The Other Path

Chapter 10

Falling backward on the bed, Rick presses his forearm to his eyes. "Wow! I never want to play a poker game like that again!"

"Losing streak?" Kate inquires, taking a seat next to him.

"No, that wouldn't have been a problem. I was hot, in the zone. So hot that I had to remember to throw a hand every so often to keep the other players talking to me."

"Talking about Snodgrass?"

"His name came up once or twice. But it was mostly about corruption and their trust in the city government deteriorating since Weldon's out of office. And we know Bob had his own problems with Bracken's backers sticking their own filthy fingers into the game. Still, as far as I can tell, Snodgrass is at the top of the douchebag list. And he seems to be the one giving my fellow players their biggest headaches. But they weren't too big on the building department either. So, did you get a lead?"

"Maybe. The boys recanvassed Drew Anniston's neighbors to hit up anyone they missed the first time. The guy in 207 thought he saw a stranger when he went to pick up his mail. He noticed the guy during the kill zone. But he couldn't give much of a description, except that the man was tall, he thought at least six-four."

"And didn't Lanie say Drew was stabbed with a downward thrust?"

"She did," Kate confirms. "So that narrows our suspect pool down to male and rangy."

"That's half a percent of the population, but in New York, that's still a hell of a lot of people. But the question is," Rick muses, "how many of them take orders from Snodgrass?"

"Hopefully not many. But when I threw in the file I got from Coleridge, it was enough for Gates to sign off on pulling Snodgrass' financials. They should come in tomorrow morning."

"The same with the Geminis. You and your captain could both have a good morning. But I'm hoping the Gemini influence lasts longer than that."

"Maybe your winning streak will hold. How much did you net in that poker game, anyway?"

"More than enough to pay for the ugly collectibles."

"Maybe it's a sign."

Rick props himself up on his elbow. "I thought the logical police detective didn't believe in signs."

"I'll take what I can get."

Rick arches a brow. "Oh, and what is that?"

Kate pulls at his collar. "I'll have to show you."


Tears glisten in Victoria Gates' eyes. "Oh, Mr. Castle, I don't know what to say. These are beautiful, perfect. But I can't take them. They must have cost a fortune."

"Of course, you can take them," Rick insists. "I broke the first two, so I owed you. These are just recompenses."

"You do have a point," Gate responds. "All right! Thank you, Mr. Castle. Thank you very much."

"My pleasure, Captain. And now I need to help Beckett get the goods on a crooked councilman."

"Yes, yes, Mr. Castle. You two carry on."

Rick's eyebrows seesaw as he returns to Kate at her desk. "Your captain suggested that we carry on. We could retreat to the broom closet. I'll bet no one would miss us for at least 15 minutes."

"It's a nice thought," Kate considers. "But even hypnotized by her treasures, I doubt that's what she meant. And Snodgrass's financials arrived."

"Fascinating reading?"

"I don't know. I just started." Kate holds up a handful of papers. "Grab a few pages and tell me what you think."

Settling into his faithful chair, Rick runs his finger down columns of names and figures. "If Snodgrass paid someone to kill Drew Anniston, these should show a large withdrawal or transfer before or after Drew bled out on the carpet. I don't – oh, bingo! Two transfers of $9,995, one before the murder and one after."

"That amount would keep them under the limit to trigger an IRS notification," Kate notes. "Where did the money go?"

"This just shows an account number, but it's a domestic bank. It looks like our killer either doesn't trust foreign institutions or is too dumb to know how to set up an offshore account."

Kate springs out of her chair. "Either way is good for us. I'll find out who owns this account."

"Want to bet he shops at the big and tall store?"

"No bet."


"When Inspector Brad Semple leaves Commissioner Credwell's office, he has no doubt about his orders. He has to agree with Credwell's reclassification of the community center so he can sign off on the wiring. He tells himself that it won't make any difference. No one there will be running heavy machinery. There's no chance they'll ever draw a lot of amps or need more than 240 volts. As usual, when Sandler closed the place down, he couldn't see beyond the tip of his nose. Besides, Semple's daughter will be starting college in a couple of years. He needs the promotion Credwell has been promising him. So he'll do his job for the city and his family, and everyone will be happy. He repeats that to himself all the way to the Crewland site.


"It's a perfect time to call Jacques Lyon," Rick announces, checking his watch. "In France, it's too late for lunch and too early for supper. Of course, Dr. Lyon could be spending happy hours at a café sipping wine and watching the passers-by."

"Or playing with his grandchildren," Kate suggests. "But either way, we should call him." She hands Rick a slip of paper. "Lanie got the number for me. Jacques left it as an emergency contact."

"On y va!" Rick dials and hits the speaker button on his phone.

"Bonjour," A husky voice returns after three rings. "Qui appelle?"

"Docteur Lyon," Kate jumps in, "it's Detective Beckett from the NYPD and my civilian consultant, Richard Castle."

Rick can hear the amusement in Lyon's voice. "Oh yes, the writer sleuth, and your husband if I'm not mistaken. My daughter is quite taken with his books. But I assume this is not a social call. How can I help you, Detective?"

"Do you remember an autopsy on a Mark Miller? He was found in concrete at a construction site."

"That one would be hard to forget. A large chunk of cement came to the lab with him. I hadn't removed even half of it when I was told there was pressure from above to close the case. The cause of death was clear enough. He suffocated. And the police gave me no reason to suspect foul play. So I signed off on accidental death."

"Did you have any reason at all to suspect it wasn't accidental?" Rick probes.

"I did not. But I had no conclusive evidence to rule that out either," Lyon admits. "The body was too compromised. However, there was one thing."

"What?" Kate asks.

"The position of the body. When a person is slipping, they tend to flail around a bit. But Miller's arms were straight out as if he were pushed from behind. It was the position of someone who knows he's going down and is trying to break the fall. However, that observation is by no means definitive. I've also found accidental fall victims in that position. But if you do suspect Miller's death was at the hands of another, I can offer no evidence to disprove that theory."

Rick flashes Kate a significant look, and she nods her agreement. "Thank you, Docteur Lyon. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to us."

"De rien. Good luck, Detective. And Mr. Castle, my daughter is impatient. Hurry with your next book."

"I will," Rick promises.