Gina Griffin walked out of her tennis club, tipped her valet, climbed into her Mercedes, and drove off towards her townhouse.
At a particularly long red light, she was just reaching for the rear-view mirror when there was a knock at her passenger's side window. Gina flinched, ready to hit the accelerator, but looked up to find -
"Oh, my God, Richard?"
Rick leaned in, smiling wryly. "Hi, Gina."
"I can't believe this - are you okay? Can I help you somehow?"
"I need money. Just - whatever you've got."
"Sure, sure." She fumbled through her purse, shoving a handful of bills at him. "Do you need a place to stay? What can I do?"
"No, this is fine. Besides, the cops are going to get to you. If they haven't already, it's just a matter of time."
"Richard -"
He straightened, looking around. "I have to go."
"But -"
"I'll call you, okay?"
He walked away without a backward glance, leaving Gina staring, open-mouthed.
He found a room for rent in a building that mainly housed illegal immigrants from Eastern Europe - cheap, sparse, and no questions asked. When he told the landlady he wouldn't get paid till the end of next week, she grudgingly agreed to let him rent it anyway, and Rick was deeply thankful for the fact that he was a people person.
He settled back on the thin old mattress, staring up at the water-stained ceiling, and let out a deep breath. It felt like the first time he'd stopped moving, stopped running, in days. His body ached. His bones were tired.
He drifted into a deep sleep, and woke up around noon, groggy and shaky and focused.
No time to rest.
He thought, briefly, about finding Alexis, and his heart ached at the thought, but he knew she was being watched. The police would have gone straight to her. That was nothing but a trap. As much as he loved his daughter, and every fiber of him wanted to see her and hug her tight and promise her he could find a way to fix this, he had to stay away from her.
He ran his hands through his hair, trying to relax.
The only way he could get his life back was to find out what actually happened.
His memories of the night Meredith was murdered were hazy. Alexis was out with friends that weekend. He'd come home from a business dinner to find candles lit, rose petals in a trail towards the bedroom, her black silk negligee draped over his desk.
He'd opened the bedroom door and found his nightmare, a tall, hulking man crouched over Meredith's bloody body.
He'd run forward, but the man had height and weight on his side, and gave him a shove that sent him flying into the wall, cracking his head, and Rick had watched, dazed, as the man escaped.
He hadn't recognized him, had never seen him, didn't know if Meredith knew him. Just like that, in a moment, everything was over.
Rick blinked back tears, his throat tight.
"Miss Griffin? I'm Kate Beckett, Deputy U.S. Marshal. Thank you for seeing us."
"Please, call me Gina."
Richard Castle's editor was an elegant woman - tall, blonde, polished, and perfectly put-together. She waved Kate, Ryan and Esposito towards chairs with a perfectly-manicured hand. "How can I help you?"
"Have you had contact with Richard Castle recently?"
Gina eyed them for a long moment before shrugging.
"All right. I saw Richard this morning."
Ryan sputtered, hand frozen above his notebook, and exchanged incredulous looks with Esposito. Kate couldn't help but let out a short laugh. "You did? Where was this?"
"He stopped me near my gym this morning."
Esposito piped up. "Did he ask you for anything?"
Gina shrugged, picking at her nails, her expression almost bored even as she talked about the convicted murderer she'd chatted with today. "I offered to help him. All he asked for was money. So I gave him some."
"How much?" Espo asked.
"Just - not much, whatever I had on me."
Kate stared at this calm, controlled woman, who seemed remarkably dispassionate about everything that had happened. She couldn't get a read on Gina Griffin. Couldn't figure it out. "Why do you think he's in Chicago?"
"He didn't tell me that."
"That's not what I asked." Interesting. "I'm sure he knew we'd talk to you. What I'm asking is what you think."
Gina fixed Kate with a level gaze, cool and entirely self-possessed.
"I don't know."
"It must be important to him, given that he's willing to stay in a city crawling with law enforcement, all looking for him."
"Yes, I think you're right."
Kate glanced over at Espo and Ryan, whose faces confirmed what she was thinking - dead end. Even if Gina knew something, she wasn't talking.
Maybe backing up the story would help.
"Before the murder, did you notice any unusual habits? Any erratic behavior?"
"As I told the Chicago police when this all began, I didn't see anything strange," Gina enunciated clearly, as if to a particularly slow child. "His last book had gotten low sales figures. By the time his wife was killed, he hadn't turned in a manuscript in months. I was supposed to meet with him, push him back into writing. He was no good to us if he wasn't working."
Kate thought for a long moment. "Do you think he's guilty?"
"No."
"Do you know who is?"
"If I did, I'd have informed the police a long time ago."
Kate wanted to say a few choice things to this self-important woman, but decided not to do anything that would get her fired. "Miss Griffin, if you hear from him again, please let us know."
From the catlike smile on the blonde woman's face, Kate knew it was useless. "I take my civic duty very seriously."
They left her office in silence, waiting until the elevator doors shut before Esposito grumbled, "Was it just me, or is she kind of a bitch?"
"I think I have frostbite," Ryan muttered.
"She's not going to tell us anything," Kate sighed. "Let's get a warrant for her email, phone records, anything. It's a long shot, but you never know."
Ryan pulled out his phone, but paused. "What if Castle sent her a carrier pigeon?"
"Go buy a net."
The only thing Castle remembered about Meredith's murderer - the only thing that could lead to his identity, anyway - was the pen he'd dropped in the struggle.
He remembered the logo. It wasn't a pen he recognized. And it was no cheap, flimsy plastic thing; he remembered the clunk of it hitting the ground. It was a beautiful fountain pen, not unlike several he had, but he knew it wasn't his. It looked like - a business logo, maybe?
Not that the police had listened. They'd already decided he was guilty. And then they'd stopped looking.
Rick sighed, swinging his legs over the side of his spartan little bed, listening to the floor creak under his feet.
That rubber tree plant's not going to move itself, Rick.
Long shots might be all he had right now. And he could only think of one person in the world who might be willing, and able, to help.