His mouth tasted like something had died in there a long time ago. Something fluffy. Or feathered.

Levering one eye open, Rick wasn't surprised to find he was face down on his pillow, arms spread across the counterpane, legs equally wide. He appeared to still be fully dressed, but when he wriggled his toes he had obviously kicked his shoes off at least.

It took an effort but he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, wondering why he was awake. The sky was getting lighter, as he could see through the gap in the curtains, but it was too early to get up and start work.

Then his stomach rumbled.

Ah. Hunger. He hadn't eaten much the day before, not since breakfast really, then what with the fight in the bar … God, the fight. Going into that place without a proper plan, with no backup, it was a wonder he'd managed to walk out of it on his own two feet.

He experimented with moving his jaw from side to side, then explored the proximity of his eye with his fingers. Not too bad. It ached, and he just knew the bruising was going to be spectacular, but at least nothing was broken. Even his teeth were intact, which was a blessing. In fact, as he swung his legs off the bed, his ribs complained most, but nothing that a couple of Advil and a strong cup of coffee wouldn't cure.

He glanced at his bedside clock. 5:17. Oh, yes, definitely too early.

Padding downstairs in his bare feet, he was about to go directly to the kitchen to raid the fridge when he realised somebody was already up. Well, not up, but not in bed. Kate, curled up on the recliner, her hair covering half of her face.

He smiled. She looked so cute like that, all mussed, her eyelashes trembling on her cheeks as she dreamed. The t-shirt she was wearing had slid past one shoulder, and he could see the tendons in her neck, just ready to be kissed …

Enough. She really would shoot him if he did that. In fact, he was surprised he wasn't lying dead in his bed after having given her that peck on the cheek. He didn't know what had come over him – maybe it was concussion after all – but he'd enjoyed it. And he really wanted to do it again, but was rather attached to all his limbs.

Turning back towards the kitchen, he noticed the laptop wasn't in quite the same position as he remembered. Running a hand idly across the keys, it lit up.

Okay. That most definitely wasn't how he'd left it. Text filled the screen, the cursor blinking under the last line …

"Hey."

She was awake, probably yawning, wiping the hair from her cheeks and wondering if her breath smelled, looking absolutely adorable.

That didn't stop him. "You read it."

"What?"

He turned, moving to one side at the same time so she could see the screen. "You read it."

Her chin came up in defiance. "Yes."

"Without asking?"

"Considering how much trouble I had last time getting to see a copy? Too damn right."

"Trouble you …" He closed his jaw with a snap. "You didn't say anything before."

"You should have known." She sat up, the lounger returning to an upright position, and ran her hands through her hair, trying to pull her fingers through the tangles.

"I'm not psychic!"

"It's nothing to do with being psychic. Even that Cosmo reporter read it before I did!"

"And when you finally got around to telling me, I got you a copy! I signed my life away to get it to you, too. And you pretended for days not to have even started it."

Her eyes glittered. "Did it hurt your feelings?"

"Yes!"

"Good! Now you know how I felt!" She got to her feet and picked up the plate he hadn't noticed from the floor, half a tomato and two slivers of lettuce stuck to its surface. She strode for the kitchen.

He had a twinge of guilt that she'd made do with salad for her supper the night before, but pushed it away, buried in an avalanche of feeling violated. Underneath it also occurred to him that they were arguing again, but this too he ignored as he chased after her. "Kate, it's not ready yet."

She'd tossed the remains of the salad into the bin, and now threw the plate into the sink with such force that it broke into three pieces, but the sudden heat of her anger plugged her ears.

"Oh, I could see that."

He bridled. "What do you mean?"

"Most of it's fine, but the last couple of chapters are … terrible."

"Terrible." The urge to kiss her had disappeared, replaced by one to strangle her. Instead he took a step back and blew a long, slow breath between pursed lips, something of a hypocritical smirk on his face. "Would you care to be more specific?"

"There's gaps as if you'd forgotten what you were going to write, some of it doesn't follow on properly, and some of your characters, well …"

"What about them?"

"I mean, Jameson Rook is self-aggrandising enough, but Schlemming?"

"What?" He could have sworn he'd changed all instances of that name after Alexis had commented on it.

"You couldn't just put him in the book, you had to make him an idiot as well?"

"I –"

She didn't let him finish. "And that end. That's it? How you're going to finish it?"

"I …" He stopped, bit his tongue. "Maybe."

"Rook walking away from her."

"So?"

Her eyes narrowed as her synapses made another connection. "You weren't coming back, were you?"

"I never said that. Those words didn't pass my lips. Not once."

"But. There's a huge, neon but hanging there."

"I … didn't think you'd want me." Back. Back, his subconscious tried to make him add, but his heart wouldn't co-operate.

She took the words at face value. "So you walk off with into the sunset with Gina on your arm. Good plan."

"I had to finish Naked Heat."

"And I'm sure she helped keep you focused." The implication was clear.

"You have no idea of the creative flow required to write a book," he said, his hands on his hips. "You're not a writer."

"A writer?" she scoffed, taking a step forward. "A hack, more like."

He mirrored her action. "A …"

They both knew this wasn't really what they were arguing about, but as they closed the distance between them, invading each other's personal space, they didn't care.

"Hack." She made an odd noise of distaste in her throat. "Signing women's breasts."

"Perk of the job."

"A job you obviously love so much you kill off one successful character and plan to do the same with the next?"

His jaw set stubbornly. "I didn't kill Nikki Heat."

"You might as well have. I don't know what the female equivalent of emasculating is, but you managed it. Rook rescues her? Please."

"I told you it wasn't ready."

"Then you have him walking away from her. Like a coward." She shook her head. "Like a typical man."

They were barely an inch apart, and he could see her chest heaving as if she'd run a mile, fury pinking her cheeks, her grey/green glorious eyes flashing fire …

He kissed her. Mouth to mouth, tongue pressing for entrance.

She stood shocked for a moment, then her lips parted, her hands coming up to hold his head even as he weaved his fingers in her hair to pull her closer.

They might have been the only two people alive in the world, wrapped up in each other, the roll of the ocean the only sound as they …

She pulled back, breaking them apart, his lips still reaching for hers, finding nothing but empty air. He gazed into her eyes, trying to see what he should do next, some hint of whether he'd just taken them to the next level or destroyed them entirely.

She let go of his head and he felt lost.

"Kate …"

Someone coughed.

They both turned to the window, where Lyle Buckman was standing framed by the lightening sky, trying not to smile. "I knocked," he said. "But nobody heard." He leaned nonchalantly on the door jamb. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Yes," Kate said, taking a step away. "But it'll keep."

It will? Rick stared at her, but she shook her head.

"Fine." Buckman obviously didn't believe it, but let it lie. "Nice bruises, by the way," he added, nodding towards Rick's face.

"Thanks. What are you doing here this time of the morning?" Rick asked, more than a little testily.

"We're going to raid Sigerson's place," the detective explained, stepping into the room.

Kate raised her eyebrows. "I'm surprised you didn't go in yesterday."

Buckman shrugged. "It took me a while to get Berenger to sign off on the warrant."

"Berenger?"

"Local judge. He can be a bit awkward at times, particularly as I interrupted him just as he was heading to bed, and I had to explain about the watch more than once." He grinned, the action taking years off him. "It wasn't until I pointed out that his daughter had been broken into three weeks ago that he saw the light."

"When are you going to serve it?"

Buckman checked his watch. "In a little under an hour. We should catch Sigerson before he wakes up, since he and some of his pals apparently sleep on the premises." He looked up. "Want to come?"

Kate's shoulders tensed. "Really?"

"You're observing, aren't you?" Somehow, knowing that he was on the verge of perhaps taking down the housebreakers who'd been a thorn in his side for months, he seemed more relaxed.

"I need to change." She glanced down at the t-shirt and leggings she'd put on after her quick shower halfway through reading Naked Heat. She held up a hand, fingers splayed. "Five minutes."

"I might even give you ten."

She smiled slightly and turned for the stairs.

"Kate …" Rick took a step forward, not wanting to leave things as they were.

She glanced over her shoulder. "We will talk," she promised.

Now he felt about six. A memory of breaking his mother's favourite vase skittered across his mind, and her using those very same words. He'd worried for hours about what she had planned as punishment.

As he watched Kate head towards her bedroom, though, he considered it was worth it. Both times.

Waldo Sigerson's garage was set back from Highland down a dusty, litter strewn alley, half-hidden among newer, Hampton-friendly buildings. The owner was probably of the opinion that out of sight was out of mind, and that he could get away with pretty much anything as long as he didn't do it in the street and frighten the horses. So to speak.

Rick, sitting in the back seat of the Chevy, cricked his neck to try and see if anyone was home as Buckman skewed his car to block the entrance. "How many men have you got?" he asked.

"Two going in the back, four in the front." Buckman climbed from the driver's seat, Kate following quickly.

"Great." Rick opened the door.

"No," Kate said quickly, closing it just as fast and nearly trapping his fingers. "You stay put."

"What? No, Kate, I need to be –"

"You need to stay in the car."

Buckman was around the back, opening the trunk and taking out a pair of vests, one of which he tossed to her.

Rick wound the window down. "Kate –"

"No." She shrugged into the Kevlar jacket. "And if you try the puppy dog eyes on me I'll shoot you myself."

He pouted but she ignored him.

"Ready, boss." Two words, spoken softly over the radio on Buckman's hip.

He looked at Kate, and they both loped off towards the garage building without a word needing to be said.

Rick sat back, lips tight. He knew what to do during a tactical strike, had been through them before, wearing his very own specially-ordered vest that said WRITER. Although, to tell the truth, maybe that joke was beginning to get a little old. But so was being told to wait in the car.

He crossed his arms, uncrossed them, then moved forward to lean on the front seats. He could see movement in the morning dawn, but even as he watched it became still. He knew that meant they were ready to go inside, for Buckman to shout an identification, to break in the door, to …

Rick wasn't terribly religious, having broken most of the Commandments more than once, and enjoying it each time, but now he prayed to any god who might be listening that Kate didn't get hurt.

They hadn't really spoken on the drive, at least nothing beyond small talk. And that was the trouble. One kiss, just a small, insignificant, marvellous kiss, but he felt like his whole world was hanging by a thread. Or maybe teetering on a knife blade, where any wrong move would mean he lost his footing and he'd fall to be sliced in two.

His lips twitched at the mental image his writer's imagination insisted on throwing up, then flinched slightly as it continued to his lifeless corpse, split like a rotten melon from crotch to scalp, steaming intestines tossed every which way. He really had to stop watching late night horror movies.

But the whole point was that he felt he'd come to a crossroads. One way with Kate, one without, and maybe a couple more thrown in for good measure. Was she going to ignore it? Shout at him? Kill him? Any of those would be painful enough, but if she told him to never darken her door again, he didn't know if he'd survive.

What if it turned the other way, though? If she wanted this as much as he did? What then? What then, indeed?

He didn't know Kate's thoughts were revolving around exactly the same issue.

A kiss. A very palpable kiss. She could still feel it on her lips as she waited with Buckman, her gun in her hand, and it was distracting. Why now? she was asking herself. Why did you have to complicate things now? We were fine, getting along, making jokes … well, you were making jokes and I was trying not to stamp on your feet. Then you do this.

Buckman signalled the other officers with him to the side door to cover any avenues of escape.

Why did you leave the computer on? Don't you know anything about saving energy? And going on about how you had to keep Naked Heat oh so secret, and there is it, on your desktop. Of course someone was going to read it.

She'd gone for a shower just after the aircraft hangar scene, and the sex that followed it, checking on him as she passed, just to make sure he was still breathing. She'd stood for maybe a good five minutes just watching him, fingering the salt tangles in her hair.

And it's good, but I'm not going to tell you that. And sad. That end … damn you, Castle, why did you write it like that? And then when you kissed me all I wanted to do was …

There was a pale beep from Buckman's radio: everyone was in place. He glanced at her, his eyebrows raised in question. She shook herself mentally and nodded back. Ready.

Voices. Buckman's, then someone else's from inside the garage, shouting abuse.

Rick was out of the car, itching to run forward but mindful of doing what Kate said, at least until they sorted things out.

Gunfire. Three shots, a single followed two in quick succession, then a yell of pain.

He couldn't help it. He ran down the alley, keeping close to the fence on the right hand side, stopping when he got a better view.

Lights were on in the garage, but all movement appeared to have stilled.

What had happened? Was she hurt? Had she had to fire at someone, and maybe got shot herself? What would he do if she died? Again his imagination supplied gruesome images, segueing into a funeral procession for a cop, all the other officers in dress uniform with prominent black armbands, then a coffin lowered into a gaping hole in the ground …

He sagged back against the fence, closing his eyes as he tried to breathe.

"I knew you couldn't do it."

His eyes slammed open, and he stared straight into the face of Kate Beckett. "I heard gunfire." He knew it sounded weak, even to his own ears.

She shook her head, but her lips were slightly curved. "One of the bad guys didn't want to come quietly. He's a little bit bloody."

Rick pushed himself upright. "Everyone else all right?"

Yes, I am, she almost assured him, but said, "Fine. Everyone's fine." She turned on her heel. "Come on."

Tagging along like a puppy who had suddenly realised he was going to be taken for a walk after all, Rick followed her into the garage.

Inside it was bigger than he had imagined, with three cars in various states of disembowelment, and another two that looked ready to roll off the production line. Along each of the walls were long benches covered in spare parts, as well as half a dozen laptops and other electronic equipment, while at the far end was what looked like storage, with a sort of mezzanine above it, containing the detritus of living that suggested this was where Sigerson and his cronies spent their off time.

Sigerson himself was bent over the hood of one of the cars, his face pushed into the metal by one of the police officers, none too gently from all appearances, hands secured by cuffs at the centre of his back. Two more of his gang were kneeling on the grease-dirty floor, covered by another pair of cops, likewise restrained, while a fourth was sitting on the stairs leading to the second level. His hand was clasped to his shoulder, a grimace of pain staining his features, but he too was being watched carefully.

Buckman was talking into his cellphone, ordering an ambulance and assorted clean-up.

"Well?" Kate said.

Rick turned to her. "Well … what?"

"Any of these yours?" She indicated the computers.

A lightbulb went on over his head. "Oh. Right."

"If not, if looks like there's a lot more stuff in the locker back there."

"So Buckman was right."

"What about?"

"He thought they might be keeping it, ready to sell on later. In fact, he hoped they were."

"Yes, well, nobody ever accused them of having brains."

Sigerson growled.

Rick stepped to one of the benches, studying the machines, one after the other. Then … "That's mine," he said, pointing to one of the computers.

Kate moved closer. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. That crack on the cover … I did it when I had writer's block."

"I didn't think you ever got that," she teased.

He grinned, glad at least that they were still sparring. "Slip of the tongue."

Buckman approached. "I've got people heading this way. It's going to take most of the day to log everything in, but I'd say it's pretty much all here."

"Including my laptop," Rick said, pointing.

"Aren't you the lucky one."

"Hey, and my rental." He'd just noticed one of the stripped cars looked familiar.

"I think you've lost your Collision Damage Waver," Kate murmured, but he ignored her. "Castle?"

He was running his hand over another of the car carcasses. "Kate, it's a VW."

Something sparked in her mind. "What?"

"A Volkswagen Beetle."

She stared at it, the shape of the hood ringing a bell loud and clear. "Buckman," she said quietly. "Althea Banks drove a Volkswagen, didn't she?"

"Yeah." He pulled his notebook from the back pocket of his pants. Flicking through it quickly, he came to the note he'd made of the licence plate. "Except they're missing," he added as he glanced at the car. He turned to Sigerson, motioning the cop holding him to let him up. "Where are the plates?"

"What?" Sigerson scowled at him, his cheek red from its prolonged contact with metal.

"The plates. For the VW."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

The cop holding Sigerson shook him, making his hair fly.

"Waldo, you really want to be co-operating right now," Buckman said on a sigh. "You're so deep in the shit right now you need as much help as you can get."

The big man glared, but eventually jerked his head towards the bench closest. "Over there."

Buckman strode across, Kate and Rick following. He sorted amongst various items, then pounced, a licence place in his hand. "Yes."

"That's it?" Rick asked.

"That's it."

"They're not in situ, though," Kate pointed out.

"No, but I'm betting once we get the VIN number they'll match up." Buckman turned to face Sigerson again. "Where did it come from?"

"Huh?"

"The Volkswagen," he repeated. "Where did it come from?"

"That?" Sigerson dismissed it with a toss of his head. "Damn thing was at the marina, the keys still in it. Just asking to be lifted."

"When?" Buckman wanted to know. "Come on. Do yourself a favour."

"Sunday," Sigerson responded grudgingly.

"What time?" This time it was Rick.

"Earlyish. About 8 am. I didn't make a note of it." Sigerson's tone was full of sarcasm. He glared at Rick. "And this is all your fault. I should have cracked your skull open with the pool cue when I had the chance instead of just uglying up your face."

"Take him out of here," Buckman ordered. "And add assault to the list of charges."

The police officer grinned widely before manhandling Sigerson through the door towards the waiting cars, but nobody watched him leave.

"Early Sunday," Rick said quietly. "So it could have been there all night."

"And we've been asking people for their alibis for Monday," Kate added.

"Asking Eric Mackintosh," he corrected.

"Is Mike Faraday sure about the time of death?" she asked Buckman.

He shrugged. "Sure as he can be. Trouble is, being in the sea tends to throw things out a bit, but … yeah, I trust his judgement."

"So early Monday afternoon."

"If that's the case, where was she between the time her car got stolen and she went into the sea?" Rick leaned back on the VW frame.

"And if she was alive, well and free, why didn't she report it missing?" Kate added.

"Damn it," Buckman whispered, running his hand across his short-cropped hair.