Chapter 4

"David Blockworth," Beckett said coldly. "Tell me about your relationship with Arnie Bukowitz."

He looked her up and down, sleazy desire growing in his face. "Wow. They send you in to soften me up for the real cops?"

In Observation, Ryan winced.

Beckett looked at Dave with complete contempt. "Let me be clear," she said icily. "I am the senior detective investigating the murder of Arnold Bukowitz. You are my main suspect as his murderer. I have evidence that you assaulted him."

"Naw, you don't," he said lazily.

"You should have taken off that signet ring," Beckett said.

His colour vanished.

"And you – and your pal Ken – are both on street cam footage beating Arnie up, right around the time of his death." She smiled nastily. "Now, shall we start again?"

He nodded, apparently incapable of speech.

"Your pal Ken is in custody too, so whichever of you talks first gets to try for a plea. I'm going to tell him the same thing, now. You've got till I get back to decide."

She hadn't even sat down. Now, Beckett put her hand to the door.

"It was his idea!" Dave said, before she'd touched the handle. "We didn't mean to kill him, we just" –

"You just wanted to beat him up? That's a felony too. Felony assault. That's a minimum of three years inside, and could be twenty five. I'd be pushing the DA to twenty five, because you and your pal are experienced sparrers and knew exactly what to do. But since you killed him, I don't need to worry about that. Life'll do you nicely." She looked him up and down. "You won't be doing your competitions from jail."

"We didn't mean to" – but she'd gone.

Beckett stalked into Observation with a satisfied smile. "That sounded like a confession to me. Do we need anything more?"

"Not from Dave. Crumpled like a wet Kleenex."

"I'll take Varen, then," Beckett said. "Shouldn't take more than five minutes." She hoped it wouldn't, because her arm was still far more painful than she'd expected. Maybe she should go to the ER. She wouldn't tell Ryan or Espo if she did, though. She'd see at the end of the day. For now, she had a criminal to deal with, and that was the most important matter. Bruised arms would wait.

She stalked out of Observation and into Interrogation One, where Ken Varen was handcuffed to the table.

"Ken Varen. Under arrest for assaulting a police detective – that would be me. We have evidence that you and David Blockworth – who is also here – feloniously assaulted and murdered Arnie Bukowitz. Have you anything to say before you're charged with murder?"

"You can't" –

"Blockworth has confessed." Beckett cut the argument short. She couldn't be bothered to play today. "Ken Varen, you are under arrest…" She read the routine, and ignored the swearing and rattling of his shackled hands. Two big uniforms – not LT – took him away, and she sat down, suddenly exhausted.

Still in Observation, Espo and Ryan exchanged looks and then, knowing Beckett couldn't hear them, Ryan opened up.

"Now that's over, let's send her to the ER."

"Send? Bro, you crazy. You don't send Beckett anywhere. Better plan, send Castle that dumb joke you had, and leave Beckett alone."

Ryan's baby-faced brow creased. "I think," he said slowly, "I think I'll tell him she's racking up the overtime, too. Subtle, you see. Maybe we'll find out something that way."

"You do you, bro. Not my game. She's not doing anything she doesn't usually do."

Ryan tapped out a lengthy text, and then followed Espo back to the bullpen, where Beckett was already putting together the paperwork for the DA, but was noticeably shielding her arm.

Castle should have been perfectly happy: settled in his luxurious mansion in the Hamptons, in gorgeous summer weather; the beach or pool at his disposal; and a beautiful blonde accompanying him. Everything he had previously wanted.

Instead of lounging by the pool, or disporting himself with Gina, however, he was lurking, not to say hiding, in a secluded nook of the beach that wasn't visible from any part of the house or garden, and was pretty hard to find from the beach itself. Solitude had become a necessity.

He should have known that it wasn't going to work the moment he'd put Gina's bags in one of the guest bedrooms, not in his. He hadn't even realised he was doing it, and Gina hadn't commented. They'd had a delicious dinner, with excellent wine, and then taken their coffee out to the pool, sharing the cane couch. He'd put an arm around her, and she'd turned her face to his.

He'd kissed her, and felt absolutely nothing. Not a twitch or rise or fill. Nothing but limpness. He might have been kissing his mother on the cheek.

Gina, astonishingly, still hadn't commented, just said that it had been a tiring journey, and a busy month, and did he mind if she went to bed now her coffee was done? Of course he hadn't. He'd thought that perhaps he was also tired, or maybe just stressed and disappointed that Beckett was off with some square-jawed, over-tall, mouse-haired Demming.

He'd thought he'd be just fine the next day. After all, even in their worst moments, he and Gina had had spectacularly good sex. By the end, true, it had first been make-up, then just angry, sex, but it had always been great sex and he'd never had a problem with arousal. Not till now.

He couldn't raise a twitch. He couldn't find a single iota of desire for Gina no matter how hard he tried, and the harder he tried, the less hard he was. He was as soggily flaccid as the pile of seaweed by his foot.

And, of course, Gina had quite reasonably expected that she'd been invited for more than just on-tap editing. Finding that he wasn't up for anything (and wasn't up at all) hadn't impressed her much, and she was beginning to take her frustration out on him. He couldn't say he blamed her.

Still, he'd pretty much had enough of it already, only just two weeks into the summer.

He sat in his nook, and moped. The sunshine didn't cheer him in the slightest. He should never have invited Gina, but he'd been hurt, and angry, and lonely. Now he was hurt, angry, lonely and totally frustrated with himself and Gina. It wasn't an improvement.

Why couldn't Beckett just have ditched Demming? Or even told him, Castle, the truth earlier? If he'd had time to think about it, he would have realised that inviting Gina was a rebound disastrous decision. He moped more. He… well, he missed Beckett: her snap and spark and snark, the assertive clack of her heels and her quickfire banter. She shouldn't be wasting it on some meat-headed Robbery Detective who wouldn't appreciate the wordplay and fierce intelligence.

He thought back. He hadn't done anything to send her skiting off in search of someone else…oh. Ellie Monroe. Well, hell. That hadn't meant anything and anyway Beckett hadn't exactly – hadn't at all – responded to his flirtation before that, so why shouldn't he have some fun?

He basked in the glow of self-satisfied righteousness for all of ten seconds, before he worked out that he couldn't have it – or Beckett – both ways. If Ellie meant nothing, but he'd done it anyway, then Demming could mean little or nothing and Beckett had the equal right to do it anyway. If Beckett had thought that Ellie meant that she, Beckett, meant little or nothing, then she'd every right to find someone who (from his drooling and goggle-eyed expression) worshipped the ground she walked on.

Why had he gone to bed with Ellie-ambitious-actress-Monroe, anyway? Because she was pretty, available, and it was the closest you thought you'd get to bedding Beckett-aka-Nikki-Heat, after too much Scotch and not enough food, a cynical voice said in his head. You wanted the real thing, couldn't have it, and took a substitute. A second-rate substitute, at that. Even the sex wasn't that great.

Castle winced. She still shouldn't have gone with Demming, he said sulkily to the cynical voice. Why not? it said back. You gave him an open field to ask. Dumbass. He didn't like this voice.

"Rick!" scythed through the air in Gina's not-so-dulcet tones. "Rick!"

Castle, childishly, didn't want to be found, especially not to discuss her constructive (yeah, right) criticism of his manuscript. He rose and sneaked away in the opposite direction from her voice, aiming for a small, steep path back up to his grounds. He could meet Gina there on level terms.

He attained the garden without Gina spotting his surreptitious approach, and arrived by her side via the house. "Looking for me?" he asked.

"Yes. I'm going back to Manhattan."

Castle stared. "You're what?"

"I. Am. Going. Back. To. Manhattan. I thought the words were pretty clear, Rick."

"Uh," he said, and then, "Oh," which wasn't exactly articulate. "Uh, why?" He couldn't decide if he were pleased or disappointed.

"Because even if I ground up four Viagra pills and laced your dinner with all of them, you wouldn't be interested. I thought you were inviting me up here because you wanted to get back together, and since whatever else went wrong it was always damn good in bed, I was okay with that, but I'm not staying when it's clear you're about as interested in sleeping with me as you are about fucking a donkey. You only want your Detective Beckett."

"Uh?"

"You dream about her, Rick. I'm not even in your bedroom, let alone your bed, and I can hear you saying her name in your sleep. I'm not going to be in some sort of sick competition against a ghost in your brain. So I'm going home." She turned away, then back again. "You can send me those rewrites by the end of the week. I might as well get some use out of the last two weeks. God knows it hasn't been any good otherwise."

The doorbell rang. "That's my cab," Gina said. "Send the edits. And sort your lovelorn head out before you speak to me again."

She ostentatiously failed to say Goodbye.

Castle went back down to the secluded nook of beach and industriously wallowed in his misery to avoid both thinking about Gina's words or thinking about Beckett. He was entirely unsuccessful in both aims, but still he stayed down on the beach, utterly miserable, utterly devoid of words or other thought, until the sky darkened and the air began to cool. Only then did he trudge back to the house, to make himself a scanty, unwanted dinner and then self-medicate with Scotch until he collapsed into bed, unconsoled and alone.

His hangover pounded in his head when he briefly woke, decided that the day could very well do without him, and pulled the covers back across his face to sleep again.

He finally woke after eleven, and wished he hadn't. His head still pounded, his eyes felt dry, and the best he could say about his mouth was that some herbivorous animal had defecated in it. He staggered out of bed, and brushed his teeth twice, poured what felt like a gallon of water down his throat to wash down two painkillers, and forced himself to eat some bland cereal with milk. He couldn't say he felt good, but he didn't want to die any more.

He took his coffee outside, and sat in the warmth of the Hamptons sunshine, trying to assemble enough neurons to think. Gradually the coffee displaced the remaining alcohol, and matters began to come into focus.

Before he could come to any sensible thoughts, however, his phone chirped with a text from Ryan. Expecting a dumb joke, he opened it, and wasn't disappointed. He was, however, a little confused as to why Ryan (and Espo: they worked as a pair) felt he needed to know that the solve rate had increased and that Beckett was piling on the overtime. No doubt, he thought bitterly, it was so that she could have another cosy weekend away with Demming.

He felt sufficiently restored to make and eat lunch, and then sent a silly joke and a photo of the pool back to Ryan, who rapidly sent back All right for some. We barely got time to eat. Castle wondered briefly about that, since the boys rarely missed a meal, but didn't ask.

Ryan looked at Castle's text. "He hasn't even commented on Beckett's overtime," he said worriedly. "I don't think subtle is working."

"Up to you, bro. I'm not getting into this."

"But" –

"But she's overdoing it. But she won't listen to you or me. But she doesn't want to know about Castle. But for all we know he's getting his rocks off with Gina every night and doesn't want to know about the precinct or Beckett."

"He ought to know she broke up with Demming," Ryan said stubbornly.

"Give it a few days. Maybe she'll see sense."

"I'd believe that if I thought she'd see a doctor about that arm. She's not using it at all."

"It only happened this morning. She'll go after shift."

Ryan's face said he didn't believe that for a second. His mouth said, "We'll see, I guess."

"Espo! Ryan! Are you working on the next case now we've put those gym rats away? We got a scene to go to. Let's move!" She clapped her hands, and hid a wince, not entirely successfully. "I'll see you there."

"You shouldn't be driving," Ryan said. "At least take LT if you can't use that arm properly."

"I don't need to take a babysitter and I can drive my cruiser just fine."

"You couldn't drive it earlier," Espo said. "So you can take LT or you can ride with one of us."

"You what now?"

"LT drives you, or one of us does," he repeated.

"Don't be ridiculous. I can drive just fine – fu-u-u-ck. You sonofabitch, Espo!"

Espo had clapped her gently on the upper arm. "Hurt? You can't drive, then. And after we've been to this scene we're taking you down to the ER to get checked out because I'm not doing all the overtime we'll need to if you can't do your job 'cause you're too dumb to make sure it's not broken."

"It's not broken. It's just bruised."

"Then it won't matter that you get it checked, will it?" Espo scowled right back at Beckett's glare. "I don't care if you work all night after it's checked, but you need to get it looked at and if you don't," he said smugly, "I'll get Lanie in here."

"LT can come. I'm not riding with either of you mother hens clucking all the way."

Espo made a disgusted noise at her description, and as soon as she turned away bumped fists with Ryan, who smiled with considerable admiration at his Beckett-management.

"As good as Castle," Ryan murmured.

Espo scowled. "I don't go mooning around like he does."

"Lanie?" Ryan said mischievously? "I've seen you watching her wiggle all the way to the elevator."

Espo growled blackly.

The next murder scene was messy with blood, spilled guts, and a trail of footprints leading to the entrance of the alley, where they disappeared, exactly where a car could have stopped.

"Okay, street cams," Beckett said. "Someone picked our perp up, or they left their car there. Likely a man, but let's not make assumptions."

"Time of death?" Espo asked Lanie, towards whom Beckett hadn't cast a single glance after her initial, chilly, greeting. Lanie had responded equally coldly.

"I'm guessing a few hours ago," Lanie replied.

"Can I have a look in his pockets for ID?" Espo pulled on the nitrile gloves and stepped up to the corpse and Lanie.

"Sure."

Espo carefully probed. "What's up with you and Beckett?"

"She's got her head up her ass and till she pulls it out I'm leaving her to it."

"She hasn't asked you to look at her arm?"

"No. She can go to the ER like any normal person. They can fix her arm." She muttered something. Espo thought she'd said shame they won't fix her head.

"'Kay. D'you tell Castle she'd split with Demming?"

"Nope, never got the chance. Anyway, he's off with his blonde ex, living it up in the Hamptons."

"'Kay," Espo said again.

"What're you thinking? 'Cause I'm not helping you two with something dumb."

"I'm thinking I'm leaving well alone."

"Sensible."

Espo continued to search the corpse while CSU dealt with the surroundings. "Got something," he finally said, and withdrew it with an unpleasant squelching. "Mick Mulroy. Someone didn't like him."

"He's part of the Irish mob," Ryan said quietly.

"You knew him before?" Beckett asked, sliding up and keeping her own voice to a murmur.

"Yeah."

"Crap," Espo said. "That's not what we need on a Tuesday at shift end."

Beckett didn't agree. Beckett, in fact, felt that a nice new tricksy case would prevent Espo depositing her at the ER and would take her mind away from…other things. (That would be Castle, then, her brain said. She ignored its unhelpful commentary. And her arm.) "Okay," she said. "Street cams, run him to see if there's anything new, then Ryan and I'll go see the right mobster." Espo opened his mouth, and shut it again. Ryan copied him. The twin imitation goldfish remained as silent as their piscine equivalents. "Let's get going," she commanded, and strode off, LT trotting after her with her car keys.

Back in the precinct, everything that could be started was started. Beckett leaned back unthinkingly, yelped, and glared around to squash any commentary. "Time to pack up," she said. "We can't do anything more tonight. Everything's running. Tomorrow, when we've got results, we'll work out who we need to see. Ryan, you take point on the mob issues. Espo, you take the camera footage and try to find this car that must have picked him up. I'll go with finances and next of kin when we find them." She stood up, and shrugged her coat on. "See you tomorrow," she said, and left.

It took the boys a moment to realise that she'd left before they could march her to the ER, and that she was clearly intending to go home without the benefit of LT's chauffeuring.

"The hell?" Espo said to the bullpen at large.

"Dumb," Ryan added, unusually critical of Beckett.

Beckett set her teeth, switched the engine on, and drove home, alternately biting her lip and swearing all the way. By the time she parked, she would have amputated her arm with a kitchen knife if it would stop it hurting. Inside, she stripped her shirt and applied as much Icy Hot as she could to the arm, regarding the black bruising with horror. Still, it was only bruising. Ghastly, and definitely at the worse end of bruises she had incurred, but she'd got the guys so it was a win. As the Icy Hot seeped in, the pain lessened. She made herself dinner, ate around half of it, stuffed the rest in the fridge for the next day, and ran herself a scaldingly hot bath with half a pint of muscle relaxant, after which, she decided, she'd reapply Icy Hot and have a quiet evening. She slid into the bath, and sighed with relief as her tired body relaxed.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Much appreciated.