The Other Path
Chapter 37
Kate turns off the recurring alarm on her phone and retreats back under the covers. "Aren't you going to work?" Rick asks.
"I'm due time off, and there's no point in going in until the court makes Marion Menkin hand over her records," Kate explains.
A grin spreads over Rick's face. "So we actually have some time in bed in the morning when you don't have to run off to a crime scene?"
Kate presses a finger to her lips. "Sshh! Don't jinx it."
Rick slaps his hand over his mouth. "Mm-uh."
Kate's nimble digits find their way beneath his pajama top, making patterns on his bare skin. "We've got better things to do than talking."
Yes, yes we do," Rick agrees, tracing the curves of her body.
Suddenly sitting up, Kate shoves Rick's pajama bottoms down his legs and throws her leg over his hips. "Not a bad day for a ride."
Rick's brows lurch for his hairline as his arousal rises at her caress. "Or to be the ridee."
With her intimate heat growing, Kate leans in for a deep kiss. Craving the pressure, she rubs against him. His knowing fingers find the epicenter of her need, setting off mini-tremors. "Rick!"
"Ready to mount?" he pants, jutting and hard beneath her.
Breath explodes from her lungs as she takes him in. "Giddyup!"
Holding Kate close, Rick slowly becomes aware of the traffic sounds outside. "That was amazing! Pretty good for old marrieds."
The shallow creases in Kate's forehead descend toward her nose. "Old marrieds? It hasn't even been a year."
"But our souls entwined when we met, perhaps even before. Ooh! Maybe we were married in a former life and destined to come together again."
"You mean do it over until we get it right?" Kate teases.
"I think we got it very right just now. But, I wouldn't mind a do-over or endless do-overs."
Sighing at the intrusion, Kate reaches out to grab her buzzing cell phone. "Beckett. Yeah. OK. I'll be there in 20 minutes." She eases out of Rick's arms. "Do-overs will have to wait. The lawyers are still fighting over digitized records, but 20 banker's boxes of hardcopies just arrived at the squad headquarters. Since it's my case, I'm in charge of going through them."
Rick whistles through his teeth. "Wow! Papercut city! Want a hand?"
"I want two. I can probably rope in some of the squad members to help. But I'm guessing none of them read as fast as you do."
"My speed-demon proclivities are at your disposal. And I learned from previous traumatic experiences. I'll bring finger cots."
"These records must go back three decades," Rick moans.
"Longer," Kate points out. "My box is from when the Menkins were first married. That was almost fifty years ago."
"Ooh! Can I see that one?" Rick asks.
"Why?"
"Because agreements between the families might be documented there. And we could see just how heavy the ball and chain Marion had to drag around was."
"Funny attitude after all your flowery words about marriage," Kate observes.
"Kate, you and I got married because we wanted to. I can't even imagine life without you. Being forced into marriage is a sad and different thing. And if that is what happened to Marion, it might be in those papers."
Kate waves at her box of files. "Have at it."
"Booyah!" Rick cries after a few minutes, holding up a folder.
"What have you got?" Kate queries. "A prenup?"
"Better. This is the original contract between Marion's family and the Menkins. It says that if she divorces him or leaves Joe for any reason, she's completely cut off from any inheritance – excluding her grandmother's house. No wonder she was so upset that it's threatened. It was the only thing she could count on. But as long as she stayed married to Joe, she had control over some revenue stemming from her family's holdings. That must be what Joe was embezzling. So far, what we heard from Marc Feldshuh checks out – except for the Eydie Gormé thing. I think he meant Edie Adams. She was married to the genius who did the Nairobi Trio. But Marc's more a political animal than a Hollywood historian. "
Kate smacks a more recent box. "Maybe Marc was on track about the political stuff, but so far, we don't have anything that proves Menkin was embezzling. If it exists, it would be in the more recent records. And any money Marion drew out to pay a hitman would be too. So far, all we have is supposition."
"How about the suit Feldshuh said Marion tried to file?" Rick queries. "Whether she succeeded or not, there has to be a public record somewhere."
Kate nods. "Probably in West Virginia, where the Menkins have their official residence.
Rick grins. "I know a guy in West Virginia. He did an exposé about the pollution from the coal mines. I used him as a consultant when I was crafting Rook as a crusading journalist If there was any legal action concerning Menkin, he'd know how to find it. And I'm betting he'd love to get a story out of Menkin's murder."
"Call him!" Kate urges.
Rick checks his watch. "He's a night owl. He probably isn't up yet, and he hates being roused. But he should be awake this afternoon. I can call him then."
"Fine," Kate agrees. "In the meantime, see if you can make any other finds in these boxes."
"So we're all set?" Buck Paulson grills George Fuhrman, his producer.
"Everything's lined up. Lana Graham's ready to back you. We've edited video of Lynch to make him look like a monster, and we've got Phizbin spouting all the talking points."
"We need more than talking points," Paulson insists. "Phizbin needs to come on like a cross between Ronald Reagan and Superman."
The grooves flanking Fuhrman's mouth deepen. "Have you seen Phizbin lately? He's more like the Pillsbury Dough Boy without the charming giggle. But we'll do the best we can with him. We can edit the footage to make him look leaner. And we can manipulate his voice to sound a little deeper. But you're going to have to sell him, Buck."
I'll sell him. But let's see if Leitch can get him tied up with a voice coach and a trainer. The mean bitch from the show with the fat slobs would be perfect to get him into shape. Loch can pick up the tab."
"All right," Fuhrman agrees.
"And have someone keep Lana away from the booze before air time," Paulson adds. "We don't want her slurring the message."
"I'll take care of it," Fuhrman assures his star.
Connor Mainsail sets a mug of Earl Grey tea on his desk and flips open his laptop just as his cellphone sounds. He's tempted to ignore it. Somehow the jerks pushing extended car warranties managed to get his number and constantly torture him at this time of day. But before he hits the red circle, he sees the caller ID. Richard Castle! He's been wanting to have a word with him. Lately, compared to Nikki, Rook's been a bit of a wimp, and Connor wants the investigative reporter to kick some ass. Just because Connor spends most of his time at the keyboard doesn't mean Castle's creation should. Connor can use a good fantasy. He picks up the phone. "Rick! How the hell are you?"
