Enzo Fabrigazi lived in the penthouse of a tall building overlooking Central Park West, where even the atrium reeked of wealth. They'd announced themselves and the doorman had made them wait while he buzzed up, but it was less than a minute before he waved them through.
"You'd never think you could make this kind of money out of designing clothes, would you?" Ryan asked as they waited for the elevator.
His partner looked him up and down. "Not yours, anyway," Esposito said.
Ryan wasn't annoyed, but he said in defence, "Jenny bought this for me." He glanced down at the teal blue shirt. "It goes with my eyes."
"She said that, did she?"
"Yes."
"Right." Esposito clucked under his breath.
"And how are you and Lanie getting on?" Ryan teased as the elevator doors opened.
As they stepped inside, Esposito held up a hand, one finger raised. "You do not tell anyone." He stabbed at the button marked 'P'.
Ryan grinned, his Irish charm on full. "Not said a word," he promised.
The truth was, they were partners, and more than that they were friends, so both knew exactly what was going on in the other's private life.
"Especially to Castle," Esposito went on.
Ryan was surprised. "Not Beckett?"
Esposito suddenly found his shoes fascinating. "She ... uh ..."
"She guessed?" Ryan laughed out loud. "Bro, she is going to make your life hell when she gets back!"
"I'm thinking she's going to be adult about it. And it's nothing to do with her."
"Lanie's her best friend. And you seriously think she's not going to blab to Castle?"
"I'm hoping she's more professional than that."
Ryan clapped his partner on the back, almost making him stagger. "Hope on," he advised, a wide grin splitting his features. "Hope on."
The elevator doors opened on what appeared to be a lifesize Chinese doll, but when she spoke they realised she had to be real.
"Detectives," she said, bowing slightly. "This way." She turned, her silk kimono swishing on the oak floor. She led them across the fashionably sparse apartment and out through huge folding doors onto a wide flat roof, half-filled with an impossibly blue pool. "Mr Fabrigazi will see you now," she whispered, her perfectly made up face barely moving.
"Thanks," Esposito said, dropping his head.
She bowed again and glided away, and both partners watched her until she was out of sight, her movements so tiny it looked as if she was on rollers rather than feet, then they both turned back to the pool.
Enzo Fabrigazi was lying on a lounger under a sunshade, his shock of full white hair in contrast to his tanned complexion. He wore a pair of loose black swimming shorts and an unbuttoned fiery red short-sleeved shirt, but they could see the man beneath was showing his age, his skin loose in places on a thin frame, despite the muscles that lined his arms like whipcords.
"Gentlemen. Please, sit." He indicated two chairs under similar sunshades, and smiled. "Did Yuki offer you refreshment?"
"No," Esposito said as they sat down, "but we're fine."
Enzo tutted. "I am still training her. She is coming along, but the niceties ..." He shook his head. "Still, is no matter. So ... what can Enzo do for the great New York police department?" His deep voice still rang with his Italian heritage.
Esposito pulled a picture from the file he was carrying. "Do you recognise this dress?" It was a copy of the photo Rick had stolen from Buckman's desk and Kate had forwarded by simply photographing it herself on her phone and sending it on. The process had left it a little grainy but there was no doubt as to the content.
The old man took it, studied it for maybe ten seconds, then said, "Ah. Carly."
He didn't seem inclined to say any more, so Esposito prompted, "It's one of yours?"
Enzo nodded, still staring. "My creation. For a woman who could wear it."
"Then it's not a copy?"
The old man jerked slightly, looking up. "My dress? Copied?" He tossed his hand into the air. "You think I don't know my own child?"
Esposito glanced at Ryan, who gave the No, please, you go ahead, you're doing fine look. "Your child?"
"I consider all my creations my children. Fabulous. Daring. Unique." He sighed deeply. "And if you have found this one, then you've found Carly?"
"It's ... ongoing," Ryan put in, not exactly lying.
"Can you tell us a bit about it?" Esposito asked. "If you can remember."
Enzo stood up quickly. "Come," he said, walking swiftly back into the apartment, his back straight and belying his seventy-eight years.
They followed, blinking hard to accustom their eyes before seeing the old man disappear through a corner door. Hurrying forward, they found themselves in a light, airy room, glass on two sides, filled with colour.
"Wow," Ryan muttered, seeing bolt after bolt of cloth lining the other two walls, half a dozen mannequins behind a long table draped in rivers of satin that pooled at their base, while four huge architect's drawing boards were placed at the four points of an imaginary cross.
"Is where I still create," Enzo said. "Not for anyone, but my own amusement." He was at a cupboard, and old press that had doors above and half a dozen shallow drawers underneath. He was rummaging in one of them, then gave a cry of satisfaction as he withdrew a large folder. "Here. Here it is." He carried it to the table and opened it up to lay it flat. "My child," he said.
Esposito stared at the drawing on top. It was the dress, beautifully detailed and drawn, almost a work of art in itself. The body inside it was vague, but the face, created with just a few delicate strokes, was unmistakeably Carly Mackintosh. Moving it to one side, he could see half a dozen preliminary sketches, each with a swatch of cloth attached. He fingered one gently. It felt light, like he was handling spider's webs.
"Is there any more of this?" he asked.
Enzo shook his head. "No. Is hand-printed, personally by me. I did enough for the dress, nothing more. And when we cut it, all that was left were fragments. Like that."
"It sure looks the same," Ryan said, studying it over his partner's shoulder.
"As I say, nobody could copy it," Enzo assured them. "Let alone the Fabrigazi twist."
Esposito looked up. "The what?"
Enzo responded by sliding the folder towards him and sifting through the contents, finally coming up with two photos. They were both of Carly Mackintosh in the dress, looking radiant, standing in that very room, but the second was of her back. "The twist. A trademark, if you will."
They gazed at the photo, noting where the dress appeared to turn on itself before flowing out almost into a slight bustle.
"Difficult to do?" Ryan asked.
Enzo chuckled. "See." He picked up a length of crimson silk, maybe two metres long. "Watch. Learn." He ran it through his hands, getting a feel for it, then did something complicated, hand over hand, not exactly knotting it but making it do something it didn't want to until it seemed to fight back. "There." He held it up, showing the exact same twist as on the photo. "The skill is incorporating it into a dress that is essentially two dimensional." He sighed deeply. "It takes more fabric, is not cost-worthy. But Carly insisted." His eyes softened. "I could never deny her."
"Mr Fabrigazi –" Ryan began, but was interrupted.
"Enzo. Please."
"Were you and Carly ... lovers?"
Enzo laughed. "Thirty years ago I was in my prime." He looked down at himself. "Not as you see me here. But vibrant, energetic, full bodied, like a good Italian red wine. I could have anyone I chose."
"Did you choose Carly Mackintosh?"
"For a while." Enzo sighed again. "Only for a little while."
"Where were you when she disappeared?" Esposito asked, the idea of a jilted lover crossing his mind.
"In Milan." He shook his head. "I often thought, if I had been there, I could have stopped it, but ..."
"Stopped what?"
"Whatever happened."
Esposito and Ryan exchanged another look. They were both aware the older man thought he knew something, but they weren't yet in a position to push for an answer.
"Can we borrow these?" Esposito asked, picking up the photos.
"If I get them back." Enzo pulled himself together. "That was the first time she wore it, during that fitting," he pointed out. "Is my memories."
"I'll make sure."
"Then ... yes."
Esposito tucked them into his file. "Thanks." He turned to leave, but his partner had another question.
"Mr Fabrigazi ... Enzo ... what do you think happened to her?" Ryan asked.
For a long moment the designer didn't answer, then when he did it was with a venom that surprised both detectives. "I do not believe she killed herself, no matter what her husband said. That man ... he should have been investigated. He was a brute." He realised what he'd said and his lips slammed together.
"You think he killed her?"
"I am saying nothing." Enzo held up both hands, palms towards them. "Is a long time ago. Is done."
"Well, thank you very much for your help," Esposito said.
Enzo seemed to relax. "Is no problem. And please, come again. I make you a shirt, yes? Each of you."
Esposito smiled. "Maybe."
The old man clapped his hands loudly, and Yuki appeared, still in her kimono. "See them out," he commanded.
She bowed. "This way," she whispered.
The partners went to follow, but stopped when Enzo spoke again.
"Oh. One last thing you might like to know ..."
Whoever was at the door wasn't being very patient. He was knocking for the third time when Rick threw it open.
"Okay, okay," Rick said, then stopped in surprise. "Jerry. Hey. I don't recall ordering a cab."
Jerry Reyes let go of the mermaid and grinned. "I know that, Boss, but you might want to come for a drive anyway."
Rick leaned on the door jamb. "Why?"
"I think I've got some news on your stuff."
Rick felt his stomach flip and he straightened up. "My watch?"
Jerry nodded. "And maybe the TV." He rubbed his hands together. "I told you I'd put out a few feelers. Well, one of 'em got back to me."
For a moment Rick considered the pros and cons. Well, only the pros, actually. "Give me two minutes," he said, gesturing to the jogging pants and disreputable t-shirt he was wearing.
"No problem, dude."
He turned to go and change, almost running into Martha.
"Darling, is that a cab?" she asked, smiling over his shoulder at Jerry.
"Ma'am," the driver said, grinning at her.
"Yeah." Rick moved smoothly around her. "He ... I need to get somewhere."
"Where?"
"Somewhere."
Martha rolled her eyes. "You're going to do something you shouldn't, aren't you?"
"I didn't say that."
"Kiddo, this isn't the city. You get yourself arrested, Kate can't bail you out."
"She hasn't done too badly so far." He grinned at her.
"Just be careful."
"I will." He kissed her cheek and went to move by her.
"In which case you can give me a lift back to the train station."
"You're leaving?" His surprise was palpable.
"I just spoke to Chet. He ... wants to see me." Her face had softened.
Rick's grin became gentle. "So you're not moving back home yet? Or are we talking something more permanent here? Marriage, maybe? Do I need to have words with the young man?"
She hit him lightly on the pad of his arm. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."
"Pity."
This time the slap was harder.
Jerry coughed significantly from the doorway and tapped his watch. "Um, boss?"
"How long does a game of tennis go on for?" Buckman murmured, beginning to get restless.
"Hours, some of them," Kate said, stretching her legs under the cast-iron table.
They were sitting under large umbrellas on the terrace that ran around the side of the Club, overlooking the four courts. Each was occupied, white-clothed figures knocking bright green balls backwards and forwards over the nets.
"Not sure how much more of this I can take." Buckman sipped his coffee, grimacing at the fact that it had gone cold.
Kate was on her third orange juice, and rapidly coming to the opinion that, if Eric Mackintosh didn't finish his game soon, she was going to have to try and find the little girl's room. Either that or shoot the ball.
Her phone trilled, and she checked the display. It was a text from Esposito, with a couple of attachments. She read the blurb then opened the pictures, studying them closely, until Buckman nudged her.
Two men were climbing the steps towards them, one of them barely over five feet with a sweat-shiny bald pate, while the other was tall, a racquet bag in one hand, a white cotton jumper tossed casually over the other shoulder.
"Same time next week?" the first said, looking up.
"Of course."
"And I will beat you one day, Eric. You can't win all the time."
The tall man chuckled. "Keep believing that, Liam."
Liam shook his head and wandered off, waving vaguely over his shoulder.
Buckman stood up. "Mr Mackintosh?"
Eric Mackintosh turned his ice-grey eyes on the detective. "Buckman." It wasn't a question.
"Sir, thank you for seeing us."
"Us?"
"This is Detective Beckett."
Mackintosh smiled at her. "Detective." At least he was slightly more civil. He looked back at Buckman. "Now, what is this all about?" He dropped his tennis bag and indicated the chair, taking one himself. He crossed his legs, his thighs stretching his shorts.
A waiter appeared at his elbow. "Sir?"
"Ah. Iced tea, Christopher." He looked expectantly at the other two.
"I'm good, thanks," Buckman said, having taken his seat.
"And you, Detective?" Mackintosh turned his cool gaze on Kate. "Can I refresh your glass?"
"Sure. Why not?" Kate said, keeping it light, all the while her inner cop warning her to be on her guard, even as she took the opportunity to study the other man.
She noted the surprisingly well-groomed pepper and salt hair after an apparently strenuous tennis game (wig? her inner cop asked, so maybe vain?), the long fingers with manicured nails (someone else to do his dirty work?), the trim body that suggested he did more than play racquet sports to work out (strong – able to overcome a weaker opponent), the dark, even tan (but they knew he didn't have to work for a living).
It was with a jolt that she realised the man in front of her was the same age as Castle – if she hadn't known she'd have said, despite appearances, that he was a decade older.
"Thank you, Christopher," Mackintosh said, effectively dismissing the waiter, who hurried away. "Now, where were we?"
Buckman shifted in his seat, then said, "Althea Banks."
Mackintosh gazed at him, his face expressionless. "So you said when you called my office."
"I'm sure you've seen in the local news about the woman's body found on the beach."
"I rarely read the local papers, but I believe I've heard a little about it. Although I'm not sure what it has to do with me."
"You don't recognise the name?"
Mackintosh didn't speak for a moment, gazing at the other man, then seemed to come to a decision. "Buckman, you have to understand, I don't personally know this woman," he said, dismissing Althea Banks with a slight shrug of one shoulder. "But when you rang my office to make this appointment, I asked them to check. Apparently someone by that name had called, asked to speak to me. She wouldn't say why, so of course they refused."
"And they didn't tell you?" Kate asked.
Buckman glared at her. Accompany and observe, the look said. Not interfere.
"No, why should they?" Mackintosh half-smiled. "They know who my friends are, and if I wish to talk to any of my acquaintances I call them. I don't speak to anyone if I don't choose to." The smile faded. "But I still don't see what this has to do with me."
Buckman stepped back in. "Your mother ... was Carly Mackintosh."
"Of course."
"And she disappeared."
"This is common knowledge, Buckman." Mackintosh's voice had taken on a harder edge, and the continued repetition of the detective's surname, while normal enough in the precinct – after all, other police officers called Kate Beckett – here it was being used almost as an insult. "And I'm sure there's no connection."
"I understand, sir, but it was the manner in which Althea Banks was found that makes that connection." He handed across a photo. "This is her."
It was the shot taken in the morgue, high enough to only hint at the y-incision marring her torso. She could almost have been asleep.
Mackintosh studied it. "No. I've never met her." His cool gaze lifted. "But I can see why you asked. This isn't my mother."
"I never suggested it was."
"My mother was far more … delicate than this. Far less …" He was searching for the right word, and Kate had the irrational conviction he was attempting not to call her common. Whatever he was looking for he finally dismissed it with a wave of the photo. "I don't know who this woman is."
"She didn't come to your house, or attempt to contact you on your private line?" Buckman pushed.
"I said no."
"Of course you did." Buckman almost smiled. Almost. "Mr Mackintosh, can you account for your movements on Monday?"
"Must I?" It wasn't a refusal as much as an imposition.
"It's routine. Just for elimination purposes."
Mackintosh almost sighed. "I suppose so. Well, I had a meeting in the city on Monday morning, so I drove up early. One of my companies has several floors of a block off Madison, so I spent most of the day there, doing various pieces of business. By the time I'd finished it was too late to drive back so I stayed in the corporate apartment."
"Not your own home?"
"There wasn't much point for just one night. And the apartment is well furnished."
"Did anyone see you?"
"I imagine so. I ordered dinner in, watched some television … I'm sure someone noticed me." He smiled. "I am Eric Mackintosh, after all."
"Yes."
"Is that it? Only I have another engagement …"
Buckman stood up. "For the moment."
"That sounds ominous." Mackintosh was happy now.
"There may be a couple more questions, perhaps some clarification."
Mackintosh got to his feet. "Well, if there's anything else, just contact my secretary. She'll know where I am." He held out his hand. "Buckman."
"Mr Mackintosh."
They shook as Kate stood up and moved back out into the full sunlight. It seemed little enough to have waited all that time for, and she was surprised Buckman hadn't mentioned the dress, or Carly's disappearance except in passing. Still, there had been times she'd played her own questions close to her chest, keeping back information she could use to confront a suspect later.
She stopped breathing for a second. Was that what Mackintosh was? A suspect? Castle obviously thought so, at least from the murder wall she'd taken a closer look at. But if his alibi could be corroborated …
Mackintosh turned to her. "Detective. A pleasure to meet you." He took her hand, holding it slightly longer than was necessary, before letting go and picking up his tennis bag. "Another time." He smiled and walked away.
She resisted the temptation to wipe her hand down her pants, despite the fact that his grip had been warm and dry.
"Come on," Buckman said. "Let's get out of here before I kill someone."
Kate waited until they were outside again, walking back to the cars, before stating what had been on her mind ever since Mackintosh had sat down. "You don't like him."
"Is it that obvious?"
"I'm a cop. I notice things like that. Besides, you were too nice to him."
"Like he said, he's Eric Mackintosh. He's one of the richest bastards in the Hamptons."
"That doesn't mean he's above the law."
"No, but it does mean he can afford the best lawyers. We were lucky – he could've called in the big guns to be there, but he didn't."
"He wanted to look innocent."
"He might be."
"You think so?"
"Detective Beckett, I'm keeping an open mind. There's no evidence one way or the other, not yet. And the fact that I don't like the man ... well, it just means I have to be that much more careful."
"Gut feeling?"
Buckman leaned on the top of his car, hands turning the key absently. "I don't listen to my gut."
"Then your cop instincts. Whatever you want to call it."
"My instincts say to wait and see." He held up a hand to forestall Kate's objections. "And we've got someplace else to be."
"Where?"
Buckman's lips twitched. "How good are you at following?"
"Like I said, I'm a cop."
"Great. You follow me and you'll find out."
Michael Farraday, ME to the East Hampton police force, looked about twelve. He wasn't, of course, but with his fresh face, light tenor voice and cheery demeanour, Kate could well believe he had just left high school. It was only when he smiled, and the lines were a little deeper at the corner of his eyes than expected, that she could almost believe he had been in the same graduating class as Lanie.
"Hey, Mike," Buckman said, leading the way into the pathology lab.
"Buck." Faraday tossed the sheet back over the body he'd just finished sewing up. "You're late."
"We got caught up." Buckman nodded down at the shrouded figure. "Anyone I know?"
"Nope. A kid from the city. Ran his car off the pier, thanks to a combination of booze and marijuana."
"An accident?"
"Waiting to happen." Faraday signalled a tech, who hurried silently forward on shuttered feet to roll the gurney away. "I think Marty's informing next of kin."
"Rather him than me." Buckman waited until the doors had swung to before saying, "This is Detective Kate Beckett, by the way. NYPD."
Faraday grinned. "Best looking woman we've had in here in a long time. And I count those on the slab, too."
"Ignore him," Buckman advised. "He doesn't get to see the outside world that much. I think the formaldehyde's made him senile."
"Just because I get better conversations from my customers." Faraday laughed. "Anyway, Lanie told me you'd be coming."
"Lanie?" Buckman looked intrigued.
"Lanie Parish, our ME," Kate explained.
"And an old friend," Faraday added.
"Is that why I feel outnumbered?" Buckman shook his head, but for once he was actually looking relaxed.
"Buck, you feel outnumbered when you're on your own." Faraday stripped the latex gloves from his hands with a snap before saying to Kate, "Anyway, it's nice to finally meet you. I hope Lanie hasn't told you too many of my secrets."
"Not a one, I assure you."
"Then remind me later to tell you some of hers."
"Mike, can we get down to business?" Buckman interrupted.
"No problem." Faraday's eyes twinkled. "But before I forget. Sunday. My place. Barbecue."
"Not sure I can make it." Buckman sounded almost apologetic. "I might be working."
"Even you must get some time off."
"I'll see."
"I'm surprised Kelly doesn't divorce you. She hardly sees you at the best of times."
"Yeah, well, she spends a lot of her spare time at the hospital."
"Cassie any better?"
"They're … hopeful."
"Good. Anyway, you give them my love and tell Cassie I'll be by in a day or two. I might even bring her something interesting."
"Mike, you spoil her."
"And who else do I have to spend my hard-earned money on?"
"Get yourself a wife. Then you won't have a penny to spare."
"I'm going to tell Kelly you said that. Maybe then she'd leave you and come to me."
"Mike. Please. Work. You got anything new to give me?"
"Not much." Faraday grew serious. "There's no viable DNA from the sexual activity, which isn't surprising since the body was immersed in water. I did, though, find some marks around her neck, showing possible strangulation."
"I thought she drowned."
"She did. The internal damage wasn't enough for asphyxiation, so it's more likely to be for some other reason."
"During the rape?"
"There's no particular indication the sex wasn't consensual, but from the levels of tranquilliser it's probable she wasn't in a full state of wakefulness."
"So our perp liked playing games."
Kate knew what he was alluding to. Some rapists enjoyed half-strangling their victims, letting them breathe so they think they're going to survive, then doing it again. It was all about control. "He's a sadist," she commented.
"As far as I'm concerned, all rapists are," Buckman said, pulling at the waistband of his pants.
"Oh, and before you ask, no," Faraday continued. "I checked. She wasn't frozen. There's no sign of cell lysis which there would be, particularly if she'd been stored for thirty years."
Kate looked at Buckman in surprise. "You asked?"
"Of course." The detective's mouth twitched. "I had to eliminate the possibility."
"She'd eaten," Faraday went on, "a burger and fries. From the amount of digestion I'd say probably lunchtime. After that nothing until the champagne."
"Champagne?"
"Mmn. I'd guess the tranqs were dissolved in it. An expensive bottle, too. Bollinger Blanc."
"How much?"
"Around $400 a pop."
"Shit."
"Something to do with the grapes used, apparently." Faraday turned away and picked up a large paper evidence bag. "And I got out what you wanted."
"Ah, great."
Using a scalpel to open the bottom of the bag, Faraday tipped out a riot of colour onto the stainless steel table.
"The Fabrigazi," Kate murmured.
"It seemed a shame," Faraday said, "but we had to get it off her. Still, I think we did a good job opening it up by the seam." He flattened it out as best he could, the fabric crackling slightly as salt crystals were dislodged.
"It looks the same," Kate said, studying it. "Can we see the back?"
"No problem." Faraday turned the dress over.
Kate held out her phone, thumbing to the second of the pictures Esposito had forwarded. "I'd say we had a match."
Faraday peered over her shoulder. "I agree. It's not something I've come across before. Very complicated."
"The Fabrigazi twist." She took a deep breath. "And just one other check …" Very carefully she lifted the back of the dress away along the open seam, exposing the inside of the low neckline at the back. There, stitched into the binding, was a black satin label, crumpled and salt-stained, but unmistakably showing two initials in tarnished silver – an intertwined E F – and the number 935.
"His?" Buckman asked, finally convinced.
"And the number of this particular unique creation," Kate confirmed.
Buckman hitched his thumbs in his pants waistband and exhaled heavily. "So it's not a fake. Or a copy."
"No."
"Then how the hell did it get from Carly Mackintosh to Althea Banks?"
Kate couldn't answer.
Faraday, on the other hand, gave a short grunt of laughter. "I've no idea," he said. "Which is why I'm the pathologist and you're the cop."
"You're no help," Buckman grumbled, just as his cell rang. He stepped back to answer it.
Faraday took the opportunity to corral Kate against the table. "If you're still here on Sunday, you're more than welcome to come by my place, join the crowd. They're not all cops."
Kate smiled. "I'll think about it."
"That means no."
"No, it means I'll think about it."
"You can bring Castle if you have to."
Now Kate laughed. "Does his reputation precede him?"
"No. Just what Lanie told me over the phone." He nudged her. "Go on. Live dangerously."
"I'll ask. Okay?"
"No, but I suppose it will have to do."
Buckman's call finished and he slid his phone back into his pocket. Stepping forward again he shook his head. "Well, Detective Beckett, it looks like you're going to have the pleasure of my company for a while longer," he said.
"Oh? Why?"
"It seems your friend has been arrested. Again."
Kate's jaw dropped. "Castle?"