37: And dream of Death
Castle hadn't precisely wanted to leave, and still less had he wanted to leave either his kitten or his Beckett until tomorrow, or Monday. It occurs to him, as he leaves the building, that she hadn't given any indication of when they might next see each other outside the precinct. It also occurs to him that she hadn't been quite herself when she woke up, but he can't put his finger on what it might be that's giving him that idea. He taps out a text suggesting Sunday brunch at the loft.
He reaches home on a cloud of contentment that matters are back on track, and, kitten-Kat being unavailable, devotes himself to editing the current draft of Nikki One. Or, as it is now – finally – known, Heat Wave. It's nearly done: he's re-reading and tidying up before sending a final draft to Gina, who will probably bespatter it with red ink. On the other hand, she is very good at noticing minor continuity errors, odd time jumps, and infelicitous word choices. What he hopes she won't notice, because he has taken considerable care not to include it, is anything that might indicate that Nikki Heat is anything other than badass, kick-ass and totally hard-ass, in every respect.
Nikki, in fact, is solely based in precinct badass Beckett, and has no connection whatsoever to kitten-Kat. Maybe – that's an idea! Maybe he should let Beckett – he never does this, only Alexis gets to see the drafts before Gina – read the unedited draft. She'll see then that he's kept her secret totally secret. It might reassure her. It'll show her that he can respect the difference between on-duty Beckett and off-duty Kat. She's so ferociously focused at work, and so perfectly, pliantly pettable in private.
She hadn't been pettable last night, though. Or this morning, he thinks slowly. She'd wanted rough – no surprise there, she'd told him that particular fantasy quite early on and the last time she'd effectively run from her stresses she'd wanted him to be rough with her. Though afterwards she'd been very pettable. He enjoys that memory for a minute or two.
Then he thinks some more. Not just pettable, but she's always been snuggly, cuddlesome, afterwards. She'd started off cuddled in, last night, but she must have woken and showered – she'd said she'd already showered, but it hadn't been after he was awake – and put on pyjamas (she's never done that before, either), and then cuddled round her pillow as if she were alone. He knows how she sleeps when she's alone. He'd told her a story and told her to go to bed as if she were alone and she'd curled around her pillow with her back to the world: he remembers it clearly. He'd been there last night, and she'd still slept as if she were alone.
Well, he can fix that, given time. She'll see – or rather feel – that he's there, and not leaving her, and she'll know that she can cuddle in again. She just needs time to understand, and maybe to get over the misconception that he doesn't love her. She knows that he does now: he'd told her so. She just needs to believe it. And since she's a professional disbeliever, it's going to take a little time. Not too long, though, not once he's there by her side. It'll be fine. But he won't show her the unedited draft. It won't help.
He only wishes that he didn't feel so stupidly bereft that she wouldn't cuddle in or be petted. That's what had been wrong. He doesn't just need the dominance piece, he needs the aftercare just as much as – he had thought – she does. He has to be able to pet and comfort and cosset her: he can't protect her at work and he can't – mustn't – baby her generally; so he has to be able to take care of her like that. Emotional protection, perhaps, from her own serial need to over-achieve, from the demons inside her head.
His phone beeps gently, with a text from Beckett. Sorry, Dad's roped me into his plans for tomorrow. I'm entering him for Plumber of the Year – once he works out what a U-bend is. Seems he needs some help. So far I've been 'helping' for the whole afternoon. See you Monday. It's very… chirpy. It's Beckett's normal, sardonic style, taking no prisoners. He is vastly reassured, even if she's not coming round tomorrow. He grins evilly, and opens his laptop. Five minutes later, without any consideration of the likely outcome at all, he's ordered Plumbing for Dummies, to be delivered to Detective K Beckett, c/o NYPD Twelfth Precinct, 321 East 5th Street, New York, NY10003, first thing Monday morning. He's still sniggering happily some time later.
Beckett is indeed helping her father, including providing a running commentary on his sanity.
"Dad, can you just remind me why you're doing this?"
"Well, Katie, since Lehman there have been a lot of corporate legal layoffs, so I thought I'd better have a second string to my bow."
"Plumbing?"
"Sure. Have you seen how much they charge for an emergency call out? And people say lawyers are sharks. So I thought I'd do an evening class, but I need to practice."
"So you took the kitchen sink apart. Tell me again why that was a good idea?"
"Well…" This time it sounds embarrassed. "I wouldn't have if I'd known you were coming over, but since I didn't" – there's a significant pause and a notable change in tone – "and since I haven't heard that story yet I'd quite like it, Katie, because you never come to see your dear ol' Dad" – she snorts rudely – "for an off the cuff afternoon visit – I thought that if it didn't work I'd get dinner out somewhere and worry about it tomorrow."
"You can buy me dinner, Dad, and we'll both sort it tomorrow." She ignores the middle part of the sentence in favour of – well, just about anything, but swearing at the wriggling wrench is top of the list, and remains there for the next five minutes.
"Hold it still, Katie, while I get this bit threaded back on."
"Thank God you've plastic pipes," Beckett mutters. "If you were soldering I'd call the Fire Department. You'd have set my hair alight by now."
"Nonsense, Katie."
"Dad, there are bumps on the bumps on my head, and all of them are from the tools you have been holding. Stop. Stop! This is not right." She lets go of the U-bend that she's been holding in place and it promptly drops to the floor. Again. Beckett extricates herself from the cupboard concealing the plumbing – or what is left of it – drags a hand over her over-heated, scarlet brow, and is sublimely unconscious of the fact that her hair is decorated with an extensive assortment of dust, grime and cobwebs and that she has just smeared silicone sealant over her cheek. She sits on the kitchen floor and regards her father resignedly, blissfully unaware that she has just sat on a lurking end of PTFE tape, which has attached itself to the seat of her cut-offs. It is, she reflects, very fortunate that she had called first and so changed to come out. Her dress would have been ruined.
"Don't give me your interrogation glare, Katie. I've still got your baby photos. You were so cute… the glare hasn't changed, though." She glares harder. "Nope. You've got teeth now, instead of a pacifier, but otherwise, no change."
"If you show those photos to anyone at all I will…" she can't actually think of anything that wouldn't get her arrested. Patricide is still a homicide, even if she could get it down to Manslaughter Two by reason of diminished capacity. This sort of provocation would definitely induce temporary insanity.
"Mmmm." Jim looks both parentally mischievous and suspicious. "And might there be someone I could or should show them to?"
"No."
"Really? You denied that pretty quickly, Katie. Are you sure about that?" Jim thinks about the Fourth of July fireworks, and Katie's conversation then.
"No. Are we trying to fix this plumbing or not?" She disappears into the cupboard.
"We'll fix it." Jim looks at his notes and handbook again. "If I just turn this washer this way… maybe not," he decides, when Beckett yelps at the water dripping on her head.
"The other anti-clockwise, Dad! The one that tightens it. Let me see that book." She emerges again, and grabs it over his protests. There is a short, ominous silence as she flicks back and forth through the pages. This is replaced by muttering, and then teeth-sucking.
"You sound just like a real plumber, Katie."
"Just as well one of us does," she mutters.
"I heard that."
"You were meant to." She peruses further. Then she wriggles into the cupboard again. "Gimme the flashlight, Dad." Pause. "Now the U-bend." Pause. "Now the wrench… and the connector." She wriggles out. "That should do it."
"What did you do, Katie?"
"Threatened the connectors with my gun."
"Katie…"
"Turned it the right way round. You'd got it the wrong way round."
"Oh." Jim leafs through his handbook again. "How'd you know?"
"You draw really good pictures, Dad. It's just a shame you were reading the words. The pictures were right. The words were incomprehensible."
"I'm a lawyer. We write incomprehensible words for a living. Pictures are for school kids."
"And cops, Dad. My call out fee is…"
"Dinner. I know."
"I'll help you finish it tomorrow. Can I borrow your shower, or should I go home and change too?"
Jim looks at his daughter, and laughs. "I think you'd better go home, Katie. Take a look at yourself." She does, and winces.
"Ugh."
"It's just like when you were a kid. Remember when you tried to help me paint the cabin?"
"I was four, Dad. I didn't have much fine motor control. And if you reveal that story to anyone I will arrest you and leave you in a cell overnight. In Albany."
"That's the second time you've told me not to reveal your childhood to anyone. Why are you so nervous about it? Should I be expecting to meet someone, Katie?" Such as, Jim thinks, one Richard Castle, author and celebrity, currently shadowing Katie.
"No," she snips. Jim fixes her with a very parental stare. "No." More staring. "No, Dad."
This is not fair. Her father should have stopped interrogating her about dating – ooohhh, eleven years ago. And it's not as if there's anything she wants to tell him. He would only need to know if it were serious, and it's not. Not for either of them. So there's no need for her dad to produce that look.
"I need to get home and change. Where will I meet you for dinner?"
"We should have something suitably blue-collar. Pizza?"
"Sounds good."
"Let's meet at Patsy's, 61 West 74th. Seven."
"Okay. That gives me time to wash grease off my face and cobwebs out my hair. Ugh."
"Katie, you have your hands in dead bodies and blood every day. How are you upset by cobwebs?"
"Dead bodies don't have spiders in them. Usually."
"Got me there. Off you go. See you later."
"See you at seven, Dad."
Jim watches his daughter vanish at high speed and considers the conversation he might have over dinner with a grin. If Katie won't introduce him to her Castle fellow, he's fairly certain that he can manage to find him quite quickly. After all, he's a celebrity, and celebrities are photographed, tweeted about, and generally very easily traceable. He spends a little time making a few delicate enquiries, and is shortly in possession of quite an array of information, for which every last one of his corporate intelligence contacts will swear in court that everything was obtained legally. Strange how little recent information there is. Still, he'd like a little chat with Richard Castle. Just to make sure his Katie is treated right, of course. Though maybe he should be offering tips to keep her from killing him. He'd hate to have to visit Katie in Bedford Hills.
Beckett hurries home, showers, washes her hair, washes her hair again, washes it for a third time just in case she's missed a cobweb, washes herself again to drown any possible remaining spiders (ughhhh) and swiftly dresses. She notices Castle's text once she's clean, somewhat surprised. Still, she'll be busy tomorrow, too. Judging by today, she'll be busy most of the day, and spend most of the evening washing off the dirt. She replies accordingly. Anyway, she doesn't need him today. Everything's fine.
She puts on, with a slight air of defiance which is lost on the sultry August air, pretty underwear in soft ivory, and a plain white broderie Anglaise trimmed dress. She's at the pizzeria just on seven.
"You look nice, Katie."
"Thanks, Dad." She preens a little. It's nice to look nice. It's even nicer when someone notices.
"I didn't know you had more than one dress," Jim says.
"I do. They wouldn't be practical for work, though."
Pizza is ordered and enjoyed, with sodas. When that's done, Jim tries a little lawyerly probing. Unlike his last dinner with Katie, she hasn't mentioned work or the precinct or Castle once.
"So what happened about that Castle fellow, then?"
"Oh, he's still getting in the way. Mostly he pesters Ryan and Esposito, though."
"I thought he was shadowing you."
"I think he's pretty much done with that. He's learned enough about me."
Jim looks very keenly at his daughter, and says absolutely nothing more about Richard Castle all evening. It doesn't stop him thinking.
The precinct is a considerable improvement on the cupboard under her father's sink, on Monday morning. At least it would be, if it weren't for the suddenly raised level of murder and mayhem. The first corpse is called in at barely-past-eight in the morning, and by mid-afternoon every team is fully occupied.
"Beckett, we got one," Ryan calls. She puts down the Amazon package – clearly addressed to her, but she hasn't ordered anything – and gets moving, calling Castle on the way in a sharp clear snap of command.
The corpse is down near Battery Park, and even without Lanie there yet it's pretty clear how he died. Something about the very large hole in his chest. There's blood everywhere, too. Lanie turns up two steps ahead of Castle, and the crime scene techs a moment or two after that. The machine takes over.
"Ryan, Espo, we got anything on his phone, wallet, anything?"
"No. No phone or wallet. Maybe robbery gone bad?"
"Let's check cameras. Uniforms need to do a canvass."
"Already started, Beckett. CSU'll run his prints soon as Lanie's done."
"Lanie, what'cha got for me?"
"What's it look like? He got himself shot. I'll run tox, but I reckon I'm looking at cause of death right here. I'll call you as soon as I've got anything." She disappears with her corpse in tow. Beckett crouches and starts peering at the ground beneath where the corpse had been, slipping on nitrile gloves and then prodding the earth. Castle leans over her shoulder and peers too.
"Anything there?" he asks hopefully.
"No. I was hoping the bullet might have gone right through him, but I guess not."
"Wouldn't do," Esposito remarks. "That sorta damage, it looked like a soft point bullet to me."
"Dumdums?" Castle enquires.
"We don't call 'em that." He turns back to Beckett, who's still poking at the ground. "Lanie'll pull it outta him. You never seen one of them before, Beckett? Thought you had."
"No," she says. "Don't remember it." She doesn't look up when she speaks. "Ryan, Espo, you stay on the canvassers, try to get footage off any street cams. Castle, we're going back to scare CSU into giving me prints to run, try to get an ID."
"Beckett," Ryan says, "you want unis to look around for the wallet?"
"Yeah. I'll go via the morgue in case there's anything Lanie's found in that chest cavity. Might be something."
On the way to the morgue Beckett is quite quiet. She clearly hasn't opened Castle's little joke yet, and it seems like she's thinking hard. For once, Castle doesn't interrupt, largely because he has nothing to theorise about – yet.
Lanie has nothing for them either, and briskly points out that fifteen minutes is barely long enough to open the victim up, never mind do anything. "You know that, Kate. Stop pushing me. I'll call as soon as there's news."
CSU are equally unready. Beckett is calm about it, but the click-clack of her heels as they enter the bullpen tells its own tale of frustration. Fortunately the boys bring back the information that camera footage will be provided relatively quickly.
In the interim, there is nothing much to do but speculate. That gets old a little fast, but Beckett would have taken the speculation getting as old as the Ancient Mariner – no, Methuselah – over what happens next.
"Beckett!"
"Yeah? What is it, Espo? We got that footage?"
Espo looks at her sidelong. "Course not. Takes a few hours, Beckett. You know that." He grins, evilly. "I wanna know who's sending you presents."
Beckett looks at the parcel on her desk that she'd forgotten when the body dropped.
"No idea."
"C'mon, open it."
"Why don't I get presents?" Ryan says plaintively.
"You ain't as pretty as Beckett," Espo flashes back. Beckett winces. It's very rare for any of the team to make that sort of a comment. She's too good at the job. Except today she's failed to spot an expanding bullet, hassled everyone far too early though she knows that it takes longer and there is no point harassing till at least they've got the body back to the morgue, and she generally needs to stop and cool down.
She regards the package suspiciously.
"C'mon. It won't bite."
"Come on, Beckett," Castle says happily. "Open it up. How can you leave a parcel without opening it?"
"Remember the dead body? That's how. Priorities." Castle subsides at the snap, for all of two seconds. Then all three of them are crowding round the desk. Beckett gives in to the unspoken pressure and rips the cardboard open.
"Plumbing for Dummies?"
"What the hell, Beckett?" comes in synch from Ryan and Esposito. Castle has a mile-wide shit-eating grin on his face.
"Thought you'd need it," he says happily.
"Why'd you think that, Castle?" Espo says, darkly. It dawns upon Castle that sending the book to the precinct may not have been one of his better ideas. Simultaneously, it dawns upon him that Beckett is frozen in place. Around about thirty-six hours too late, it dawns upon him that this is hardly conducive to keeping them secret.
"Because after you left the bar on Friday, Beckett spent an hour complaining that she needed to help her dad fix his plumbing." He turns to Beckett. "What happened? And why didn't your dad just call a service?"
Beckett recovers, though Castle is not reassured by the set of her shoulders.
"Dad thought he'd learn to be a plumber in case of layoffs. God knows why," she says exasperatedly. "So he took a class and thought he could take the sink apart. It didn't work. I spent the weekend helping him fix it."
The boys look impressed. "I got a leaky faucet, Beckett. Will you come fix that too?"
"Sure I will. My call out fee is $150 for the first hour and $75 for each hour after that."
"It can keep leaking, then."
"Now how about we stop talking about my dad's new career and go back to the important matters, like our dead man?"
The glare that accompanies her words sends Ryan and Esposito scuttling to their own desks. The look that Castle receives should have incinerated him on the spot.
"I'm sorry, Beckett."
"It's nothing," she says, perfectly calmly, and turns to the case. She barely has time to emit another word that isn't quite explicitly related to the corpse till the end of the day, courtesy of footage arriving early and lines of enquiry thereby popping up, and then it's only Goodnight, on a gaping yawn.
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