Poison Pen

Chapter 2

"Is this about the letters?" Castle asks. "I thought Paula was just going to turn them over to the postal inspector. She'd know more about them than I do. All my fan mail goes to her office. She should be around here somewhere. I can find her for you."

"I don't know anything about any letters, Mr. Castle, but I would like to talk to Paula…"

"Haas," Castle fills in. "She's my agent. But if it's not about the letters Detective Beckett, what makes you think I'm in danger?"

"A killer whose targets have been recent winners of the Poe award. You could be next on his list."

Castle's fingers tighten around his Sharpie. "How about the families of the victims? Are they all right? I have a daughter and a mother."

"As far as we can tell, Mr. Castle, only the writers have been targeted."

Rick slowly blows out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Is Connor O'Donnell the latest victim?"

"Why?" Kate queries.

"I saw him at The Strand last week, and he said he was also getting some interesting mail. He laughed it off. We both did. I guess the laugh was on us, Detective. So, what's our next step?"

"I'll need to get those letters from Ms. Haas if she still has them. Otherwise, I can reach out to the postal inspector. We'll have to put you under police protection, and I need to interview you. You may have something at the back of your mind that might be a clue to the killer."

"Detective, I'm under contractual obligation to stay the length of this party. But I will put you with Paula," Castle offers, "and as soon as the bell tolls eleven, I will be at your disposal."

Castle tries not to wince at the bitter taste of the coffee as he and Kate share a high table in the break room at the 12th Precinct. He points to his cup. "Thanks for this, and the aspirin. If you've never had to do it, you wouldn't think there's much to autographing books, but there have been some signings when I could barely move my shoulder afterward."

"I understand," Kate acknowledges, wrinkling her nose at the staleness of a doughnut leftover from the morning shift. "The summer before I went to college, I thought modeling would be easier than waiting tables. It wasn't. Holding unnatural poses with a perfect smile on my face was more exhausting than carrying trays with five dinners on them." For a split second, Kate just stares at Castle. "I don't know why I told you that. No one at the N.Y.P.D. except for HR knows I was a model. These guys would tease the hell out of me."

"Then it will be our little secret," Rick promises. "So, what did you want to know about the Poe Society and my fans?"

"You've been a published author since 'In a Hail of Bullets,' but how long have you been a member of the Poe Society?" Kate inquires.

"You know about 'In a Hail of Bullets?' You would have been what, about eight when that came out?"

Kate reddens. "Ten, and my mother had a copy."

"Had? Too bad. The first edition is a bit of a collectors' item now."

Kate pushes away what's left of her doughnut. "My mother's been dead for ten years."

"I'm sorry, Detective. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain. But to answer your question, I was inducted in 1999, when it became apparent that my Derrick Storm novels would consistently make the bestsellers list."

"So membership is based on popularity rather than literary merit?" Kate wonders.

Rick takes another sip of his coffee. "I would like to think it's both. We mentor beginning authors before they're offered membership. But yes, popular success does play a large part in acceptance into the club, if nothing else because the dues are steep. You know, Detective Beckett, your question plays into what was in the letter that Paula showed me. It said," he recalls, closing his eyes, "'The poisoning of the literary arts that flows from your fingers will flow through your veins, and your vile attacks on the writer's craft will cease.' That's a direct quote."

Kate's eyes narrow. "I would think that only the killer would remember that word for word. You have quite a memory, Mr. Castle."

"Detective Beckett, considering that since I could hold a pencil, I spent most of my earlier years writing, I never would have gotten through school if I didn't. My daughter, who actually has to study, occasionally gets jealous. But if I have triggered your detective's suspicions, feel free to test me," Rick offers. "Some of my acquaintances have made a party trick out of doing just that."

Kate slides off her high stool. "Challenge accepted. I'll be right back." Kate grabs a loose-leaf patrol manual from a bookcase filled with reference volumes. She opens it in front of Castle and points to the preface. "Memorize this." His gaze flies over the page, and she snatches the binder back. "What did it say?"

Castle closes his eyes again. "Law enforcement officers are front-line soldiers of the law. They are constantly faced with critical situations. Immediate decisions and consequent actions must be proper to preserve the integrity of law enforcement, the citizens of New York, and the rights of the defendants. Law enforcement officers faced with violence, serious emergencies, or erupting crimes must act at once, and their judgment must be based on knowledge."

Following Rick's recitation word for word, Kate's mouth drops open. "That was it, exactly."

"I know that, Detective. But now that we are past that little obstacle to our collaboration, what else did you want to know?"

Kate closes the manual and sits straighter on her stool. "Um, how does one become a member of the Poe Society? Is there an application process?"

"No one can apply. There's a nomination procedure. Names go through a committee, and then they get submitted to the general membership for a yea or nay. The awards run the same way."

"So if someone is snubbed by the committee for some reason, impressing the general membership wouldn't help," Kate assumes. "Were you or O'Donnell ever on the nominating committee?"

"No. That's more for heavyweights like Patterson and Connelly."

"So generally, the award winners have no control over whether other authors get nominated or not."

"That's right," Castle acknowledges. "I think I see what you're getting at, Detective. An author with a grudge and an understanding of the society would be more likely to go after the big boys than the winners. The killer is a writer who was never tagged for membership. There could be millions of those on Amazon's listings alone. That's a huge suspect pool. But there might be a way to narrow it down."

"I'm all ears, Mr. Castle."

"You'll have writing samples: his letters to me, O'Donnell, and maybe the other victim. Beginning writers tend to fall in love with a phrase or string of words. They use it over and over. Old hands do too, but we have editors to perform merciless excisions. We could look for patterns and check for matches to online postings. You might start with 'poisoning of the literary arts.' It has a deadly ring to it. The killer didn't, by any chance, use poison?"

"The M.E. is still figuring that out," Kate admits. "Look, Mr. Castle, investigating these murders is the N.Y.P.D.'s job, not yours. You've been very helpful, but I can put a protective detail on you now and send you home. We can take it from here."

"Then, I assume you have a cop expertly schooled in the literary arts to help you pursue your quarry?"

"Not exactly," Kate concedes.

"In that case, I volunteer my services," Castle declares. "If O'Donnell's murder was committed by a writer, who better than another writer to help you catch him? And how could I be safer than in the company of an N.Y.P.D. detective?"