Flu

Chapter 32

Rick glances back at Grundig's oversized home as Kate pulls away. "I bet Denny's getting Mudd on the phone right now."

Kate maneuvers onto a two-lane road. "No bet. Mudd will probably be expecting us, and he'll be sweating. If he's the one who cut the chain and killed Mitchell Beeman, he'll be working flat out to come up with a story or an alibi, but he won't have time to shore it up."

"You mean that by getting his first draft, we can play editors and highlight the inconsistencies?" Rick inquires.

"Not a bad metaphor," Kate considers. "We should be at Mudd's place in about 15 minutes. Get Ryan and Esposito on the phone. They can check some things out before we get there."

Spotting a display hawking cross-country ski equipment, Eli drifts away from Sonia and the Montgomerys. Right now, he's a lot more interested in making Lana happy, than he is in fur and feathers. He can meet up with the family later.

The weathered complexions of the occupants of the booth speak to Eli of many years spent facing frigid winds. With Lana's delicate redhead's skin, maybe he should get her one of the quirky balaclavas displayed on a rack in a back corner. The proprietors of the booth have also prominently posted their website. He can make a note of it on his phone and order that kind of off-the-wall gift when he gets back to New York. But before investing in a pair of skis, he needs to see and touch them.

Lars Peterson strides forward to meet the intense young man staring at his merchandise. "Interested in cross-country skis, son?"

"I'm seeing someone who is," Eli confesses, "so I thought I might give it a try."

Lars nods knowingly. "Took it up myself over 40 years ago for a lady. It was in March of '66. There were 13 inches of snow in the city and more where she was. I either got on my skis to see her, or I wouldn't see her at all. We have four kids and ten grandchildren now. I have a set here that's easiest for beginners to use, and I can give you some tips on getting started."

Mary looks from the pen of ducks to her newly discovered cousin Wendy. "A bird like one of these, thought you were its mother?"

Wendy shakes her head, blonde braids slapping against her face. They don't do that when they're this old. But when they're just hatched, they think the first thing that keeps them safe is their mother. It's called imprinting. My duck was all yellow and fuzzy, and I took care of it. So I was Mom."

Mary stares down at the waddling flock. "That's so cool, but I don't think my parents would let me have a duck. My brother's allergic to feathers. They make him sneeze even when they're in a pillow."

Wendy offers Mary a one-armed hug. "That's too bad. How about a puppy? Lots of my friends have raised and trained dogs, and they don't need a place to swim."

Excitement spreads across Mary's features. "If I start asking now, maybe I can talk my parents into one for Christmas. My dad acts all tough cop, but he usually gives in if I look at him like this."

Wendy regards Mary's suddenly downcast features and the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. "That's good! I should practice that."

Mary pats her cousin on the shoulder. "I can give you some pointers."

Harry prides himself on how well he handles law enforcement. He never loses his composure, no matter how tempted he is to wring some cop's neck. He always has his story set and sticks to it. His problem is that this time he hasn't put together a story. How the hell an N.Y.P.D. detective figured out that SunKick had anything to do with the death of the crazy homeless guy in the park, even Harry's fertile imagination can't fathom. But whatever she has, it can't be much, or she'd show up with a warrant instead of vague questions about the company. Harry takes a breath. He can handle Kate Beckett and her tagalong husband. Harry's always been able to handle anything.

"What's the plan?" Rick asks as Kate navigates the private road through the woods surrounding Harry Mudd's home.

"If he got a call from Grundig, he'll be unsettled." Kate mulls.

"If I were Mudd, I would have had to change my shorts," Rick interrupts.

"I hope we scared him that much," Kate responds. "Scared people slip up. But this guy's been pulling off scams with impunity for a long time. He's used to winning."

"I think it's time his winning streak ended." Rick declares.

Harry ushers Rick and Kate into his great room, where the ceiling soars like the one in Castle's loft. That's where the similarity ends. While the loft is furnished with comfort in mind for everything from friendly poker games to teenage sleepovers, Mudd's home brings to mind a potentate's palace.

Harry motions the pair to a couch upholstered in rich brocade and takes a seat in a velvet-cushioned mahogany chair reminiscent of a throne. "I'm always happy to offer my services to law enforcement, but I can't imagine what interest my humble company might have to a detective. Our business is spreading joy to children everywhere. That can't be considered a crime."

"Making children happy isn't a crime, Mr. Mudd," Kate agrees.

"But some might regard running companies into the ground and leaving investors holding the bag as one," Castle jumps in. "I'm a writer, Mr. Mudd. I do my research. And so far, what I've found out about you wouldn't make a child or anyone else happy. And if you thought you might add my contribution to SunKick's already overflowing pot, I'm afraid you're in for a disappointment. But that's the least of your problems."

"Mr. Mudd," Kate explains, "I'm a homicide detective. I investigate murders. In particular, the murder of a man who was killed with a hacksaw. That same hacksaw was used to sabotage a SunKick swing."

Mudd's generous lips twist in a smile. "Then, as my colleague may have informed you, you should be investigating SwingHigh, who would profit from the failure of SunKick."

"It's interesting that you should mention that, Mr. Mudd," Kate responds. "I assume the colleague you mentioned is Mr. Grundig. While Mr. Castle and I were in transit between his home and yours, I had my people check into SwingHigh. The company is at full capacity and not contemplating any expansion. SwingHigh wouldn't benefit at all from anything happening to SunKick. Care to try again?"

Mudd noisily clears his throat. "I would have to look into our other competitors."

"Why, Mr. Mudd?" Kate queries. "You're the CEO of SunKick. From what I understand from a recent conversation with a financial adviser, any competent CEO would be well versed in the abilities and capacities of competitors."

"And for a company soliciting investors such as myself, that would be even more necessary," Rick points out. "The truth, Mr. Mudd, is that there isn't enough business out there to justify SunKick's expansion. The only persons who'd stand to make out from SunKick's failure, are those who have been steadily drawing huge salaries from monies used to purchase shares of the company. Had a plan to bankrupt the company succeeded, you and Mr. Grundig would have walked away with the cash, leaving the people who bought in, with at most, a tax write off."

Mudd springs to his feet. "That's outrageous! You will leave my home now."

Kate looks back over her shoulder as she and Castle exit the cavernous chamber. "We're leaving Mr. Mudd, but don't think for a moment our investigation will end until the murderer is behind bars."