Chapter 7

"There was this guy Stuart had worked with, and I went up to the site – we were going out on date night, so I got the train into Grand Central and then the subway to meet Stuart at the site office" – Beckett nodded agreeably – "and this guy tried to hit on me but I said I was married and not interested. He was a bit unpleasant about it, but Stuart had a word after, he said."

"Do you know who he was?"

"No."

"Which site was that?"

"Uh…Amsterdam. Right up at the top. Last Friday."

"Thank you. Was Stuart interested in fishing?"

His widow smiled damply, fondly. "Oh, yeah. He loved fishing. Even went big-game fishing – I get seasick if I step in a puddle, but he loved it. I went vacationing with my girlfriends if he went fishing. I bought him a harpoon last Christmas – it was so expensive, but the look on his face when I gave him it – I'd pay any price to see him with it again," she dissolved. "Oh, Stuart."

"Where did you buy it?"

"Coastal Fishing Equipment," she said.

"Where did he keep the harpoon?" Beckett led the way back to the living room. Castle scurried back to his place on the couch before his sneaking could be spotted.

"In the garage, but he had said he was going to show it to a colleague who also fished, so he'd have had it in the back of the van."

"Van?"

"Sure. We have a pick-up, but for work he would always use the van – lockable, you know? You can't leave expensive equipment in a pick-up: it would be gone in seconds."

"Can we have the plate, please? We'll need to find it."

"Oh, yes." She snuffled, then blew her nose again and reeled off the plate. "It's just a plain white van. No logos, nothing. Stuart didn't want anyone to think the contents might be worth something. He was so careful," she wept.

"Who was the colleague who fished?"

Mrs Darnley thought, while the tears fell down her face. "Kris-something. I don't know his first name. Kris…"

Kringle, Castle thought, but with amazing self-control – and the sure and certain knowledge that he'd ruin the mood Beckett had induced, resulting in his protracted and agonising death – didn't say.

"Don't worry, it'll come to you," Beckett said. "So that was on the Amsterdam site?"

"Yes." She gulped. "It shouldn't be like this," she sobbed, breaking down again. "It was just another job. Just an ordinary job."

"No, it shouldn't be like this," Beckett agreed. "It never should, but I promise I'll do everything I can to try to find out who did this." She paused. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?"

There was a short silence. "If I could think of anything…" Mrs Darnley said. "I wish I could think of anything."

"Here's my card. If anything comes to you" –

"Kliverson," she exclaimed. "Not Kris-something. Kliverson. That was his name."

"Thank you. If anything occurs to you, just call. It doesn't matter how small or unimportant it seems, everything helps."

"I just want Stuart," Mrs Darnley said desolately. "I just want my husband back."

"I'm so sorry," Beckett said again, softly, and they left.

"Espo? Darnley was a construction worker. Insulation and soundproofing. I've got his last year's list of jobs, so we'll check them out first thing. He owned a harpoon, from Coastal Fishing Equipment. If we haven't got their customer list, get it, stat, and then check if our murder weapon is his own harpoon. It should have been in his van – here's the plate" – she gave it – "so find that van and get it into our custody. Once CSU have been all over it, we might have more. He was supposed to be showing it to some guy called Kliverson, who was another fisherman. I'm not sure I believe that. We won't be back in the city till mid-evening, since it's already after five, but do what you can tonight and we'll regroup in the morning, first thing."

"Yo," Espo said. "You got it."

Beckett started the car.

"Soundproofing and insulation," Castle said thoughtfully.

"Yeah. I think we're going to find that he was killed inside his last job. I also think that we're going to have a long, hard look at the architectural specs for that building" –

"Compared to the materials actually used?"

"Yep." At least Castle could think. When he wasn't making wisecracks, of course. She reinforced her shell.

"Why didn't you pass Mrs Darnley a Kleenex?" Castle asked, which gave her the perfect opportunity.

"So I could see her face. Which you" – he heard idiot – "spoiled. If she'd had anything to do with it, she could have held on to that Kleenex and hidden half her face. Or she might just have been devastated by grief. Or not want to spoil her make-up."

"She wasn't wearing any," Castle said.

"Since she dropped it in the trash almost immediately, either she's a pretty good actor or she didn't. I knew she wasn't wearing make-up. How did you?"

"Nobody looks like that if they've put on make-up. She'd have hidden the circles under her eyes. And she had pale lashes so she looked she didn't have any. Most women would darken them. She was really upset and worried. And I learned lots about make-up trotting after Mother."

"Let's get back."

"Let's have dinner first. I'm hungry. Lunch was ages ago and you wouldn't want to see me starve and lose all my ruggedly handsome looks."

Beckett raised an eyebrow. "No?" she said coolly.

"Nope," Castle grinned. "You'd miss me."

"Like a thorn in my foot."

"Mean. And not true. You did kiss me. Twice."

"Mention that mistake again and I will shoot you."

"Don't shoot me. Have dinner instead." He grinned, infuriatingly smugly. "You're hungry, and it's making you irritable. More irritable. Your base emotion is irritation." She squawked. "You know, there's a way to lower your irritation levels…"

"Yeah. Throwing you out," Beckett snapped. "But that would be unprofessional and illegal." Unspoken remained otherwise I'd do it. "I don't go around assaulting people no matter how annoying they are. I arrest them, if they're committing a crime. Otherwise I ignore them."

"You don't ignore me. Obviously I'm not annoying."

Beckett was incandescent with speechless rage. Castle clearly took her silence to be agreement, and smirked.

"So now that we've established that I don't annoy you, shall we go for dinner, my dear detective? We can talk about the case. It's a bit weird for a first date, but we both study crime, so…I think it's wholly appropriate."

Beckett found her voice. "We are not dating."

"Most people think that kissing goes along with dating," Castle said in such sententious tones that Beckett, despite her words, considered simply pushing him out of the car. If the doors hadn't had auto-locking she might have considered it for longer. She also, with heroic self-control, didn't comment that Castle's playboy reputation didn't exactly suggest that he bothered with dating before falling into bed. She wasn't going to be a notch on his over-disfigured bedpost. "I liked kissing you. We should do more of it. Dating would be a really good start."

As opposed, Castle thought, to hustling her off to the nearest officiant and marrying her right now. Which would be utterly ridiculous and bound to fail. Dating, though…dating would be a really good plan. As would be kissing, petting, heavy petting…bed. Lots and lots of all of that.

"I have no intention of dating you."

"You can kiss me, then. You don't have to start with a date."

Beckett clamped her lips shut against the tsunami of furious profanity that boiled up in her throat, fuelled in part (to her even fiercer fury) by the knowledge that kissing Castle had been amazing. Just…not sensible. Not sensible in any way whatsoever.

"But right now," he said plaintively, "please can we get some dinner? I'm hungry, and you said you weren't going to go back to the precinct tonight."

Beckett hadn't said that. In fact, she had intended to go back to the precinct by way of a takeout order. However, she could have dinner, she reluctantly supposed, then drop Castle (into the Hudson, a little voice suggested) at Broome Street and go back to the precinct. Alone. Peacefully alone. Free to think without distraction.

And without reminders of her single, almost-thirty state, and without reminders of how nice large, hot man felt. She was not in the market for one-night stands.

"Take the next left," Castle said. "We can get dinner there."

Beckett did, and parked next to an unassuming door. Castle hopped out and theatrically opened the door of first her unit and then the restaurant. She walked in – and almost walked straight out again. This wasn't a pizza or burger joint. This was a small, rustic room, plain cream tablecloths, a simple pot of flowers on each table, rough walls with sketches of country scenes, servers in white shirts and jeans with dishcloths tucked into the backs of their belts.

"What is this?"

"A restaurant, Beckett. A place where one can eat food that someone else prepares."

"What was wrong with somewhere to get a quick meal and be back in the city?"

"You weren't going" – Castle stopped. "You were going to go back into the precinct without me! That's not nice, Beckett. I shadow you. You shouldn't investigate without me. I thought we'd worked that out when I caught you with my coffee machine."

"I investigate when I need to. It doesn't depend on your schedule." She glared. "Shouldn't you write occasionally?"

"I do." Half the night, at the moment, and the rest I spend dreaming about you and then I write some more. Some of it will even be polite enough for publication. He produced, with some effort, a happy smile, rather than a wolfish one. "I've written lots." He moved inside, forcing Beckett either to step forward or to let him crash into her. She stepped forward, to be greeted by a server and, without her managing to say anything further than a mumbled hey in conversational terms, she was shown to a table for two, handed a menu, and provided with water.

Castle grinned, and drank his own water. "They have a really good wine list here," he said, "but since you're driving and I already know you're as straitlaced as a Victorian corset, I guess you won't be drinking. Shame."

"I wouldn't be sharing wine with you."

"Is that a challenge? I like challenges – and you're certainly a challenge." He looked straight into her eyes. "The biggest challenge of my life."

"The biggest challenge of my life is finding a way to get rid of you."

"And here I thought it was finding another way to kiss me," he said annoyingly. "I really don't think that's a challenge, though. I'm delighted to be kissed. Or I could kiss you."

"You are not kissing me. Haven't we had this conversation ten times already? No. This is not a date, we are never, ever going to date, and I don't want you to kiss me. Or anything else. I didn't want you to shadow me and I still don't."

"Liar," Castle said flatly. Beckett stared, then put her menu in front of her face. "Can't meet my eyes? That's because you're lying and you know I know it."

The menu dropped with a bang. "I can so meet your eyes. And I don't want you shadowing me. I want you gone. You're just sticking around to be annoying and in the hope you can add another notch to your over-chopped bedpost. Well, I'm not interested. You're not interested in anything other than writing another best-seller and having a fling along the way, and I'm not interested in either of those things. I'm only interested in solving homicides and getting justice." She shoved her chair back. "I'm going back to the city. You can get the train. Or walk. Or anything that doesn't involve you being anywhere near me."

"Wow. You really are hungry. And angry. Hangry." He smiled at a server, who hurried over. "Could we get some bread and charcuterie?" he asked. "My friend is hungry."

"Sure, sir. Just a moment."

Castle smiled. "Have something to eat. And coffee. How could I forget to order you coffee?" The server returned with a basket of bread and some butter. "The charcuterie will be here shortly."

"Thanks," Castle said. "Could my friend have a very large coffee – light, no sugar?"

"Of course. Just let me get that for you." He bustled off again.

"Now, you can't possibly leave before you've had your coffee. You'll upset the server."

Beckett's eyes blazed. "Do you really think" – she snapped her mouth shut.

The server put down a plate piled with cold cuts and a bucket sized mug full of coffee. "Charcuterie," he said proudly.

"Thanks," Castle said. "Try some. I really like these little salami slices, with a gherkin or three." Beckett stared. "Just have something to eat." And maybe you'll find your missing temper, he thought. Still, she might have lost her temper, but, unknowingly, she'd admitted exactly what she thought was going on. Four, five weeks ago, she'd have been right. Now, she was dead wrong. The problem was, she wouldn't believe anything he said that tried to change her view, because she'd just told him that she thought he was only in it for a one-night stand and a notch on his bedpost. Which wasn't as notched as she thought, though, to be fair, it did have plenty of happy-memory notches.

Astonishingly, Beckett took some bread and cold cuts, though not the gherkins. The first mouthful disappeared, and then she obviously realised she was hungry, and the rest followed at some speed. Her gaze remained fixed on the menu. Half of her coffee vanished in one long draught, the second half vanished in a second swallow. Beckett looked around, then bestowed a beautiful, if chilly, smile on the server, who practically ran over to her.

"Another coffee, please?" she asked. "And I'll have the honey glazed pork with apples and pommes puree. Thank you." She smiled again. The server nearly fainted with admiration.

Castle flicked one glance down the menu. "Confit duck, please," he requested, "and pommes puree too. Thank you." He regarded Beckett. Even in only five weeks, he knew her weakness for desserts. "They have wonderful desserts," he tempted. She didn't answer, but he saw the covetous flash through her eyes.

Beckett ate, and managed to eat sufficiently consistently that she didn't have time to say anything. When she'd finished the cold cuts and bread, she excused herself, and spent enough time in the women's restroom that her entrée was on the table when she returned. Castle, of course, was playing with his phone. If that broke, his head would probably explode. Or hers would, because he'd annoy her even more.

She did wish she hadn't lost her temper, though. It wasn't professional and it had been spiteful. Still, he hadn't denied any of it. Not that she'd have believed him if he had. But she shouldn't have said it. The feeling of disappointment choking her voice had no business in her vocal cords. She ate her entrée, which was delicious, and didn't talk, largely for fear of the feelings that her voice might reveal.

Didn't talk, that was, until Castle started asking – when did he not? – questions. She'd have glared him into silence, which would have been far preferable, but having lost her temper once, pride wouldn't let her be even ruder. Fortunately for her pride, he confined his questions to the case.

"When will you interview Kliverson?" he opened.

"After we've done some cross-checking. I don't like coincidence, and Kliverson liking harpoons is a big one. So I want to see if he shows up on any of the customer lists first."

"Yeah. Do you think he'd be the same guy who hit on Mrs Darnley?"

"I'm not ruling it out."

"So jealousy?"

"Maybe. But this is a much nastier crime than a simple Jack shot Bill hoping to get Jill. There's malice behind it."

"Malice aforethought," Castle said pensively. "Nasty."

"Yeah." She paused. "The sort of malice that someone caught skimming in a really big way, seeing their life come crashing to a halt, might use."

"I thought I was the one who plotted out the stories?"

"It's not complicated." She looked down at her plate. "Money isn't complicated. You just follow it. It's just not usually this nasty. Whoever did it really, really hated Darnley."

"Jealousy needn't be about his wife," Castle said. "We don't know anything about the rest of his life, but that was a nice house, inside. Nicely fitted out, good quality – he must've been making good money. And he was a specialist, so he'd never be out of work."

"No. Pretty much guaranteed employment, even in this downturn."

Castle noted with considerable interest that discussing the case (and possibly food and coffee) had reduced Beckett's weapons-grade hostility to nil. It was astonishing, and – unlike other matters, such as the passion in her kisses – completely consistent with her earlier words about getting justice for the victims' families.

"People could get really wound up about someone who's doing well when they aren't – especially if they think that he's patronising them or doling out charity. What if Darnley got the guy who killed him a job, and rather than appreciating the help he – the helpee – resented it?"

"Possible. Resentment is poisonous. But first we need to find out more."

"Let's find out more about the dessert menu, too," Castle said, and promptly obtained two of them. He sneaked a peek at Beckett, and noted with delight that she was – not metaphorically – licking her lips at the selection. When she nibbled at her lip, his delight was edged with severe frustration. Didn't she know what that unconscious gesture did to every woman-appreciating person in sight of it? Well, of course not, he told himself. If she did, she'd never nibble her lip near him ever again.

Fortunately for Castle's fast-receding composure and faster-approaching desire to kiss Beckett's lightly-nibbled lip, she stopped. The server arrived.

"Tarte tatin, please," Beckett requested.

"Sure, ma'am."

"Cherry clafoutis, please," Castle chose.

"Absolutely." The server bounced off.

"Coffee with dessert?" Castle inquired.

"Please."

"So about our killer." Castle returned to the only safe topic of conversation – that was, the one that wouldn't see him stranded in Greenwich. "If I were writing it" – Beckett made a face – "there'd be one more reason. Something in their shared past. Maybe Darnley and the killer were partners, or trained together, or had worked for the same company or contractor, and Darnley did much better. So deeper, long-standing resentment, as well as the one you suggested. A continuation. Of course, Darnley wouldn't know that the other guy hated him."

"I still need evidence. Unsubstantiated theories don't cut it in court."

"There's always a story," Castle said, and didn't say just like there is for you. "Shall we get coffee now?" He turned to the server, who was presenting them with their desserts. "A refill for my friend, and could I have a coffee too please? Light, no sugar for me as well. Thanks."

Beckett's brow furrowed, uncreased, furrowed, smoothed as she thought.

"I want more information," she finally growled, and chased the comment with half a cup of coffee. "Let's get going."

"You won't get it tonight. You already said so. If you rush your dessert you'll get indigestion, and then you'll be unhappy and you'll have a sore stomach."

Beckett's growl and glare would have terrified tigers.

"That's not nice. I just don't want you to suffer." I saw quite enough of that last night and I couldn't do anything about it except give you a hot water bottle for your stomach and an ice pack for your head.

Beckett muttered something into which Castle did not enquire, and attacked her tarte tatin with vigour, drained her coffee, and was clearly exerting extreme self-control not to tap her elegant fingers on the table to indicate to Castle that he should speed up. He finished in good order, but without delay. There was no point in annoying her, except – of course – by swiping the check before she could see it, and paying without allowing her a say.

He didn't want to annoy her. In the last sips of coffee, he'd found an idea.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.