Flu
Chapter 102
Bernie Wigdor carefully surveilles the building housing Alston Fremont's condo, taking photos from several angles. The place doesn't appear to have its own parking, and the car Alston Fremont's been seen driving isn't on the street anywhere nearby. Chances are Sir Lancelot's sales rep is out. Bernie's pretty good with locks. As a general rule, he'd rather not use breaking and entering as a mode of investigation, but Sir Lancelot's hit a brick wall trying to get anything out of Alston. On a quick in and out, he can check the apartment for anything involved with Sir Lancelot's quality problem.
Rick points through the windshield as Kate approaches Fremont's address. "Kate, look at that guy. Why would he be taking pictures here? It's not exactly a tourist attraction."
"It's not illegal. And Babe, of all people, you know what kind of weird stuff people do in New York. Hmm. Looks like he's stopping and heading for the entrance. Maybe he has a place there and is DMing pics to his family."
"The Statue of Liberty would be a lot more impressive," Rick opines, "but it's not a bad looking residence. No doorman, though. It doesn't look like there's security in the lobby, either. That guy just walked right in."
"That will make it easier for us to go directly to Alston," Kate notes, parking her unit. "Let's go."
Kate and Rick step off the elevator to see Bernie working his picks into the lock on Alston Fremont's door. Sighing, Kate pulls her gun. "Police. Hold it right there. Hands behind your head."
"Careful, Kate. He could be armed. We should call for backup. I can hold up your phone for you," Rick offers.
"I'm not armed," Wigdor announces. "I'm an investigator. I've been trying to track down Alston Fremont."
"We'll see about that," Kate replies while continuing to cover their prisoner. "Castle, cuff him."
Rick reaches for the handcuffs on Kate's belt and snaps them on an unresisting Bernie Wigdor. Kate holsters her weapon to pat Bernie down. "My I.D. is in my left coat pocket," he says calmly.
"You're licensed in Vermont, Mr. Wigdor, not New York," Kate notes, looking through his wallet.
"Which is why I didn't bring my weapon. Look, Fremont is supposed to be representing Sir Lancelot Flour. He dropped off the radar. They called me in to figure out why. I admit, I was taking a short cut, but I didn't even get the door open. And if Fremont weren't up to his neck in something, you wouldn't be here."
"The man has a point, Beckett," Rick allows.
"He can make it at the 12th," Kate decides. "I'm going to call in units to watch this place and transport him. We can question him there. This could be a long day."
"Good thing we hit the Chinese place before we came," Rick mutters.
Bernie gazes around Interrogation. Detective Beckett left him sitting there to stew a while. A standard tactic. Even if he were to try to run out on her, he'd never get past the tall cop guarding the door or the numerous others he'd encounter on his way out. The room is built for intimidation, from the bleak stretches of wall to the hard metal surfaces of the table and chairs. It's all very much by the book, but he's read that book and many others. The N.Y.P.D. has more resources than he does, but he may be able to turn the situation to both their advantages. If nothing else, Detective Beckett will be nicer to look at than most of the cops he knew when he was on the force in Burlington.
Kate takes the chair opposite her collar and drops her black leather folder on the table in front of her. Glaring at Bernie, Rick takes a seat beside her. "Mr. Wigdor, as an ex-cop, you should know better than to break into an apartment," Kate chastises the investigator.
"I didn't break in, Detective," Bernie responds mildly. "The lock never disengaged, and the door never opened. At most, you might get me for attempting to break in, but that would be an incredible waste of your efforts. I understand that you're a homicide detective, which leads me to believe that Alston Fremont is involved in a murder. Wouldn't your time, both our times, be better spent trading information?"
"What kind of information?" Castle asks.
"And you're the writer/consultant/husband. I heard you showed up at Sir Lancelot. I can tell you everything the company has on Alston Fremont. You can tell me why Sir Lancelot might be involved with a murder. More than a fair trade, I'd say."
"I'll decide what's a fair trade," Kate declares. "And Mr. Wigdor, we can start with a description of Alston Fremont. We don't have any DMV on him. Apparently, he never bothered applying for a driver's license in New York."
"He may have applied under the name he was born with, George Snigley," Wigdor suggests. "He adopted Alston Fremont some time ago, but I never found a record that he changed it legally. He's six-two, with rapidly receding blond hair, blue eyes, and an ingratiating smile."
"Tall, blond hair, blue eyes," Rick repeats as he and Kate lock gazes.
"Is that significant?" Wigdor asks.
"Significant enough," Kate responds, inclining her head toward the door. "Castle."
"Fremont murdered Busby!" Rick exclaims as soon as he and Kate get some distance from Interrogation."
"Maybe. But Babe, there must be hundreds or thousands of men in New York who fit Fremont's description. Still, given his involvement with the case, it's enough to pull him in for questioning. Knowing he's George Snigley should help with that. But in the meantime, we need a motive."
"Same ones we've had all along, Kate. Money or to cover up a crime. We should start with what he was earning doing sales for Sir Lancelot. Unless he was unloading flour by the trainload, maybe more, he couldn't have been making enough to afford that condo. Ooh, do we have enough for a warrant to search the place?"
"If Markway's in a good mood, we should."
Rick holds up crossed fingers.
Bernie stands at the edges of the search of Fremont's condo. "I could help you look," he offers.
"You'd help us more if you'd give us a better idea of what we're looking for," Kate points out. "What were you going to search for when you tried to break in here?"
"I told you," Bernie claims, "some evidence of what Fremont is doing to afford this place, something that would have screwed up Sir Lancelot's flour."
Rick points to an antique secretary. "Does Fremont seem the type to invest in something like that? All the rest of the furniture in here is modern. It doesn't fit."
"No, it doesn't," Kate agrees, "but what would the type of desk have to do with his business?"
Rick shakes his head. "Detective Beckett, I would have expected better from a fan of the mystery genre. Those relics are famous, or perhaps infamous, for having secret compartments and hidey holes." Rick starts feeling around in the desk until the sound of a spring releasing zings through the room. "Aha!"
Kate rushes over, with Bernie at her heels. "What is it? What did you find?"
"Correspondence from Ivanhoe Mills. They're praising Fremont's efforts and asking him to step up the campaign. Ivanhoe is dangling half a million bucks at him. They can afford it. Auchincloss told me about them. He hates them with a passion. They don't just make flour. They're a juggernaut in the food industry. But according to Chef, it's quantity over quality. They love to undercut their smaller competitors, drive them into bankruptcy, and buy up their assets for peanuts. It looks like they were paying Fremont to sabotage Sir Lancelot, and who knows who else."
Bernie reads the letter over Rick's shoulder. "That explains a lot."
