The Other Path

Chapter 9

"Buy you a drink?" Snodgrass offers.

Credwell shrugs. "Why not?"

Snodgrass signals the bartender. "Two more of whatever he's having."

"So, what are you doing here, Councilman?" Credwell inquires as the bartender places beers and shots in front of them. "I don't think I've seen you in here before."

"It's been a hard morning," Snodgrass whispers conspiratorially. "Some idiots on my prize project really fu***d things up. "The people in the neighborhood are going to miss out. And it won't look good for the city either. The press will drum up a sh*t storm that's going to fall on all of us."

"That sounds like bad news," Credwell acknowledges. "So what got screwed up?"

"Wiring, like the wiring in some assholes' brains. Isn't that what's always screwed up?"

Credwell throws back his shot and takes a swig of his beer. "I hear that. So what are you going to do?"

"There isn't much I can do. That's why I'm drinking my lunch," Snodgrass confesses. "Your man Sandler closed everything down until my guys can tear up the walls to make him happy."

"Sandler, right." Credwell leans toward Snodgrass. "You know that's the fifth time this year he's closed down some project the city needs. The last time I practically had a riot in my department. Fortunately, it didn't take the builder too long to correct the violation. And it didn't hurt that I had another inspector sign off on it."

Snodgrass follows his own shot with a liberal gulp of the chaser. "Fixing this problem won't be fast enough. We've got a building full of Romex that needs conduits."

Credwell's guffaw echoes through the bar as he downs more of his beer. "Is that your problem?" He lowers his voice. "You know, there's a little room for interpretation of that particular regulation. It all depends on how the building is designated. You're not talking about a place that runs a lot of power, are you?"

"Hell no! What's going to run are a bunch of kids learning to play basketball. And I'd hate to disappoint then."

As Credwell gulps most of his remaining beer, Snodgrass gestures the bartender for a fresh set-up. Credwell claps a hand on Snodgrass' shoulder. "Thanks, Buddy. You know, I could review that regulation and send a better-behaved inspector to see if your project meets it after all. But the thing is, my department's running a little lean. We could use a boost in the upcoming budget."

Snodgrass nods enthusiastically. "I understand. So, if you can see about solving my problem, I'll see what I can do about solving yours."

Credwell raises his glass. "Let's drink to it."


Rick eagerly responds to a call from Kate. "Richard Castle's wordsmithing services."

"Is the wordsmith free for a consult?"

Rick sighs in sympathy. "Hit a wall?"

"Uh-huh. I wish the Gemini dolls hadn't been delayed until tomorrow. Gates is on the warpath. And I've been trying to write up my conversation with Michael Drew, but what I've got sounds like Joe Friday."

Rick imitates the matter-of-fact cadence of Jack Webb. "Just the facts, Ma'am."

"Exactly. And as much of a stickler as Gates is for the rules, she does love a little drama."

"Yeah. I remember her addiction to Real Housewives of Wall Street. You couldn't get much more dramatic than that."

"You were pretty drawn in by the show, too," Kate recalls.

"Only doing my duty as a conscientious consultant. And I can do my duty now too. See you in a few minutes. Have you had lunch?"

"I haven't even thought about it."

"Can't let the brain cells go hungry. I'll bring it."


Rick waves at Kate's computer screen. "I think this is sufficiently dramatic now. Anything else break on the case while I've been toiling in the literary vineyard?"

"I've had Ryan and Esposito looking into Snodgrass. Ryan's been talking to his contacts in narcotics, and Espo's been using his from the 54th to see if they'd heard anything. Espo thinks he might have a hit. Jack Coleridge, one of the cops in the 54th, had a brother-in-law, Mark Miller, in construction. He claimed that Snodgrass pulled a number on him and aced him out of a contract. He was talking about suing but died on a worksite before he could take it to court. The ME ruled it an accident, but Jack's sister Mary claimed her husband was obsessively cautious. He kept a scrupulously safe job site. Not only had he never had an accident of any kind, neither had his people. But she couldn't prove anything, and Snodgrass pressured the department to let the case lie."

"But Detective Kate Beckett doesn't let anything lie," Rick declares. "Are you going to reopen the investigation?"

"Coleridge is bringing over a copy of the file now. After I submit your version of my report to Gates, we should be able to go over it together – unless you need to go back to the loft to finish your own writing."

Rick's brows wriggle. "I think Nikki Heat's in pretty good shape, as is her real-world counterpart. Besides, I want a look at that file."

"Yeah, I thought you would."


Rick pages through the records on Mark Miller. "It looks like the autopsy was pretty cursory. I don't think I ever met the ME, Jacques Lyon."

"That's because he retired just before you came on board at the NYPD," Kate explains. "He wasn't a bad guy, and Lanie thought he wasn't a bad ME. But he was counting down the days until he could move back to France to be with his family there. I doubt he gave the case any more effort than he needed to. And with Miller dying in a hole full of wet cement, there wouldn't be much doubt as to the COD."

"No, but there would be a lot of doubt as to how Miller got in that hole. He could have been pushed or thrown. Still, there isn't anything here about bruising or defensive wounds."

"But Lyon would have had to remove the cement to see them." Kate points out. "As fast as the case was closed down, he might not have been given the time or the opportunity."

"We could make a call to France and find out," Rick suggests. "Let's see, Paris is six hours ahead of us, that would be…." He consults his watch. "Wow! I need to leave now, or I'll miss happy hour at Kingsbridge. But calling tomorrow morning should work. We can use the international service on my phone. That way, Gates won't balk at the charges."

"OK, Babe. Good luck."

Rick presses his lips to her hair. "Thanks, I'll give you a blow by blow – ooh, that sounds dirty – a thorough debriefing – that sounds dirty too."

"Quit while you're ahead," Kate counsels.

"Right. When I get home, I'll let you know what I find out."


The Kingsbridge Club is pretty much as Rick remembered it, except for the addition of a card room. He rubs his hands together in anticipation. There's nothing like a poker game to enter a conversation. And picking up a few bucks could be fun too. But if he wins too much, the other players could start concentrating too hard and clam up. He'll just have to play it by ear. He approaches a table with an empty seat. "What's the buy-in?"

The dealer barely looks up. "A thousand."

Reaching into his pocket for his money clip, Rick hopes that he can at least break even.