Chapter 5

Beckett lay in her bath, soothed in body by the aromatic bubbles of her relaxant, but as the pain in her arm melted away into the hot water, less and less soothed in spirit. She'd been absolutely fine all day, when she'd had to concentrate on concealing the pain in her arm and eliciting confessions to murder. She'd been buoyed up on the adrenaline rush of evading the initial target of Varen's punch, and the successful arrest.

In fact, though she didn't quite think it, deep inside she absorbed the dangerously tempting idea that a little risk was a good thing…and if a little risk was good, a little more would be better. More…protective.

If she'd consciously realised the thought, she might have guarded against it. Cops who took too many risks with their own safety all too often ended up as dead or gravely injured cops. Deeper still in her unhappy mind, a poisonous, writhing worm said you left it too late, so what does anything matter now?

Alone in her bath, she wasn't strong enough not to think about Castle, walking away with Gina. Replacing her. Alone in her bath, she wept, again, and wished, futilely, that she'd done things differently; well-mixed with anger that Castle had preferred firstly a self-interested actress and then his ex over her. Without the knowledge that he was interested, attracted, or simply her best friend, she had no solid ground. So she'd sought solid ground with solid, stolid Demming: a nice guy, a good guy.

A not-Castle guy.

Castle had rejected her for an actress, so she'd rejected him for someone who'd be glad to have her. Except when it had come to the crunch, she couldn't do it. Couldn't go away for the weekend and sleep with Demming in good conscience, knowing that she wasn't really that attracted.

Knowing that she wasn't attracted at all: that she'd told herself she was in pride and hurt, pretended so hard that she could make herself believe it, right up until she had to prove it and…

Couldn't.

Slow, unwanted tears trickled down her face; the water cooled; the bubbles dissolved; the livid bruise began to ache again. Beckett stepped out of her bath, dried herself and applied more Icy Hot, and simply went to bed, sleeping fitfully, waking each time she turned on to her arm, dreaming of Castle, walking away.

If he wasn't going to be around, what did anything matter?

Justice. Justice for the victim, justice for their families, justice and closure. Justice mattered: being the best cop she could be to deliver that justice. Whatever toll that took.

Whatever price she paid.

Nothing else mattered, now.

"What's with your arm?" Espo asked as he came in.

"Bad bruise," Beckett said. "Lots of Icy Hot and don't knock it."

Espo, assuming from her casual tone that she'd done the sensible thing and gone to the ER of her own volition, left it at that, and later told Ryan about it, who also assumed that she'd gone.

Later that morning, searches having coughed out little or nothing, and street camera footage still awaited, Beckett summoned Ryan to go for a small trip out to visit the Westies. "You're driving," she said irritably.

"Okay." Ryan didn't comment any further, not being dumb.

In a grimy corner of the city, the two cops parked, then descended into the pub which covered the Westies' main hangout and unofficial headquarters.

"Whaddya want?" a bruiser asked.

"Got some news for your boss, about Mick Mulroy," Ryan said, as laconic as Espo.

"Mick? Ain't seen him for a day or two."

"That's why we got some news."

The bruiser escorted them through, eyeing up Beckett but fortunately not voicing his thoughts. Looks, she could and would ignore.

"Yeah?" a thickset man said.

"Two cops. Say they got info on Mick Mulroy."

"'Kay."

The bruiser stayed by the door. Beckett strode in, Ryan covering her back. "Finn Rourke," she said. "I think you know a Mick Mulroy?"

"Yeah. Friend of mine."

"I'm sorry to tell you" –

"He's dead?" Rourke's face fell slack.

"He was murdered yesterday."

Rourke swore viciously. "He was my friend," he said again. "We grew up together."

"I'll do everything I can to find his killer," Beckett said.

"What do you want to know?"

She pulled out a photo, and showed it to Rourke, whose mouth tightened and eyes widened. "Do you know anyone who hated him enough to do that?" she asked.

"Fuck me, that's bad. Joe!" Joe was evidently the bruiser. "You ever seen anything like this? Call the boys. I wanna know about anyone who hated Mick and anything anyone knows about anyone who kills like this." He slammed hands on the desk. "Now!"

Joe ran. Beckett regarded Rourke coolly. "You'll be sharing that information with me," she stated.

"What makes you think I'd share anything with a bunch of flatfooted cops?"

Beckett inspected her feet in their heels, and smiled nastily. "I'm not flatfooted, but I'm the only cop you'll meet who'll treat this like a murder rather than ignore it as a gang killing. And I'm the only cop you'll meet who'll know that if there's a bunch of gangers found dead in the next week that you'll have had it done, and then I'll be the cop who puts you in jail, with all your helpers."

As she'd spoken, she'd stalked to Rourke's desk, put her hands flat on it, and got right into his face.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said. "I'll go after killers whoever they are, from the President on down to some two bit kid shooting up mom-and-pop stores to buy drugs. I don't care about anything but catching the killer and justice for the victim. So you can be on my side, or not, but either way I'll do my job." She moved back a fraction. "Believe me, Rourke. You don't want to get in my way."

Ryan watched, appalled and amazed, as Rourke dropped his eyes, his body language conceding to Beckett's forcefulness.

"You got co-operation," he said. "My boys'll start coming in shortly. You can sit in. Not your pal, though. He can go."

Beckett exchanged glances with Ryan. "You go on back. Work on the footage. If I'm going well here, I'll see you tomorrow."

"But" –

"No. Rourke isn't going to let anything happen to me here." She smiled coldly. "Because if he does, that's the end of the Westies."

Ryan departed. Rourke regarded Beckett strangely. "You don't give a crap that you're a cop in the middle of Westies' territory, do you? You just don't give a fuck that you could disappear."

"You're not dumb, Rourke. You know as well as I do that every cop in the precinct knows where I am and who I'm seeing. You're going to keep me safer than your wife or daughter, because you know that if anything happens to me, you're dead."

"They should call you Detective Ball-breaker, not Beckett," Rourke muttered.

"They do when they think I can't hear them," she flashed back. "I treat it as a compliment."

Rourke shook his head, but, before they could clash further, Joe reappeared. "I got the boys who're here, boss, and the others'll come in as they get done with their work."

"Okay," Rourke said. "Start sending them in." He scowled at Beckett. "You sit there, Ball-breaker."

"I'll ask questions as I want to," she scowled back. Rourke backed down again.

"You left her on her own with Rourke?" Espo whisper-screamed. "What the fuck were you doing?"

"You didn't see her. She got right up in his face and he backed down. She just…he folded. You had to see it. It was like she didn't give a shit for anything."

Espo had a sudden horrible memory of the look in Beckett's eyes on the way to the gym, when he'd thought that she looked like she had nothing to lose. "That's…not good," he said. "That's not good at all."

"She said that she'd see us here tomorrow, and to work on the footage and any other leads."

"And you say she faced down Finn Rourke?"

"Yeah. Scary, man."

Espo shrugged. "Okay. We know where she is. Let's get on or she'll be in our faces first thing."

In the Westies' unofficial headquarters, Beckett had the exceedingly unusual, indeed, unique, opportunity to see how Rourke ran his gang. Tightly, seemed to be the answer, but with an interesting layer of personal knowledge and interest in his boys. Women were not in evidence. His boys treated him like a stern and commanding patriarch, but there was clear respect and admiration. Beckett didn't see any trace of dissent or small, unconscious resentments. Clearly, Rourke took the description Family seriously – as long as he was the head of that family.

Long hours and no coffee later, Beckett was content – insofar as she was ever content to deal with lowlifes and crime families – that no-one with whom Rourke had spoken had any involvement with the Ripper-style murder of Mick Mulroy.

"Who outside would have a motive to kill Mick like that?"

"That's not a message to me," Rourke said instantly. "There's nobody would do that to send a message – not to a person. Maybe to a pet, but I'm not on that bad terms with anyone."

"So who hated Mick that much? You've asked all your men, and they don't know. So what about women?"

"You think a woman could have ripped up Mick like that?"

"I think if you've got a sharp enough knife and you get close enough, the first stab would keep him down for the rest." Beckett's eyes widened.

"What're you thinking, Ball-breaker?"

"I'm thinking Mick had a girl. Or went to a working girl. I'm thinking that didn't end well."

Rourke stopped. "I…"

"Was he married?"

"No."

"Did he like the girls?" Rourke paused again. "Come on. You know everything about your boys. Don't tell me you don't know that about your friend."

There was a nastily uncomfortable silence. "Yeah," Rourke said eventually. "He liked the girls, but he didn't want anything more than one night."

"He paid for it." Beckett's tone was flat.

"Yeah."

"Anyone you know? Or did he deal with one pimp?" She carefully didn't say which of your lowlifes was supplying him with girls? Another uncomfortable silence, which Beckett did nothing to break for a moment. "I can ask Vice," she said casually. "I'll start with anyone they think is associated with the Westies."

Rourke swallowed, taking the unvoiced threat to business and unable to comment without admitting to illegal pursuits. "I'll ask around," he said.

"Call me tomorrow with the results," Beckett said. "Or I'll come back."

"You won't have to do that," Rourke said. "Gimme your card."

Beckett handed one over. "Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Rourke," she said, smiling coldly. She was sure she heard ball-breaker as she left. She'd take that as a compliment from Rourke too.

Since it was now after six, Beckett took herself home on the subway, carefully positioning herself to avoid bumps to her arm. She hadn't thought about it all day, though the ache had been there in the background; but now that she wasn't fully engaged in the hunt and the straight-up intimidation of lowlifes, it was very much present again. Her tube of Icy Hot was calling her name, together with another scalding bubble bath.

She examined her arm, which remained resolutely unchanged from the previous night, bathed and anointed it with salve, and, uselessly, checked her phone, which remained resolutely uncontacted by Castle. She belatedly sent Ryan and Espo a text to comfort them that she'd left Rourke's lair alive, tried to eat dinner, managed almost none of it, and realised that it was now close to three weeks since Castle had left and she hadn't heard a word from him. She wondered if the boys had, but knew she wouldn't ask them. Too much of an admission, and she wouldn't admit to anyone how much it hurt.

On the other hand, facing down Rourke had felt really, really good.

She went to bed, after an evening of brain-numbing TV, and slept with only the now-usual quantity of restlessness and nightmare. She counted that as a win.

In the Hamptons, Castle regarded the edits that Gina had left them with disfavour, and childishly turned all the pages upside down so he couldn't see anything but empty white space. If he couldn't see the mark-up, it wasn't there. And if he went and made himself coffee and drank it by the pool, he wouldn't even be able to see the pile of paper.

Nor, of course, would he be able to see his silent phone. It had been almost three weeks since he'd said See you in the fall, and left Beckett to her Demming. He hadn't heard anything from her since; and the only thing he'd heard about her was that she was racking up the overtime. Which was not news. Beckett spent all her time racking up the overtime, so why bother telling him she was?

He sipped his coffee.

Why bother telling him at all? He knew what Beckett was like: he didn't need Ryan telling him things he already knew. It wasn't like the boys usually did that: normally they forgot to tell him things it would be good to know.

Another sip of coffee. In the back of his head cogs began to cogitate.

Why bother? Ryan could have stuck to exchanging silly jokes and telling him about all the horrible cases they had to deal with. Why on earth waste texts and time on telling him something he already knew?

Because it was news.

But it wasn't news. It would only be news if it were unusual, and it wasn't.

He drained his coffee, and shoved Ryan's banality to the back of his mind, where it couldn't bother him.

He should have thought: where it couldn't bother him much. Often. Or at least not all the time.

Because however much he tried to luxuriate in the sunshine, savour his coffee, or swim himself to exhaustion; however much he tried to focus on his edits so that Gina wouldn't return with more stinging words; however much he tried to ignore it…at the back of his mind it squirmed and squiggled and snipped and snicker-snacked.

By the end of the day he was irritated, irritable, and downright irate. His discomfort and anger led him into sending Ryan an annoyed text. Why'd you bother telling me about Beckett's overtime? She's always like that. C.

As soon as he'd sent it, he regretted it. He wanted to ask How is she?, but pride and resentment at being shoved aside for Demming stopped him doing so.

Ryan read Castle's text with considerable dismay, and then showed it to Espo at a conveniently private moment, while they were waiting for the footage clean-up programme to finish.

"Guess he's not worried," Espo said.

Ryan's face wrinkled in lugubrious thought. "I don't think he got it," he said. "He thinks she's just doing it like usual."

"'Cause she is. Leave it for now, and if she amps it up then you can stop with the subtlety and tell him how it is. She's not doing anything dumb now; she even got that arm seen to. Send him those dumb jokes. Let's go review that footage."

The cleaned-up footage yielded plates, which, after some persuasion, yielded an owner.

"Beckett, we traced the car."

"And?" she asked.

"Belongs to a Jake Marley."

"Do we know him?"

"I reached out to Vice," Ryan said, "and they say he's a pimp, but they've never got enough on him to bring him in."

"We're doing Vice's job for them now? We've got enough to bring him in for questioning, so maybe they'd like a little go when we're done? I think we'll use conspiracy to murder, huh?"

"Sounds good," Espo said, with a happily ferocious smile. "We'll go get him."

"No, I'll go get him."

"You won't." Espo scowled at her. He was doing a lot of that this week, he thought. "Can you even draw your weapon?"

"Yes," she said flatly. "You going to come down to the range to make me show you?"

"Yeah," Espo said. "I am."

Beckett stared at him. She hadn't thought that he'd call her – well, not bluff. She could draw just fine, and she would prove it. "Okay, let's do this."

Espo frowned slightly. He'd expected that she'd back out if challenged.

They went down to the firing range (in this older precinct, in the basement), went through the formalities to shoot, and took up adjacent booths. Beckett loaded her Glock without a problem or twinge in her arm, and then raised it slowly to firing position. It hurt, but it was manageable. She tried swinging it up as if she had to take an emergency shot, which hurt a lot more – but she could do it. She sighted, and fired – and smothered a yelp. The recoil, which normally wouldn't bother her at all – she wouldn't notice, dammit: her Glock had very low recoil – had ripped through her bruising and it hurt.

Well, fuck it. She could manage through the pain, and she would.

She took her ten shots, and managed a very smug smile at Espo, since all ten were perfectly good. Of course, his were perfect, but that was ex-snipers for you and only to be expected. "See?" she said. "Just fine. So I'll go get him. Ryan can come with me."

"Beckett…" Espo said plaintively. Plaintiveness didn't suit him.

"Nope. You wouldn't take my word for it, so you can stay and wait. Ryan's just as good with me as you are."

"You're being petty," Espo said.

"Yep. And so were you, so suck it up, Espo. I don't need you to second-guess me or babysit me. Quit it. You didn't do it a week ago, I told you my arm's just bruised, and you aren't listening. So listen now. You're not coming with me because you're second guessing my capabilities and I don't need that."

"You got hurt bad, and you didn't do anything about it for a day. I'm supposed to not call you out if you might not be fit for duty? You should'a gotten it seen to same day and you didn't." He squared up. "Being a team means telling you if you're going the wrong way. You don't like it, that's your problem, not mine. You'd'a called me on it if I was pulling that shit and you know it."

Beckett glared furiously at him, but he stood his ground. "I'm still taking Ryan," she grated, but Espo knew she'd heard his point.

He just hoped she listened to it.

Thank you to all readers and reviewers. Much appreciated.