Blank: Chapter 2
.
.
DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
.
Monday, 8:25 p.m. on April 16, 2012 in the driveway in front of the Castle's Complex for Battered Women
"I can't help but notice the past-tense usage of the word 'is'," Richard Castle remarks as Kate guns the car in reverse, backing out of the parking spot.
"I don't like 'was'," he continues. "Please tell me that was a mistake on your part."
"Wish I could, boss-man," Daniels half smiles into the receiver, his southern accent thick and heavy. Both Castle and Kate in the car smile, as it is a dialect that is totally not . . . Californian.
"What happened, Ron?" Kate asks. For his part, Richard Castle just gazes at the woman next to him, still amazed at how quickly – and effortlessly – she morphs from girlfriend to case worker to private investigator. Neither of them expected her to wear so many hats when she came out west.
"Extraordinary, indeed," he mutters to himself.
"What was that, boss?" Daniels asks, his confusion evident even on the phone.
"Nothing, Ron," she laughs, playfully brushing his hand away. She recognizes the pattern. Something decidedly wrong has happened, and their little moment of peace and solitude is getting ready to be blown sky-high. The little humor, the playful banter – she knows it is Castle's way of preparing himself. She saw the same thing – the humor, the banter – when they first started working together back in New York, and the then-novelist had to get used to the very morbid concept of 'body drops.'
"Well, like I said," Daniels continues, "the call came from a Cynthia Romaines. She and her husband lived . . . well, live in south Daly City. I went there for the pick-up. Cynthia didn't seem too upset on the call, so there was no way we could have suspected anything. By 'not too upset', I mean her call was no different really from any other call we get from a woman calling for help."
"No one is blaming you, Ron," Castle begins, but Daniels cuts him off.
"Oh, I know that, man," Daniels tells the couple. "But if I'd known something was up, I would have used the chopper, gotten here quicker –"
"You're still there, then?" Castle asks.
"Still here," Daniels confirms. "Here with what's left of her husband."
"I assume he is dead, then?" Castle asks.
"Dead, or damn sleepy," Daniels chuckles, and Kate cannot suppress the grin that comes to her face. It is Daniel's way of coping, of dealing with death. They all do it differently. The Alabama man uses humor to get himself through these little situations.
"Jeremy is lying here with a hole in his head," Daniels continues, "and there is neither hide nor tail of his wife, who placed the call."
"She shot him?" Kate asks, glancing at Castle.
"No . . . my vote is the bloody baseball bat that is lying here next to ol' Jeremy," Daniels tells her. "On the surface, it looks like a domestic dispute gone really, really bad, and the husband took the brunt of it."
"You said 'on the surface', Ron," Kate interrupts. "Does that mean you suspect something different?"
"You and Mr. Castle are on the way here, I assume?" he asks, by way of an answer.
"Yes, Ron," Castle replies. "We literally were pulling out from the facilities when you called."
"Good, good, then I'm glad I caught you before you two got home," Daniels tells them. "Truth is, I'd like you both to see the crime scene before San Francisco's Finest arrive. Make your own determination then."
"They aren't there yet?" Kate asks, somewhat surprised since this has suddenly become a murder scene, not just a domestic call for help.
"Why would they be?" Ron answers. "Mrs. Romaines made the call to the Castles. To us. Right now, we are the only ones who know anything happened here, unless she called 911. And given than no one else is here and I don't hear any sirens, I reckon she didn't place that 911 call."
"That makes sense," the duo in the car reply simultaneously, bringing a small smile to both faces.
"Can't we just have a solid month of normal pick-ups?" Castle asks the universe at large.
"You know we don't do normal around here, boss," Daniels chuckles. "See you when you get here. I will call 911, and make sure they don't do anything stupid before you two get here."
"Wait a second, Ron," Castle asks, as he stares out the window and the lush dark forest the pass through. "You mentioned that there were a series of problems – that's plural – is Mrs. Romaines all right?"
"You must have missed that part, boss. Your guess is as good as mine," Ron replies. "She's nowhere to be seen."
"She's not there?" Castle asks.
"She's not here," Daniels answers.
"Well, that's not good," Castle remarks, squeezing the bridge of his nose.
.
Monday, 8:40 p.m. on April 16, 2012 in the Mission District of San Francisco
Detective Jennifer Blackard sits across the large sofa – longways – in her living room. She is dressed in gray sweatpants and a reddish-maroon sweatshirt with a large Cardinal logo. Evidently, college school spirit dies hard with the young woman. Her shoulder holster carrying her weapon lies on the coffee table in front of her, always close at hand.
She holds a beer in her hand and is focused on the television, watching some National Geographic nature show, totally enthralled in a cheetah running down a herd of zebras when her phone buzzes. She glances down at the incoming text message, frowning.
'Got a minute?'
The text is from Kate Beckett. Sure, they are friends. Very good friends. They have a long history that dates back to college days, and has recently been reinforced in the most dramatic – and traumatic – of fashion. But it is also almost nine o'clock at night. If nothing is wrong, Kate just calls. If something is wrong, she texts first. Whether it is a habit the ex-NYPD detective is cognizant of is anyone's guess. But history is telling Jennifer Blackard that her plans for a quiet Monday night in front of the television are being blown up.
With a sigh of anticipation, hoping she is wrong, Blackard types out her response.
'For you, always,'
She waits less than fifteen seconds before the reply comes in the form of a phone call from her newly-transplanted friend.
"Hey Kate," Jennifer begins. "What can San Francisco's Finest do for you?"
"How did you know this wasn't just a friendly call from one friend to another?" Kate asks, a small amount of humor in her voice.
"I just knew," Blackard responds. "What's up, Kate?"
"A favor," Kate tells her. "And I know I am always asking for favors it seems."
"Not to worry, my friend," Jennifer chuckles. "I suspect the universe will turn things around soon enough and I will be the one asking for favors."
"Hey, Hey! Why even throw that out into the universe?" Richard Castle interrupts, listening in on speakerphone. "Don't we have enough to deal with already?"
"Oh, hey Rick," Jennifer greets him. "Should have figured I was on speakerphone. Again . . . what's up?"
"Rick and I are just leaving the complex," Kate begins. "We are headed into the city. Actually, into Daly City for a . . . well, to be honest, Jen, we aren't sure what the situation is. The complex received a call for a pickup, and when our man arrived on the scene to pick the woman in question up, she wasn't there, and her husband was dead on the floor. Ron, our man there, is assuming she killed him with a baseball bat."
"That's kind of Lindy's thing, isn't it?" Jennifer chuckles to herself, remembering coming across a foursome of unfortunate men who ran into the woman with Castle's favorite bat just a couple of months ago.
"Please, don't speak of that anymore," Castle mutters in mock disappointment, bringing laughter to the woman driving beside him.
"Still one of the funniest scenes ever, Jen," Kate tells her, as she rewinds and recalls the conversation between Richard Castle and Lindy Matthews that night, when Castle saw what was left of his beloved piece of Yankee history.
"Rick told her that that bat was one of his most treasured possessions," Kate tells her, and is quickly interrupted by Castle.
"And Lindy tells me – and I quote – 'Not anymore'," Castle continues the story.
The threesome share a laugh at the memory, and the laughter dies down after a few seconds. Then it is back to business.
"Anyway, back to the reason for my call," Kate continues. "Rick and I are easily thirty, forty minutes out, even in his little monster here. I'm wondering if I could trouble you to go to the scene – assuming you're home."
"That I am, in sweats with a beer and a good TV show," Blackard answers.
"Let me guess . . . some nature show," Castle remarks with a smile.
"You know me well, Rick . . . and I am wondering exactly how that came to be."
"We writers are observant and great listeners," he tells her, still smiling. "Seriously, though – if you are home, that means you're in the Mission District, and could be there in ten, fifteen tops."
"Give me the address," Jen tells the duo as she pulls herself up from the couch and places the bottle of half-empty beer on the coffee table.
"I will text it to you," Kate tells her. "Ron Daniels is already there, as I said. The residence is for a Jeremy and Cynthia Romaines."
"Good enough," Jennifer replies, and then hesitates. Her silence is noticeable to the couple on the other end of the call.
"What's on your mind, Jennifer?" Castle asks, although he suspects what is coming.
"Well," Jennifer begins, then pauses again before continuing. "Given the nature of Mr. Romaines, are you sure this is a crime scene you should be stepping into, Rick?"
She knows the response she is going to get. Heck, they all know what their coddling of the ex-writer is doing to him, but they just cannot help themselves.
"Dammit, Jennifer, I am not an invalid. Don't treat me like a burden –"
"Rick, you know that's not what –"
"That is exactly what you are doing, Detective Blackard," he spits out. "You, and Kate, and Mike and the whole damn lot of you. You're walking on eggshells around me, and I hate it. I hate it!"
Kate grabs his hand and forcibly entwines her fingers within his.
"We just love you, Rick," she tells him softly. "We're trying to figure this new place out as much as you are."
Richard Castle gazes at her for a few seconds, then turns his head and faces the window. He knows she's right. But he's right, too. He nods his head – in understanding if not agreement – and is silent as they pull onto Highway 101, headed toward the bridge in the distance that will take them across the bay into the city, where they will catch the old Hwy-1 and head into Daly City.
.
Still Monday Night, 8:45 p.m. on April 16, 2012 at the Santa Clara residence of NuGenetix CEO Andrew Klein
Captain Rodney Jeffries sits behind the wheel of his austere dark gray Chevy sedan. He has forgone the 2010 Silver SUV tonight. Too recognizable. Too memorable. No, he doesn't want anyone noticing his car – or himself – this evening. He is parked some one hundred yards down the road from Klein's house here in the valley. It was a long drive for the SFPD Captain; one he really did not want to make. However, the councilman pays him a clean ten thousand dollars a month under the table for moments such as this.
The man in question – Barry Adams – sits next to him behind darkened windows in the sedan. He is unusually quiet.
Normally, Barry Adams has use of Jeffries' muscle. The six-foot, four-inch black man weighs roughly two hundred and thirty pounds. At forty-one years of age, his body is still in football shape. And the man has shown a proclivity for the 'grunt work' as Adams likes to refer to the more physical aspect of the tasks he doles out. Now, with Benny dead, or gone MIA – whichever it is – since the failed siege on the Castles Complex across the bridge, Jeffries has been promoted within the clandestine ranks of Adam's organization due to nothing more than a shortage of resources.
Tonight's task, however, is not physical. At least not yet.
Two weeks ago, at Adams request – for reasons he has chosen not to share with Jeffries – the SPFD Captain had been asked to keep a watch out for the usage of credit cards of one Andrew Klein, or Cassandra Klein. For almost two weeks, there had been nothing. Not one usage. It had been as though the Silicon Valley power couple had fallen off the face of the earth. Which had proven all the more maddening to the councilman.
Two weeks ago, Barry Adams had awakened in his bed in his Embarcadero loft . . . alone. The last memory he had was of he and Susan sitting in a somewhat dark and foreboding room. A basement. A dungeon of sorts. He isn't that clear on it. He doesn't remember how they got there. Or where 'there' actually was. All he knows is that they were not alone. With them were Andrew and Cassandra Klein. They are sitting in four chairs, having a discussion with one Sam Carlos.
That's it.
That's all that he remembers.
Knowing Sam Carlos, and knowing the environment they were in, he was somewhat surprised when he woke up alive. Carlos' reputation precedes him. That he left all four alive is a rarity in the world of the San Francisco mobster.
Since that time, however, he hasn't seen his wife, Susan. And the Kleins have disappeared off the face of the earth. He had place numerous calls to the Silicon Valley CEO – both at his residence and his Silicon Valley office. Andrew's executive assistant had simply told him that Andrew and Cassandra had decided to take some time off and would be back when they came back. That, in itself, had spooked Barry Adams, knowing how Klein just disappearing – now, at this time – would, in turn, spook his investors. That he would risk alienating those investors at this particular time frightens Adams all the more.
But he needs Andrew Klein. He needs to understand exactly what happened. He needs to understand where Susan is. He doesn't remember. He suspects . . . he hopes it isn't true, but he suspects it is because he, too, has been drugged with RSX3. That's the only explanation for why he doesn't remember.
Now, earlier this afternoon, Adams received a phone call from Rodney Jeffries, telling him that – finally – a ping on one of their credit cards popped up. Evidently, Cassandra used an American Express card for a flight from Vancouver to San Francisco. The flight should have landed around 6:30pm. Adams immediately ordered – yes, ordered – Jeffries to pick him up and drive down to Santa Clara.
So, here they sit in silence. It is almost nine o'clock. If the plane landed on time at SFO, then the couple really should have been here by now. That they aren't is causing more consternation in the mind of the San Francisco city councilman. His trepidation is over now, as he sees the taxi drive past them and stop a football field ahead of them at the Klein's home.
Without being asked, Rodney Jeffries pulls out binoculars, and takes a quick glance, before turning his attention back to his 'other' boss.
"That's them," Jeffries remarks. "Now what?"
"Now we give them a few minutes to get settled in, to relax," Adams replies bitterly, "And then we go and visit them. We find out what has happened to my wife!"
.
A/N: A lot going on here, as we set the stage for this next story. A woman – a wife – calls the Castles Complex for a pick-up, but is no where to be seen when help arrives. Her husband is dead, supposedly bludgeoned with a baseball bat. Castle and Kate are on their way, navigating through their new normal, while Councilman Barry Adams has been going nuts for two weeks, wondering where his wife is, wondering what Sam Carlos has done, and wondering where in the world the only two people who can give him answers have gone. That's our starting point. I hope you enjoy the story here.