we must start with the known runners."
"Who owns these runners?" Castle asks.
"Simmons," Rourke spits out with venom. "Vulcan Simmons."
The change in Castles demeanor, and how Castle fidgets on the stool tells Rourke that – yeah – Richard Castle knows Vulcan Simmons, or knows of him. Castle remembers Simmons clearly. More, he remembers Simmons as the one perp in the box who caused Kate Beckett to completely lose it, to abandon her vaunted cool. Not many can cause that to happen. Yeah, he knows of Vulcan Simmons, and Simmons is a force to be reckoned with.
"I see from your reaction that you know of him," Rourke comments.
"You could say that, yes," Castle mutters. Rourke simply nods, his curiosity spiking. He will ask that question at a later time. He hears the ping on Castle's phone, and watches the writer glance down. He notices the frown – one of confusion - that appears on his face. The look disappears, quickly withdrawn, as Castle zones back into their conversation, shaking his head at his phone.
"Nasty fellow," Rourke continues. "Black Teflon, we call him. Nothing sticks to him. And he is ruthless beyond all measure, beyond any reason."
"Kind of got that sense as well," Castle nods quietly. "So, how do I get close enough to watch him, or his people."
"You don't, Mr. Castle," Rourke smiles. "I have my own ways."
Sunday, July 28th, At the Capital Yacht Club in Washington, D.C., at 6:45 p.m.
Kate Beckett stands in front of the mirror in the women's restroom inside the Capital Yacht Club. She wears a red wig, cut in a short style that hangs above her shoulders. She wears blue contact lenses, framed by large, plastic, black-rim glasses and a fake mole on her cheek. A biker's jacket and tight blue jeans complete the disguise. She idly wonders if even Richard Castle would walk past her, unknowingly. The thought of the writer causes her to pause, as she stares in the mirror.
She tries to push the thought – the man – out of her mind, but cannot. Jordan probably wouldn't appreciate this, but she has to reach out to him. Too much time has gone by, and whether he is ready or not, she has to get the lines back open. Or at least try. She knows that the more time that goes by, the easier she will be to forget – the harder it will be to get him back.
Taking her phone out, she pulls up his contact information, and types her message out.
KATE: Just saying hello, Rick. I know you aren't ready. My mistake was staggering.
She considers saying more, but opts against it. This is enough for now. She wants him to know she is thinking of him. She wants him to know that she is well aware of what she did. Right now, she just wants to turn the lights back on, however dimly. Their fall – instigated by her – was from the highest of heights. It will take time to rebuild. But time is all she has right now.
If she can survive this latest little game conducted by the Senator.
She has spent the better part of the afternoon and early evening getting the lay of the land here at the Club, and it has paid off. An hour ago, she sat at a table, reading a magazine when a man entered the club and walked to the bar. The man glanced around, and Kate used her peripheral vision to watch him. She occasionally giggled softly to add to the appearance of a patron simply being lost in some amusing article.
After a few minutes, she noticed when he stood up from the bar and walked toward the side and appeared to stumble, dropping his drink and his cell phone. She had nodded appreciatively at the ruse, and watched as he subtly kicked his phone toward the podium where Senator Bracken is going to be standing. The tables are already set in place for tomorrow morning's event, with four chairs set in circular fashion around each table. She watched – like fans at a sporting event watching a horrific replay of an injury – as she realized she had a front seat view of a master killer, if there is such a thing, preparing the venue for his killing. He reached the first table, where she knows that the Senator will be sitting, along with two staff personnel and one Deputy Director Anthony Freedman. She had her phone out, placed strategically on her table, videotaping the entire proceeding.
Scott Dunn had bent over, presumably to pick up his shattered phone from the floor, but expertly had retrieved a small item from his inside jacket pocket. The small object was placed on the underside of the table, on a corner. Quickly and smoothly, he had lifted himself upward, making a broad gesture of cursing the broken screen on his cell phone.
Her experience told her to look away, and right at the right moment, she was looking out the window, appearing to be interested in something passing by as he glanced her way, then at a couple of other patrons, just to ensure he hasn't been made by anyone. Minutes later, the serial killer walked out of the Club, humming a tune to himself. She watched him walk toward the pier, and sit on a bench for ten minutes. She knew what he was doing – simply biding time to ensure that no one was the wiser. Then, in a moment she now considers pure serendipity, she watched Scott Dunn slowly stand and walk toward the row of boats on the wharf. Reaching the fifth boat, a smooth, sleek Sea Ray 410 Sundancer, he had given one last quick glance before boarding the sports yacht and going underneath. Ten minutes later, he reappeared, stepping to the street to pick up a cab that he had obviously called for while on the boat. So much for picking him up now – at least she knows where he is now hiding out.
Now, standing in the women's room, she puts her phone away and returns her thoughts to the serial killer, and what she has learned. She has left the small bomb on the underside of the table in place. With Dunn literally housing himself across the street, the chances are far too good that he will come again tonight, just to make sure nothing has been changed on his battlefield. She will return tomorrow morning. The breakfast event kicks off at 9am, and everyone will be setting things up early. She will get here with them, and remove the device at that time.
She considers the video that has come earlier this afternoon that Freedman had alerted her to. The riddle had simply reinforced the location, and Kate knows that he expects her to be here tomorrow. So there will be no need for a disguise tomorrow. She can walk here freely, and take care of things.
"My parents used to take me to the boat show every year when I was a little boy," Dunn had said in the video. "We could never afford one, but I loved walking on the decks, going underneath, feeling like I was someone important."
That was it, and Kate mentally sends up another note of thanks that they have figured out the acrostic in time. Had they not, this one would have been difficult. And knowing if they didn't show, Dunn would simply take out three innocent people while the Senator was primping and posing up front, well . . . she is thankful that that isn't going to happen now.
She grabs her helmet from the vanity in the restroom, and places it on her head, and walks out of the ladies room, making a beeline for the front door. Once outside, she hops on the black Harley, guns it to life and roars off down the street, on her way back to the Federal Building. Tomorrow is going to be a big day. But for now, she needs the Deputy Director to see what she has recorded. If he still has any misgivings, he won't after seeing this. She also knows that he probably won't sleep well tonight.
Sunday, July 28th, At La Chaumiere in Washington, D.C., at 6:45 p.m.
The setting is dark and cozy in the back corner of the well-known French restaurant on M Street in Washington, D.C.
Located just across the street from the Four Seasons Hotel, it is the typical spot where Senator William Bracken likes to meet with his Queen. It's convenient for her – which is always his top priority – as she always stays at the Four Seasons. He always ensures that her room – always the sixth floor corner suite – is available. She enjoys the old-world brick architecture which dominates the exterior that contrasts with the very modern décor inside the rooms and in the downstairs bar.
He sits, waiting patiently, sipping on a glass of red wine – her favorite that he has already ordered – nibbling on the bread when he sees her walking towards their table. As always, he is completely enthralled with this woman, her exotic beauty, the way she carries herself. And as always, he has to fight against the sudden inner arousal that comes with seeing this woman for the first time. It's an easy battle to fight, however, as he knows the line that she has very clearly drawn between them. He is the King, she is the Queen, but not the wife. He has one of those already, and she will never be any man's 'on-the-side' second. She has made that abundantly clear.
He is also aware of her rather draconian methods for dealing with unwanted suitors. Still, even the hint of danger that walks with her excites him.
Standing as she approaches, he reaches across to pull the chair out for her. She smiles, sits, and leans forward to offer him a soft kiss on the cheek. Her perfume is intoxicating, and he wonders where she will end up tonight, as clearly this is not for him.
"Hello," she whispers.
"Hello, Elena," he replies just as softly. "Thank you for coming. I do not take you for granted – I appreciate your willingness to come so quickly."
"You are welcome, William," she smiles demurely, and he can tell that although she gives the appearance that he is the only person in the room, she is actually taking in her surroundings. Her eyes casually glance here and there, her neck arching slightly so as to give the appearance that she is stretching.
"No one is here, Elena," he tells her. "I've been here for ten minutes, making sure."
"Your reconnaissance is not mine," she simply gives him – still smiling. When she is satisfied that there is no danger, she relaxes ever so slightly.
"You look marvelous, as always," he tells her. She smiles, returning the compliment.
"As do you. And thank you for the wine," she comments as she takes a sip. "It is magnificent, as usual."
Then, as always, she is straight to business. It is something that both intrigues and infuriates him about this tigress.
"So, I have the three targets," she mentions casually. "What are your wishes?"
"My two bishops have outlived their usefulness. They have both become reckless, far more interested in playing games with my pet detective," he chuckles. "Those two loose cannons will undo my campaign goals."
"I have warned you that you would someday lose control of your bishops," she notes with a bit of disdain. She recognizes that she, herself, is a killer. But she sees the two bishops as mass murderers who enjoy taking innocent lives. She prides herself on the fact that she has never killed 'an innocent'. Now, whether anyone truly deserves to die is an open discussion for poets and philosophers far smarter than she. But to take the life of innocents – that is a line she has never crossed.
In truth, however, she has looked forward to the moment when the Senator would give her the green light to take these two men out.
"Yes you have," he admits, "and my request of you is to relieve me of their presence."
She nods, and he can see the glint in her eyes that tells him this is an assignment she relishes, and has anticipated with 'great joy', as she often tells him.
"What of the writer?" she asks. That one is a bit of a surprise for her. She has never considered him a threat, although that is not her place. But moreover, she has also developed something of a liking for Richard Castle. His stories, his imagination has given her enjoyment in many flights, in many hotel rooms. She has often looked forward to someday meeting the man. Not to get a book signed, or anything like that. But just to carry on a short conversation, a minute – no more – to see if he truly is what he appears to be in his books.
"I just want you to keep an eye on him, Elena," he tells her quickly. "Find out if he knows anything about Lazarus – anything at all. I'm not interested in anything happening to him, but I've also decided I'm not going to make the mistake of underestimating him. I have done that recently with his ex-detective, and it could have easily come back to haunt me."
"So, your plan to drive a wedge between the two actually worked?" she offers him with surprise in her voice. She had mentally placed a wager that he would be unsuccessful in breaking up the storybook romance between Kate Beckett and Richard Castle.
"Far easier than even I anticipated," he smiles. "Vaughn was quite effective, and some level of doubt had to have been there already," he muses.
"Then she is not as smart as she appears," Elena replies.
"In some ways, my dear," he responds. "In some ways. Regardless, once you take care of my two problems, I would ask that you just keep an eye on the private investigator, just for a few –"
"Who?" she asks with confusion on her face.
"Oh, that's right," he laughs out loud. "You don't know. When the detective left, he decided to fill the void by becoming a private investigator." He continues laughing, while Elena simply takes this new information in.
"Interesting," is all she says, before she continues their conversation. "You said a few . . . days, weeks?"
"Just a few days," he replies quickly. "I know your time is precious. Just a few days to make sure he isn't snooping, or getting close to anything."
"And if he is?" she asks, feeling – for her - a very unusual sense of foreboding.
"Well," he mutters, "let's just cross that bridge if it gets to that."
She nods her head as their waiter appears, introducing himself as Jean-Pierre, and showing them tonight's menu.
Sunday, July 28th, at Finn Rourke's Bar in New York City, at 7:18 p.m.
Finn Rourke has taken his leave from the bar counter, leaving Richard Castle alone at the bar. There are two empty seats between Castle and the nearest patrons, and the newly-registered private investigator considers tonight's findings. Rourke has agreed to help, and has given him a few details on the operations of Vulcan Simmons – operations that seem to have changed, escalated in the past few days. Just because Rourke doesn't approve of the drug trade does not mean he is oblivious to it. No, he makes it his business to understand many of the city's workings.
Something is happening – as a new series of drugs have hit the markets, and there are a lot of buyers – but the money trail has disappeared. The normal trade of cash isn't happening with these new transactions, and – as Rourke had commented in a fit of laughter – these new babies aren't being given away for free.
Castle considers these musings when Eliza drops a menu in front of him.
"Seeing that you are still here, I assume you might be hungry," she tells him.
"Actually, until you said something, I actually wasn't very hungry,' he realizes. "Are you eating dinner tonight?"
"Not for a long while," she tells him. "I'm here till closing. The burgers here are good, as are the fish and chips."
"Fish and chips it is," he smiles, then adds "since you are here until closing."
"You're an interesting man, Mr. Castle," she offers him with a smile. "But you are damaged goods. When you have made peace with the woman in your photo, call me. I don't care if you delete her photo or keep it. But I will not compete with a shadow. Even for something as simple as a dinner."
Castle smiles – a genuine smile tonight – appreciating her honesty, her transparency. It is refreshing – and it is the second time in the past few weeks that he has been offered honesty by a woman. He's far from ready to jump back into the fray again. She doesn't realize it, but she has nailed it completely. Kate Beckett is a shadow – it's a perfect description. And until he deals with that shadow, it's not fair to anyone – himself included.
"Eliza," he tells her, searching for the right words. Not finding them, he settles for a simple word of thanks. "Thank you."
"I have more than enough just to compete with my father's oversight," she tells him with a chuckle, and he joins her with a smile. "I will not have an old flame joining him from the viewing gallery."
Yeah, he finds himself intrigued by this woman. And her father. He laughs to himself as she walks away to the kitchen window, putting his order in with the cook.
He glances at her one last time, and then retrieves his phone from his pocket, and pulls up the text message and reads it one more time before putting his phone back into his pocket.
"Even I couldn't make this stuff up," he muses to himself, and smiles as he spins on the barstool toward the interior of the bar, taking in the atmosphere. It stuns him to realize that he feels quite comfortable and . . . at home here.