Chapter 29: Dig a little deeper
The morning does not bring enlightenment, but at least Beckett's not as tired and drained any more. That is to say, she's only half-exhausted. And, to her amazement, when she returns from another fruitless canvass the boys have found something. It's a thin, thin thread, almost invisible, but it's the first they've had. A man who specialises in a very particular form of locksmithing. Lock-picking with a bump key, to be precise. He's remarkably confident that they can't pin anything on him. His alibi is so fictitious it belongs in one of Castle's early novels, but his pals will undoubtedly back him up. He's so smug he'd give Castle a run for his money, too. Mind you, he doesn't think much of Castle. Mary with the Manicure? That's a nickname she'll remember. She tucks it into the back of her mind to snigger over later. The boys'll like it, too.
Sniggering, and any desire so to do, is stopped instants later when the slimeball across the table suggests that Castle's there because she needs help. Needs help? Can't hack it alone? She'll show this dirtbag who's in charge. A microsecond later the table's in his gut and he's wheezing as he talks. Unfortunately the bruises on his stomach don't incline him to say anything useful. At this point she'd cheerfully turn him to pulp. She doesn't need anyone to help. She doesn't need a partner. She can do this job and solve this case alone, and if it wasn't for orders she would do. Still, she can get rid of Writer-Boy and get some time on her own. She stops at the restroom once she's out of interrogation and doesn't return to her desk. She's been scraped down the raw edge of far too many comments about girls on the job, far too many references to too cute to hack it (she'd cut her hair even shorter the next day), far too many operations in Vice because she looked the part. She'd made it through the Academy and graduated top without any help at all, hadn't dared to look for it because it's far too easy to give the wrong impression and everybody seemed to be looking for evidence of it. And then there'd been the final straw: the dead child.
She'd done it all herself, she's made herself the best detective she can be all by herself, she's made herself into the woman she now is all alone, and nobody, not this scum, not other cops, and especially not Castle, is going to change that. She doesn't need help from outside her professional team, she doesn't need taken care of, and she doesn't need anyone to interfere in her life in any way. Dirtbag, in fact, has just pushed one of her nuclear buttons. She can't bear the thought that anyone would think she needs a civilian to help her do cop work. She can't bear the thought that anyone would think she needs anyone else anywhere else in her life.
Beckett goes to the range to find peace and quiet and to relieve her towering frustration by shooting hell out as many targets as she can manage for as long as possible. It's not helping: she's not shooting well and every time she misses she gets angrier. Her shots get wilder as her temper gets hotter. Not only is she infuriated by the implication that she needs Castle to solve her homicides for her, she hates not being able to do anything at her best, and right now both her investigation and her shooting are conclusively not at their best. She's been rocked by the case: the similarities between herself and the victim's daughter, and that she'd exposed her own feelings to try to console her. If she'd thought that Castle had been listening that intently, she'd have sent him out before she started. She doesn't need his misconceptions nor yet his subsequent sympathy. He's got it all: he's never experienced tragedy or loss like it. He simply does not understand, and she resents him trying, resents his obvious interest and concern. She's not a victim. Then she'd gone and compounded her own error by telling him about some of her past. She doesn't want concern, or intrusions into her history. And she definitely doesn't want help. She was the best detective in the Twelfth before he arrived and she'll still be the best long after he's gone.
And joy of joys, Castle turns up at the range. That's the problem with these old precincts: the range is in them. He's still looking at her with more concern than anything else and that just puts the tin lid on her fury. Then he tries to psychoanalyse her and if he doesn't shut up or get out she will be the lead suspect in a homicide case herself. Instead she tries and fails to kill another target, without any regard for Castle's ears. Maybe if he were deafened she could get rid of him. Even if she can't make him go away, if she's shooting she can't hear him. She reaches for a new clip, and surprise, surprise he's talking again. At least he's dropped the fake empathy: now he's just irritating. And she is certainly irritated. Not to say furious. (Deep inside, a little voice is telling her that this is certainly not Castle's fault. She's not listening.)
Castle had originally come down because he's had an idea about the case and wants to take the jewellery photos home to study them, and perhaps discuss them with one of his less official acquaintances. As an aside – who's he kidding? – he'd been a little worried about Beckett's reaction to Joanne and to his expression of concern, and more worried about how she'd reacted to the perp. He feels that she's slipping away from him again: that her walls are thickening; that she's turned right back on to the on-ramp to the freeway to burnout, and he's sure he won't be able to persuade her out of the precinct for an hour today even though she clearly needs to stop and regroup. Watching her shoot is not relieving his feelings. He's sure she must be considerably better than she's currently displaying. Then again, her rage is palpable. He decides on being irritating, because the alternative is to spin her round, pull her in and kiss her hard till she sees him again, till she lets him bring her down; which idea is right now quite likely to get him shot, not necessarily accidentally. She puts three through the head, and for the first time since he came down looks partially satisfied. He hopes she isn't imagining it's him.
"Wouldn't it be more of a challenge if they weren't standing still?" Patronising jerk. What does he know about cop training?
"Okay, Castle, you show me how it's done." She bets he can't shoot properly. Why would he need to, anyway? He lives in Manhattan, not the Wild West. He might work out, but shooting well is a whole different ball game. He takes a stance. Really? That's his stance?
"It's not a duel, Scaramouche." Nope, not taught properly. What does he think this is, some pre-Mayflower English pistols-at-ten-paces affair? Ugh. Let's at least sort his stance out. If he's going to pretend to be a cop, he can damn well look the part. "Here, square off to the target, feet shoulder distance apart."
He is finding it desperately unhelpful to his concentration to have Beckett touching him. On the other hand, he knows something she doesn't… he's an excellent shot, just in a slightly different context. But it's so cute, the way she's trying to straighten him out, and she's closer than she's been all day. He'd do something about that, if he didn't have a gun in his hand. Looking like an idiot for a few minutes is a very small price to pay for having her snug against him, and he'll have his revenge very shortly. He expects that she'll be impressed by his ability, when he gets to the real challenge. He's got some ideas for relieving her frustration and evident upset, too.
"Whoa. Shot too soon." Maybe he shouldn't have been thinking about those ideas just then. Beckett is clearly unimpressed.
"Yeah, well. You know, we could always just cuddle, Castle." She inflects her words with as much sarcasm as she can manage through her unadulterated fury. She knew he wouldn't be able to shoot straight. He's just a writer. Not a help, or a support, or an anything. Just a writer who's good in bed.
And, clearly, keen on smartass remarks. Shame he can't hit the target – ouch! Can't hit the target but somehow manages to target her with the shell case. She wipes blood off her face. Blood. The perfect accessory for a perfect day with a perfect jerk. She's about to tell him to leave when he opens his fat mouth.
"You know, I came down to ask you if I could take home some of those stolen property photos?"
No. No. He is not taking crime photos again. He's an observer. She doesn't need his help to solve this. And surprise, surprise, he hasn't even got a good reason. No. And he still can't shoot. Though that one, right into the testicles, would incapacitate any man. Including male bystanders, as they wince in sympathy. Pretty useless on a female perpetrator, though. It would miss anything helpful. Right. Let's show him how hopeless he is.
"Tell you what, you put any of the next three in the ten ring and I will give you the files." He hasn't a hope in hell. The way he's shot so far, he couldn't put any of the next three hundred in the ten ring. She's perfectly safe.
"Yeah?" Oh, Beckett. Walked right into it. He can't resist a challenge. Never could. Even though he knows that in less than half a minute he will be in more trouble than ever got him thrown out of another school, he can't resist proving that he's more than she thinks. And he can stop her killing him. Probably. After all, she's put her gun down, and she's finished her clip.
"Yeah." Game on. And he squares up and puts all three in the ten ring in less than three seconds. That'll show her. Oh. Uh-oh. She's not happy. Oh boy, is she not happy. Death – his own – is reaching for him from her face. The last time he saw her this angry was… ooh. Was their first date. Shame the range has cameras. Far too many areas that Beckett frequents have cameras. If he ran the world… he'd lose some of these damn cameras, that's for sure. Because she's so very, very angry right now and all he'd have to do is touch her and she'd explode. Just like always. Damn cameras.
"You're a very good teacher," he smirks, in his best annoying tone. Except – uh-oh, that was a mistake. She doesn't look as if there's any arousal in this fury. In fact, there's an undertow of upset. Oh shit, this was not a good strategy. Maybe he can make it better.
She wants to hit him. If it wasn't for the cameras, she'd slap his stupid smirking stubbly face into the middle of next week. How dare he play her like that? She spins on her heel to storm off and beat the crap out of the punchbag before she starts beating the crap out of Castle. She finds herself spun back.
"Hey, look" – he's trying to talk. She's not interested.
"Let go of me." She tries to shake him off with a sharp snap of her wrist. "Let go!" Her voice is rising. "I don't need your stupid games. Take the photos and get out." She snaps her wrist again and this time it works. She's out of his reach in an instant. He stands there, utterly confused. Suddenly that cold hard shuttering comes down and closes off all her emotion. "Take the photos, since you want them so badly, and get out. I don't need your help. I can solve this case on my own." She turns to leave, then turns back. "And don't come down to the range again. Civilians" – she could have said sewer rats with less contempt – "have no place here."
He's left staring at her stiff-backed stride as she exits. He has absolutely no idea what happened there. Okay, so maybe it wasn't the best plan to blindside her like that, but even for today's thoroughly bad-tempered Beckett that was unusually vicious. He sits down on a handy chair and tries to work out what's going on today. He'll have plenty of time. If Beckett's left – and he's sure she has – he'll need to get a cab backhome. Okay, back to the beginning. Being not today, but last night. She was fine when he left. At least he thinks she was. He wonders if she'd wanted him to stay, and dismisses the thought instantly. Miracles may happen, but Beckett wanting him to stay would qualify as the Angel Gabriel sounding the Last Trump.
Yeah. She couldn't have cared less if he stayed or not. She couldn't care less if she stays or not. Just like five minutes ago. And suddenly he's not confused, he's angry. She had no right to behave like that: bitch-slapping him like he's the bad guy. People don't do that to him. He's Rick Castle, dammit, and he is not some pet to be kicked around. Whatever her reasons, it's more effort than he needs or wants to deal with them. He'll get the photos and go home. If Beckett doesn't want his help, fine. He'll just investigate on his own. See how far he can get. See how far she'll get without him, he thinks angrily. He ignores the undercurrent of his own hurt that she's pushed him away. She can have what she wants, then.
He goes back upstairs to the bullpen, where Beckett very obviously isn't, explains to an interested Ryan that Beckett's let him take the photos home in case he thinks of something overnight, and is completely uninterested in hearing that Beckett came back in looking ripe for committing some murders of her own, snapped at both Ryan and Esposito for no reason at all, left them with a list of follow-ups all of which are a repeat of what's already been done and then left, claiming she was going to the morgue.
"Except," says Ryan, "that Lanie just called for Esposito to tell him something about an older case and Beckett's not at the morgue." He looks brightly at Castle. "What'cha do to annoy her today?"
"Existed, I think." Ryan nods sympathetically.
"I get you, man. She's always like this when a case doesn't pop. Not usually nearly so bad, though."
Castle's still pretty annoyed with her, but not so irate that he can't see why this one's hit Beckett so hard. Still, if she wants to be nasty, she can do it elsewhere. He's not her punchbag, and she can stew in her own angry juice for a while.
He tells himself all the way home that he doesn't need to deal with tears and tantrums (he had enough of that when Alexis was a toddler, and his mother keeps him in practice). He's never needed to. If some woman starts taking out her temper on him, he just walks away. Celebutante rows don't impress him. He'll just concentrate on the photos, and the case, and ignore Beckett.
And so that's what he does. For ten minutes. Then his ill-disciplined mind worries at the playback of the day for a while, till he drags it back to the photos. For another ten minutes. Repeat, on continuous loop, for the next two hours. Which only irritates him further. He never needs to deal with this crap. He doesn't want to deal with this crap. And he absolutely definitely doesn't need or want to go and find out what's actually wrong and make it better. Absolutely not.
But he keeps on seeing Beckett's rigid shoulders walking away from him. He keeps on thinking that more is wrong than he knows. He keeps on hoping that it wasn't he who put that cold, hard expression on her face – but he can't see that it was he who did. He keeps on thinking that in some way he doesn't understand this is partly his fault, but he's sure he hasn't done anything to cause it. And he keeps on thinking that he should go and make it better.
Walking away, Rick. Away. He forces the picture out of his mind and goes back to studying the photos. His mother is thoroughly impressed with the jewellery (maybe Christmas, he thinks. He'll surprise her, just like he had with the rubies he bought her from the Storm advances) and is soon cooing over the photos. Until it becomes clear that the best person on his extensive list of dubious contacts and persons who exist in the rather more shadowy walks of life is Powell. Powell, who Castle strongly suspects had an affair with his mother which hadn't ended well (ugh); Powell, who Castle had used as the basis for a character – and then forced into retirement and (not entirely, or at all, accidentally) away from his mother by thanking him in the dedication. By name. His mother didn't realise that Castle had known that she was unhappy: she just thinks he'd been his public, impulsive self. Well, no. Not really. People shouldn't upset the people he cares for. It won't end well for them.
Still, bygones should be bygones by now. That had been a few years ago.
Powell is not, it's fair to say, spectacularly welcoming. A swift, painful and entirely unexpected punch to the jaw is proof of that. But after those accounts are settled, he produces a very good red and they turn to business. He's useful, but to be truly helpful, Powell admits, he needs to see the crime scene. The police seals won't be a problem, he notes enticingly. Castle is only too willing to be enticed. He's still mad, he's still hurt, he is for some unimaginable reason feeling slightly as if it's his fault and he is damn well going to prove to Beckett that he's a valuable part of the team. Everyone else thinks so. Then she'll be sorry she walked away. A late night field trip seems like the very thing to improve his mood. And getting one over on Beckett absolutely has nothing to do with it. No. It's simply a piece of research. If he finds out anything useful he'll pass it on. To Ryan and Esposito.
Powell works his magic on the seals and door and gets them in. He's wholly unimpressed by the actions of the thieves: in his day they were ghosts, leaving no trace. Certainly not leaving brutal murder behind. No class at all. Powell's reminisces are thoroughly interesting, right up until the point someone tries the door. Castle's left standing in the middle of the room and Powell, as silently as the ghost he used to be, has faded into thin air, leaving not even a trace of ectoplasm to betray his presence.
Oh, hell. Of course. Who else would be at a closed, sealed crime scene at almost midnight? This is awkward. It's even more awkward that there's a gun on him. Funny how the barrel of a Glock looks so much larger when you're staring at the open end. He is very, very relieved when she holsters it. He was almost certain she isn't wired enough to shoot first and ask questions later. Almost.
Beckett hadn't gone to the morgue. After she'd left the range, she'd gone back to the bullpen, shut down for the day, and gone home. By the time she got there she was at least as miserable as furious: the lack of progress on the case, the lack of leads, her appalling shooting and being played by Castle all overlaying her real unhappiness: that people think she can't do it alone. Viperous voices hiss delicately around her mind: if a lowlife scum can think that in less than two minutes, what are the co-workers around the precinct thinking, or saying? How many people think that Montgomery let Castle in because she couldn't hack it? After all, a poisonous whisper slithers, you didn't solve the other case. No. She can't go there. She mustn't go there. It's past, and her solve stats show that she's the best. She is. She can solve this case, too. All she needs is to work a little harder, dig a little deeper, put more effort in. Her dead demand it.
And it's not as if she's got anything else to do.
She'll go and look at the scene again, stand in the middle of it and see if it'll speak to her, tell her something new. See if there's anything she missed the first time, or the second, or the third. Maybe in the peace of the dark night she'll find something. She goes down to her car and goes over to the expensive apartment. Hmm. Her senses go on full alert and she unholsters her gun. The seals are broken, and she can hear the soft hum of voices inside. When she tries the handle, it's unlocked, and there's sudden silence. She goes in, gun up, ready to shoot. If there are bad guys in there, she's got to be ready, because there's only her. She's on a hair trigger, adrenaline pumping through her, ready for anything.
What the hell? Oh, for Christ's sake. What is he doing here? He has no right to be here, invading her crime scene, contaminating the evidence, and just plain getting in the way. How did he get in? Oh, this day just gets better and better with every instant. She drops her gun, reluctantly.
The ride back to the precinct is very, very uncomfortable. Beckett is wrapped in an armour coating of glacial fury and Castle, whose own temper is roiling some way close to boiling point courtesy of an entirely unwarranted sting of guilt, is not willing to precipitate the shattering row which he's absolutely certain is going to explode at some point. Not yet, anyway. Later. Somewhere he can force some truth out of her without an interested audience.
Matters are not much improved back at the Twelfth. Beckett produces as well-acted a facsimile of her normal level of irritation as Castle has ever seen, but he can still see sheer ire dammed up underneath. If anything, it only burns harder when he says he wants to talk to their lock-picker – alone. He's had an idea. Everybody wants to be famous, don't they? And he needs a villain or two…
The man spills everything he knows about the real murders, just for the possibility that he might be a character in Castle's next best-seller. Montgomery's suitably impressed. Beckett – is not. Though she says all the right things in front of the boss.
Trouble starts the instant Montgomery's out the door.
thank you to all reviewers. Your thoughts are very much appreciatedT
