Homecoming: Chapter 5
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DISCLAIMER: Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine
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Now 11:25 Monday Morning, April 23, 2012, Somewhere in Washington Heights, NYC
Alexis Castle stares at the large black man sitting across from her in the van. Bile rises slowly in the back of her throat as she begins to consider exactly what 'get to know each other better' really means. Those are never words a woman – or any captive – wants to hear.
Even with her anticipating some kind of move on his part, the large man moves faster than she expects. His large palm is clamped tightly over her mouth before she can react, and she feels a jab in her neck. Just as quickly, he moves away, re-seating himself back into his previous position.
"There now," he tells her. "You have, oh, I don't know . . . maybe twenty seconds or so before this takes effect, and you are in la-la land. But I promise you, this is the worst of it, Miss Castle. As long as no one does anything stupid, you won't be hurt."
"Why do I find that hard . . . find it hard . . . to . . . I don't believe you."
That is all she can manage to get out before the drug does its work. Seconds later, she slumps sideways into the long seat of the modified van.
Vulcan Simmons quickly puts his fingers to her neck. Satisfied with the pulse, he bangs on the roof one more time. Within seconds, the van pulls over and Simmons exits through the sliding door. The passenger side window automatically rolls down as the driver waits for further instructions.
"To the docks as planned," Simmons tells the driver, who obediently nods his head. "Put her on The Finder in one of the balcony rooms and wait for further instructions."
The van pulls away, leaving Simmons on the curbside. Two minutes later, he has flagged down a taxicab and is on his way back to his home in the Heights. From the cab, he sends a text message.
Vulcan: DONE
He swipes away from the texting screen on his iPhone, and dials a number by memory. He gets two rings before he is connected.
"When is the next shipment due at the docks?" he asks.
"It is on its way," is the response. "Should be there in the next fifteen minutes."
"Make sure that it is," Simmons replies. "Everything is on the clock right now, and we cannot have any delays or disruptions. No excuses."
"I know, I know," the voice replies. "We will be there."
Simmons disconnects the call, placing his phone away in his jacket pocket. Glancing at his surroundings, he tells the cab driver to hurry.
"Get me there by noon and there's any extra fifty in it for you."
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Roughly the same time, at 11:25 Monday Morning, April 23, 2012, Back at the 12th Precinct in New York City
She rubs her eyes, blinking a few times to eliminate the blurring that is already taking effect. Next to her sits Detective Javier Esposito, who controls the speed of the video playing as they progress through various locations in the city, following the sedan that they know has captured Alexis.
It is a tedious process.
"Glad you were able to get the license plate number for our perps," Esposito remarks. He knows that as much as they can keep this impersonal – a virtual impossibility – the easier it will be not stay focused and not make emotional mistakes. His language, therefore, remains as officious as possible. Kevin Ryan sits on the other side of Kate Beckett, simply focused on the screen.
Kate is not a cop anymore. She is not a part of the 12th Precinct. Captain Victoria Gates is anything if not by the books, and there is no way a civilian is sitting at the controls of this surveillance track. That said, the Captain isn't stupid. She knows these people consider Kate family. And even though their tenure together was short, the woman considers Kate something akin to a friend. So, surprises those in attendance as she allows Kate to 'sit in' on the viewing, offering suggestions and making notes. Even this is a departure from Gates' known persona . . . a fact not lost on the two detectives with Kate.
"I'm just glad the Captain is allowing you to sit in on this," Detective Ryan offers. "You saw the car. You saw the license. This is going a lot faster with you here than with you just telling us what you saw."
"This may be faster, but not it's fast enough," Kate laments. "Every minute is a minute Alexis is farther away, in more danger . . ."
She is whispering, of course, because she does not want to spook the victim's father, who stands on the other side of the room, next to Captain Gates. Another allowance on her part, although this one not as liberal. She insists on having the ex-author next to her at all times. No one argues, as the threesome are just satisfied that the woman is allowing Richard Castle to even stay in the precinct at all.
"Switch," Ryan tells Esposito once again, as his partner nods his head and switches video feeds. It is a time-staking process, but it allows them to follow the car as it passes different street locations where video cameras have been set up by the city.
Well, 'passes' is the wrong term. This is not a present tense viewing.
"Passed' is more accurate, because they are watching recorded tape of what already happened. This is not live. It is past-tense. As in perhaps twenty, thirty minutes ago. Hence, the continuing nervousness from Kate Beckett.
And her fiancé in the back of the room.
Suddenly, as they realize the car is entering Washington Heights, a strong tingle goes down the spine of the ex-detective. She knows this area. And she knows who runs the drug business in this area. Or more accurately, she knows who used to run drugs in this area. Truth be told, she was never convinced he had given it up. Rather, she always suspected that he had figured out a way to appear on the straight and narrow while keeping his fingers deeply entombed in the proverbial pie.
Javier Esposito has already come to the same conclusion.
"Familiar territory," he mumbles. Kate simply grunts an acknowledgement of agreement and continues viewing.
"Is this where it ends?" she asks.
"I think so," Javier replies, as the three watch the sedan pull over to the curb. Suddenly, four masked men pile out of the car, dragging a blindfolded redhead with them. All hear the tense gasp released from Richard Castle behind them, who has quickly walked toward the screens, the precinct captain be damned.
"She's all right, Castle," Kevin Ryan tells him. "She's walking, she doesn't appear hurt in any way, and they are going . . . into a . . . bank?"
"Doesn't make sense," Kate remarks. "Not in broad daylight. Not when this bank is likely your front for legitimate business."
"I agree," Esposito remarks. "Somethings not right here."
"Let's roll," Kevin Ryan tells the group.
"Yes, but without the civilians," Captain Gates barks. "This is a police matter now, and – where are you two going?" she exclaims as she watches Kate Beckett and Richard Castle – in unison – move toward the door.
"Are we – for some reason – being held in custody?" Castle asks.
"Of course not," Gates replies. "You know that is not what I –"
"Then we are leaving, Captain," Castle continues. "Thank you for your hospitality, but my baby girl is out there. That's where I need to be."
"What he said," Kate remarks to the captain, whispering a silent 'thank you' to the woman as the two of them leave the office, with Kevin Ryan and Javier Esposito behind them.
"The two of you – under no circumstances – are to allow Mr. Castle and Miss Beckett into your car, or onto the premises with you," Captain Gates orders her two detectives, who nod in acknowledgement.
Richard Castle simply smirks – a dark smile actually – wondering how the police captain is going to prevent him from going into a public bank to do banking business.
"Let's go," he tells Kate, grabbing her hand and walking faster toward the elevators which will lead them to the ground floor and out of the precinct. "Thank God you are a private investigator. That will open enough doors for us."
"Perhaps," she agrees. "There certainly are reciprocity agreements between different states, but that includes paperwork that I don't have time to search for or fill out at the moment."
"Not that that will stop us," he tells her, his eyes steeled now for the assignment.
"Not that that will stop us," she agrees as the elevator door closes. For their part, the two 12th Precinct detectives hold their comments to themselves.
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Now 12:01 Monday Just past Noon, April 23, 2012, At the bank in Washington Heights
"Do we wait for Javi and Kevin?" Richard Castle asks as he and Kate bound out of the taxicab. He quickly tosses cash at the driver in the front seat, then turns toward the bank entrance.
"We do not," Kate tells him. "Remember, we aren't supposed to be working with them. I don't want to get our friends into any trouble that we don't have to live with once we leave."
Sure enough, as the couple enter the bank lobby, another cab pulls up to the curb, and the two NYPD detectives in question depart the vehicle on the run, sprinting to the entrance.
Once inside, Castle and Kate take in the surroundings. This is going to be harder than they realize, as so far, this is nothing more than a normal bank lobby. A quick look around confirms that this will be far more difficult than they had hoped.
"We need to look at the tapes here," Kate tells him. "And there is no way that the bank manager here is going to give a private investigator from California access without the right paperwork."
"Which you have already noted that you do not possess," Castle sadly remarks.
At that moment, Ryan and Esposito walk past the couple, with smirks on their faces.
"Not sure what you two thought you were going to be able to do without us," Esposito remarks. "Let's find the bank manager."
Quickly walking into the branch manager's office, flashing badges, Esposito takes charge.
"We need to see surveillance tapes from the last forty-five minutes," he tells the manager.
"Of course, you can make things easy for us. I don't assume you saw four men walking in with masks on," a skeptical Kevin Ryan continues.
"Of course not," the branch manager replies with a bit of indignation. "That's the nightmare of any bank manager as you can imagine."
"Still . . . the tapes, please," Esposito orders. "This is official police business, and time is of the essence."
"Right this way," the manager tells the duo, who follow him to a second desk in the office with a computer keyboard and monitor.
"Let's see what we can see," he tells them. "Forty-five minutes ago would have been about 11:15. So let's rewind to 11:10 and start there."
Unseen by the branch manager, Richard Castle and Kate Beckett have entered the office. Esposito sees their friends and responds with a forefinger to his lips. Kate acknowledges with a quick nod of the head. Castle simply stays quiet, his fingers tightening around Kate's fingers.
The branch manager and the two detectives watch for no more than four minutes, fast forwarding a bit when Ryan stops the manager.
'There, right there," he tells him.
With those words, Castle and Kate both rush quickly to the monitor to see what they have seen.
'Who are you?" the manager asks, quickly concerned with the strangers in his office. Esposito quickly diffuses the situation.
"They are with us," Esposito tells him. "Now stay focused here. What do you notice, bro?"
"No masks, but Alexis is still blindfolded," Ryan tells him.
"Now . . . how do you think four men with a blindfolded woman walk into a bank – in broad daylight – without drawing the attention of security, a loan officer, a teller . . ."
"Or a bank manager," Kate Beckett exhales angrily, quickly flashing her laminated PI card and replacing it in her purse.
"Now wait just a minute," the manager exclaims, standing up, but is gruffly pushed back into his seat by the shoulders, by Richard Castle.
"Sit down," Castle angrily orders, his eyes steeled with anger. "You're going to tell us what you know, and you're going to tell us now, or so help me God –"
"We've got this, Castle!" Esposito intervenes, still sitting next to the bank manager.
Kevin Ryan, however, has noticed something. Outside of their entrance into the bank, no other camera picks the foursome or Alexis up. At first it seems odd. Then impossible. Or at least improbable. Then it hits him.
"These guys know where the cameras are," Ryan whistles.
"You're right, Kevin," Kate agrees. "We saw them come in, but we haven't seen them again. Now where do you think they –"
She stops speaking, as suddenly five sets of eyes are watching the four men – once again with heads down – leave out the lobby through the same front doors they entered.
"She's still here!" Castle exclaims, now much more forcibly placing pressure on the bank manager's shoulders. This man knows where Alexis is!
"No, she's not," the bank manager tells him.
"How do you know?" Kate asks the man.
"Because I have looked for her," he tells Kate. I saw the men walk in with a blindfolded woman, of course my radar is up and –"
"You don't say," Esposito comments, unconvinced. Castle, however, has left the room and now is conducting his own personal room-to-room search for his daughter, Kate now by his side.
"Those two will tear your bank apart," Ryan warns. "And neither my partner nor myself are of a mindset to try and stop them."
"Now tell us what you know!" Esposito tells him.
"I don't know anything!" the now-frightening manager tells him. "There are things that happen here that I don't question."
Both men look at him questioningly.
"Don't look at me like that," the manager remarks, his disdain showing. "I have a family. A wife. Two sons. I have to take care of them. I will not willingly put them in harms way. So . . . I look the other way when told."
"Told by who?" Ryan asks.
"I may as well put a gun to my head and pull the trigger if I tell you anything else," the manager tells them. "Trust me, you cannot frighten me. Not when I know what these men are capable of."
"Come with us," Detective Ryan suddenly decides. Thus begins an extensive office-to-office search, from the employee offices to the conference rooms to the storage closets and bank vault where monies and safety deposit boxes are located.
Twenty minutes later, a frustrated foursome stands in the lobby, emotions starting to fray as they realize that Alexis is – in fact – no longer here. No rooms have been found, no secret passages, no trap doors.
Nothing.
No Alexis.
"Where is she?" an exasperated Richard Castle gasps out loud, clearly now sinking into an emotional mess.
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Now 9:05 a.m. on the West Coast, Monday Morning, April 23, 2012, Somewhere over Northern California
The small, sleek craft accelerated quickly into the clouds and is now starting to level off at some 42,000 feet. Willie Crockett stares out the window at the view below, his trademark toothpick dangling from his lips.
He looks calm and carefree, when in fact, the second-hand man to one Sam Carlos is anything but at this moment.
Calling Sam Carlos and asking for Willie Crockett has earned Richard Castle one more level of respect – from both the mobster and his right-hand man. They are impressed that Castle so quickly determined that Crockett was the best man for the job. He is correct. Willie Crockett is the perfect person to lead the search for Castle daughter for two reasons.
First, he is an ex-detective. He can – when necessary – still think like a cop, because he has been a cop. That is – and has always been – a large part of his value to Sam Carlos. He can take the meticulous puzzle clues left behind and form a picture the way a detective is supposed to be able to do.
But second, and just as important – he is a criminal. He has conducted these types of activities for Carlos in the past . . . including kidnappings. So, he can think like a criminal. More specifically, he knows how to think like an abductor.
Knowing how to look for clues as a cop would, and knowing exactly what type of clues an abductor might unwittingly leave behind certainly gives Willie Crockett a leg up on others who might be joining the search for Alexis Castle.
Even now, he is anticipating how Castle, Kate and the NYPD are likely investigating things. Again, he knows how the police will approach this.
"Probably following the city surveillance cameras . . . in the wrong direction, of course," he chuckles. He knows that if you want to solve a problem, you don't start at the ending. You start at the beginning. Of course, finding the beginning – the starting point – might be difficult for a cop. But not for one willing to think like a criminal.
"Don't worry. I will find you, Red," he tells the window he stares through. "I will find you."
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Now 1:05 p.m., Still Monday Afternoon, April 23, 2012, Back on the East Coast
There is a bit of a bitter taste in her mouth as she awakens. She smacks her lips, blinking her eyes as she comes back to consciousness. Focusing her eyes now, she can tell she is in a room. Lying on a bed.
She turns to the side, seeing a bottle of water lying on the covers next to her, with a note.
Drink this – it's not drugged, but it will help clear your head.
She laughs, literally laughs, despite the circumstances, at how stupid they must think she is. Whoever they are.
Then she remembers.
Simmons. Volcano Simmons. Something like that. She's still not thinking clearly. As she sits upright, the room begins to swim.
"Whoa," she exclaims. "Take it slow, Alexis," she tells herself.
Steeling herself, she takes another second to take in her surroundings, and then panic starts to set in as she gazes out the window.
Standing on rubbery legs, she slowly makes her way to the window, which she quickly realizes is not a window. It's a balcony. Suddenly, she knows why she feels so light-headed. It is not necessarily from the drug.
She opens the balcony sliding door, and steps out onto the balcony, holding on to the rail, staring out at nothing but deep blue sea below her and as far as the eye can see. The waves moving beneath her tell her they are not stationary. They are moving.
She is moving.
To God-only-knows where.