Flu

Chapter 58

"Kate, you've got to see this," Rick urges, waving one of Elu Fox's files in the air. He jams the folder into her hand. "This guy is a freak."

Kate skims Elu's notations. "Um, Holland Frees. This guy takes every opportunity to kill. He brought in the antlered deer his permit allowed him to shoot during the gun hunting season. Then he brought in another one during the archery season. He also showed up with additional hides he claimed were from friends. And he signed up to be an archer to cull herds, to obtain more skins."

"I thought the deer from culling are supposed to go for meat for homeless shelters and generally to feed the hungry."

"I think that's right," Kate agrees, "but apparently, Frees kept the hides. Fox put a note in the margin that he was very possessive of his work and wouldn't let any of the other students, except one, examine it. She doesn't say who."

A paper clip jumps from its holder as Rick slams his palm on Kate's desk. "Bet you a dozen cronuts it was Hugh Heitner."

A stray lock escapes Kate's ponytail as she shakes her head. "No bet. I'm calling Osnitz to ask him to prioritize the leather samples from Heitner and Frees. And we should dig into both of them a lot more."

Rick's hand shoots up, fingers fluttering excitedly. "Dibs on Heitner. Bruce is out sick. I can use the computer on his desk."

Kate tucks her misbehaving strand behind her ear. "You'll need a password. I can get you one from Admin."

Rick grins. "You may not need to. I'll bet I know Bruce's pick. He's the only guy around here who brags more about his daughter than I do." Rick bounds over to the machine in question and types in "Pauline." The screen comes to life. "Let's hear it for parental pride."

"Hey," Rick calls to Kate after a short stint at Bruce's desk, "our possible 1PP perp went to military school, the one where privileged parents send their intractable offspring. Mother threatened me with the place once when one of her more obnoxious liaisons suggested it after I booby-trapped his chair. But there was no way she could have afforded to stick me there, even if she had the heart to send her only son away. She was just playing a role for that jackass. He left a week later, anyway, chasing some ingenue 20 years his junior. Mother congratulated me on being a good judge of character."

Kate scrolls through the text on her screen. "Frees was at the school too, in the late eighties."

"My guy was there at the same time. They must have known each other. Maybe they bonded over their common affection for pursuing helpless prey. Wow! Kate, what if they each committed a murder with hand-tanned leather, but leather from the less skilled tanner left the traces of brain? If there were more murders we don't know about, they could even have agreed to work together and alibi each other."

"Let's stick with the evidence, Babe," Kate cautions. "Osnitz said he has to extract the leather samples before he can run them. He won't have results until at least tomorrow morning. Once we know if they match up with autopsies from the victims, we'll know where we're going. Let's get as much as we can on these guys and get out of here."

"Alexis has a thing tonight, and Mother's at the theater. Want to grab dinner somewhere?" Rick asks.

"As long as the special isn't venison."

Heitner mounts a stool next to Frees at the bar of the Pronghorn Lounge. "We might have a problem. Bridget McCready surfaced as a cold case, and the detective on it is good, maybe the best in the department. She knows about the leather."

Frees signals the bartender for a refill of his Devil's Cut Birddog. "So what? Lots of people tan leather. That old bitch Fox had classes full. That cop can't have anything else. And even if she does, she can't make a case. We were clean, and we were careful."

"Double of what he's having," Heitner orders. "This detective, Beckett, has the writer she's married to working with her. He's a hack, but he's lucky. They've broken cases that were supposed to be unbreakable, some that have been around for decades."

Frees watches the bartender retreat before speaking again. "So what? It's been a while since we had a good time. Let's enjoy a little target shooting – with human targets. You said it yourself; that detective's a star. If she's that far ahead of the pack, no one trying to pick up where she leaves off will get anywhere."

"What about the husband?" Heitner demands. "He's not about to let his wife's death go."

Frees shrugs. "We make it a twofer. You're a big deal at the N.Y.P.D. You arrange a meeting somewhere; only they never make it. No leather this time. We can both take down a kill from at least a quarter-mile away. The cops won't have anything except a couple of bullets they can't match—end of problem. And after things settle down, we can plan our special kind of celebration. How soon can you set it up?"

Heitner sneezes, dribbling his drink over the edge of his glass. "Damn allergies! I'll have to block out a scenario. I'm not sure how long it will take. I'll let you know."

Frees drains his glass. "Don't make it too long."

Heitner's head is pounding by the time he unlocks his apartment door. In this shape, he couldn't lift a gun, let alone aim one. Falling onto his bed, he pulls a pillow over his eyes to shut out the light.

A candle glows gently from a straw-covered bottle centered on a checkered tablecloth. Soft violin music drifts from one corner of the dining area as Kate gazes around. "We've never been here before. How did you find this place?"

"Mark. He did some work for the owners. And he said Holly used to pick up a few hours here when she needed extra money. Now she sends her students."

Kate peruses the menu. "Good for her. The music in restaurants like this can be intrusive, but here it's nice."

Rick's brows wiggle. "Romantic, even. Mark recommended the chicken piccata, but he said everything's good. What tickles your fancy?"

"Something spicy."

"Are we still discussing food?"

Kate flashes an intriguing smile. "For now. The drunken Italian noodles look like a good start."

"They do indeed," Castle agrees. "We'll make it two. I assume the description applies only to the pasta, not the customers."

Beneath the table, Kate drags the toe of her shoe up his leg. "I certainly hope so. You know how fond I am of creamy deliciousness."

Rick gulps. "Yes. Yes, I do."

The arousal Holland Frees experiences on opening his custom-built weapons cabinet surges through his body as he considers his choice to take down Kate Beckett. Hugh can target Castle, but Holland wants the detective all to himself. Feeling her breathing cease under lovingly crafted leather would be more satisfying than slamming a bullet into her brain, but leave him vulnerable for too long. His action must be swift, as well as final.

Holland strokes the barrel of a Kimber Model 84M Montana. He paid sweet money for that beauty, but it was worth it. No deer in his sites escapes. Unfortunately, a human target may be a different matter. His knuckles caress a sniper rifle he picked up at a gun show, or rather, outside a gun show. As far as anyone except the seller knows, Holland doesn't own the firearm. And given the way that vendor does business, he's not about to make any revelations. The precision of Holland's deadly purchase is just what he needs to end the celebrated Detective Beckett's days on Earth. Frees hopes Heitner can choose a weapon as wisely.