Disclaimer: I do not own Castle or the recognizable characters who appear in this story. Any other names, for characters or businesses, are fictional, uncompensated, or are in the public domain.
The fetid stench of congealed blood and panic-sweat clogging her nose, Beckett turns to watch Captain Stern approach the man shackled to the fencing.
"Detective Beckett," Stern calls out, "are you sure you've never seen this man before?"
"I don't know who that is," Beckett replies, feeling her irritation and apprehension grow. "I don't recall ever seeing him before."
Stern walks to the shackled man and with no regard reaches, grabs a handful of hair, and yanks the victim's head so that his vacant, milky blue eyes point directly at Beckett. "Well, he's seen you," she says flatly as she releases her hold, leaving the corpse's head cocked at a nightmarish angle usually reserved for scarecrows. "Every day, from the chair beside your desk."
"No!" Beckett cries out as she bolts upright in her bed, tangled in her sheets, sweating and panting as if she'd just run for miles.
Kicking violently at her sheets to win her freedom, she nearly tumbles out of bed once she's finally unconstrained. Walking uneasily, she makes her way to the kitchen, bypassing the half-empty bottle of vodka on her counter and instead throwing propriety to the wind as she drinks directly from the kitchen faucet. The cold water feels so good she can't help but shove her whole head beneath the flow, relishing the icy prickles and shivers that travel down her spine and chase the remnants of the nightmare from the darkest corners of her mind.
Of course, now she's screwed. Castle's comments about the Spartan nature of her kitchen come floating back as she realizes her hair is soaked and she doesn't even have a kitchen towel nearby.
"Shut up," she growls at the bottle of vodka as she reaches for the roll of paper towels and revolves the roll around her head. She refuses to be mocked by the alcohol she had the marginal good sense not to fully consume last night. Soring from its abandonment, the bottle's doing its best to make Beckett feel embarrassed about her current predicament.
On more stable footing, Beckett leaves her kitchen behind as she moves to the bathroom for a proper towel. Catching sight of herself in the mirror above the bathroom sink, she can't help the sad sigh that escapes. She looks horrible. It's obvious she suffered through a troubled night, the bags under her eyes and sallow skin apparent. Her makeshift paper towel turban doesn't exactly help, she huffs to herself. On cue, her wet, bedraggled hair finally breaches the paper towel and a long hank thwaps down her forehead, bifurcating her reflection.
Shaking her head free of the head-wrapping proves to be a mistake that almost pitches her onto the floor. She might not've finished the bottle, but she had more than a little to drink last night and is feeling it now. Even worse, the effort was in vain – the drink didn't help purge her mind of the crime scene nor did it help calm her roiling emotions.
She was a mess last night, not that she's better now. But if an emotion is a single note, then yesterday's events resulted in a resonant, two-handed minor chord of misery. She found the place where Castle was tortured. She saw the sign he left, perhaps in an effort to leave his last mark on the world, or a sign to give his loved ones closure. She also saw the bodies that continue to pile up as a result of this case. Four more dead on top of Montgomery and his colleagues. And maybe more – Castle's been frustratingly vague about what happened to the people who were sent to hunt him down. And among the newest casualties, the sniper who, instead of being the culminating event in this tragedy, was only the tip of the spear.
She should feel bad for those who died. It's not yet clear if Bader or Sands were dirty, though the lack of righteous indignation for the murder of the prison guard suggests that the detectives from the 22nd have found something to implicate him. And no one will cry for the murderer who had an unfortunate run-in with karma. But the other two – they had information. They might've had answers for Beckett. And now they're gone.
As she steps beneath the harsh spray of her shower, her thoughts linger on the grim night before. She's getting that sick sense of regret that follows the morning after a serious mistake. Hurrying her ablutions, she cuts her shower short and wraps herself in a towel as she makes her way back to her bedside table, worried about what she's going to find. Cautiously, she reaches out for the communication device Castle left for her, carefully entering her security code and scrolling to the menu that shows sent messages.
How could you?
I deserved answers.
I deserved a run at him.
I deserved to see him rot in jail.
How could you?
Shit. She barely remembers holding the device last night and can't imagine how she managed to enter the security code to even allow her to send that text. And while the message was true, in a way, it's not the whole story. She is upset and she does feel like she should've had a shot at the man who nearly killed her. But this is the last way to approach Castle – she's been trying to convince him that she can be a partner on this case and the first thing she does is attack him? It's no surprise he hasn't replied yet. He's probably sitting somewhere, shaking his head at what looks like confirmation of his concerns about her lapsing into old habits.
Well, his lack of response gives her a chance to try to clean this up. It was easier to swallow the vodka that it is to swallow her pride. But maybe the hangover won't be as bad?
I'm sorry, Castle. Old habits die hard, but I'm trying. Call me?
Call me? Beckett thinks as she reads her sent text. Pathetic. She sounds like an enamored adolescent. But it's still an improvement over last night's message.
She keeps the communication device close at hand, but it remains inert through her morning routine and trip to the precinct. She's sure it looks ridiculous, but the device sits in the middle of her desk as she sets herself up at the precinct, the watched pot that won't boil.
The altered routine of the precinct helps to distract her from the lack of response from Castle. They've been excluded from what the precinct is calling the "machine shop slaughter." Beckett's team didn't fall for Stern's ruse, but they've still been benched. Even though neither Gates nor Stern have a reason to do anything more, they've apparently decided that throwing a stack of cold cases at Beckett's team is the best way to keep them from getting underfoot.
This works for Beckett. Neither Gates nor Stern realize how much more they know about what's going on. So, the pretense of working on a cold case provides the perfect cover for Beckett's team to compare notes, especially once they move to another infrequently used conference room.
"So, that blonde woman from the crime scene had to be the one who got to Josh, right?" Esposito asks as Ryan closes the door to the conference room, laptop tucked beneath his arm.
"Not wasting any time, eh, Espo?" Beckett replies with a perched brow as she hands out folders for a cold case on the off chance that Gates stops by to check in with them. When he holds her look, she nods her head in agreement. "Yeah, I think that's the most likely explanation. Maybe we can get some confirmation from the 22nd."
"I don't think so," Ryan interjects, shaking his head. "After yesterday's setup, there's no way anyone will talk to us. And there's no way we could trust anyone who did," he continues, getting head nods in return as Beckett and Esposito envision a nice little entrapment scheme from Gates' days in Internal Affairs. "No, I think we'll get confirmation from Castle."
"What?" Beckett asks in surprise, looking again at the communication device she was sure to bring into their meeting. "You've heard from him?"
"No," Ryan admits, "but I've got a theory."
"Oh, boy," Esposito laments, pushing his chair back from the table. "Here we go. Castle Junior's gonna pull out some wannabe conspiracy theory." Any hope that Esposito would relent in this criticisms of Castle disappeared the moment he found himself sprawled out on the floor of the seedy bar in which he'd met one of his old Special Forces buddies. One question about the 'ghost of Tuweitha" and his friend belted him, criticized him for endangering both their lives, and then stalked out. The resulting black eye, and all of the teasing he's gotten as a result, seems to have been added to Castle's tab.
"Yeah, I am," Ryan replies a bit aggressively. "I think Castle's got a mole at the 22nd. Either that," he says to their looks of surprise, "or he's found someone to hack into the NYPD information systems."
"Bro, that is such a load of…"
"Hold up," Beckett interjects, cutting off Esposito's dismissal. "What are you thinking, Ryan?"
"Remember the New Amsterdam?" Ryan asks. Beckett's involuntary shiver provides his answer. "That guy Lynch was linked in to the communications system, you said. He knew what was going on before he showed up."
"Yeah, but…," Esposito starts again, this time before being cut off by his partner.
"And tell me this," Ryan continues. "Imagine you're Castle. You're on this crusade, you've got people working for you, but maybe you don't know them very well or maybe you've got too many leads to chase. What do you do?"
"You free ride," Beckett answers, slowly nodding her head as she thinks about Ryan's theory. "He could look into the ownership and access records of the machine shop himself, or he could get the 22nd to do it for him. If he's connected to their investigation, either with a mole or a hack, then he's got the NYPD doing his work for him."
"So, what's that – 10 to 25 years, depending on whether he's bribing a cop or illegally accessing police records?" Esposito asks, shaking his head.
"Only if he's caught," Ryan answers with a perched brow, "and only if he doesn't have coverage. His new friends seem to have some clout."
"And some muscle," Esposito adds, apparently ready to take the conversation in a different direction. "Didja see what happened to the sniper?" he asks, sending a sympathetic look towards Beckett that looks oddly out of place. "Someone worked him over pretty good, and for days before that little staged scene we saw yesterday. He looked like a pro, but he died clean."
"Which means what?" Beckett asks, wary of the answer she suspects.
"Which probably means he gave it all up, earned a quick end," Esposito answers with a dispassionate shrug while miming two shots with his finger. "If he held out, he prob'ly woulda been unrecognizable in that machine shop. It's not like leaving him unmarred made him any easier to identify."
Rather than satisfaction that Esposito's thoughts followed the same path she'd been considering or hope that she'll get answers, Beckett instead feels a sick sense of foreboding. If this theory is right, then it's increasingly difficult to imagine Castle wasn't involved. She'd said it herself – she told Espo that Castle learned from what happened with Coonan and would find a way to extract the information he needs.
Even worse, the timeline works. If the sniper was tortured days before he died in the machine shop, then Castle could've been involved before heading west for the promotional event that provided his alibi for what happened in the machine shop. He'd warned her that he's done terrible things. Now, she's starting to worry about the state of his soul even if his body survives this quest.
Almost as if triggered by her line of thought, the communication device on the table chirps and startles all three detectives. Blushing slightly and trying to mask her eagerness to read his reply (and hoping it's a reply to the message she sent this morning, not the one from last night), Beckett lifts the device and types in her access code.
Complications in CA. We'll talk when I can get back to NYC. Before then, warn everyone – it's time to take precautions. They're going to hit back. Talk to your dad. My offer for the team is still open.
Beckett stares at the message and rereads it several times despite its brevity. She can't tell which of her messages prompted his reply, but maybe it doesn't matter. Now she's worried his trip backfired – to establish an alibi for the machine shop, Castle made his event in California public. But that meant the people looking for him knew where to find him. It makes her that much more anxious to speak with him again.
"Something bad?" Ryan asks, concerned by the way Beckett's staring at the message.
"Not sure," she answers, passing the communication device. "All he said was that there were 'complications.' You know him and his word choice – that could mean just about anything."
Ryan nods, hands the device to Esposito, and turns to his laptop. After booting up and pecking at the keys, he opens an internet browser and pulls up the fan site they'd looked at back when they were trying to find Castle.
"Oh, damn," he mutters as he spins the laptop to face Beckett. The garish red text indicates a hastily-added update on the webpage. Beckett's first though upon reading the headline of the update is that Castle would be disappointed in the writing of his fans: "Master or Magnet of the Macabre? Castle involved in another car accident."
Beckett tugs the computer over to her and opens another browser window, scouring websites for details. After a few minutes she gasps and pushes the computer away from herself. Craning their necks to get a view of the screen, the boys see the overhead view of a Lincoln Town Car that went through the guardrail and into the canyon beside the road. Only the rear of the vehicle is clear in the photo from the L.A. Times, but even that is enough to show the car suffered significant damage on its trip down into the canyon.
"Damn," Esposito emits, sounding mildly impressed. "That's a hell of a complication."
"The article says 'the driver sustained minor injuries,' but doesn't identify anyone," Beckett offers, sounding like she's trying to convince herself. "But they'd probably say that regardless of what really happened."
While Beckett lapses into silent contemplation of this mess, Ryan pulls his computer back and visits a few websites himself. After a little surfing, he huffs and sits back to look at Beckett.
"He's got a beard now," he says with a nod toward the screen. Leaning in, Beckett sees amateur footage someone must've captured with a cellphone at his signing. From the clip, it looks like Castle was trying to soak up the local culture and got pulled off the beach just in time for his event: instead of the usual blazer and dress shirt, he attended in a linen shirt with a banded collar. He's letting his hair grow out, so it's a little longer than she remembers. And, as Ryan mentioned, he's sporting a well-trimmed beard. And he's either a great actor or the signing was a welcome diversion, based on his wide smile and engaged demeanor. The video ends when the person who filmed it reaches the front of the line and steps forward with book extended. Castle reaches for the book and looks directly into the phone, so the last frame of the video shows him looking straight into the camera. To Beckett, it feels like he's looking right at her.
"Anything more about what happened to him?" Beckett asks, still staring into the eyes on the screen.
"Just speculation," Ryan acknowledges. "He'd better have his agent release a statement, because the stories are already getting pretty bizarre."
"I'm sure he'll get a kick out of them," Beckett smiles, hoping her errant partner is in shape to laugh at some of the absurdity. She'd feel a lot better if she'd heard from him.
"Gates is coming," Esposito warns, slyly moving the files on the table to make it look like they've been working on their assigned cold case. Ryan, meanwhile, opens a tab that's already got some generic notes to make it look like they've been diligently at work.
Gates doesn't bother to knock, instead swinging the conference door open wide and stepping in. She takes a moment to survey the scene, taking note of the files and Ryan's computer. Apparently satisfied, she turns to Beckett while extending a post-it note with a scribbled address.
"You're back on the rotation, but none of you are to contact the 22nd precinct for any reason," Gates explains tersely. "Here's the address of your new case. Tread lightly, detectives. The victim is Laura Cambridge, 28. She was found in one of the cars assigned to the mayor's office."
A/N: Just a short chapter this week. As expected, work has been brutal. I've not slept this little since I was just out of school (including when my kids arrived!). I'd hoped to get the next two chapters out together, but thought it would be better to post incrementally rather than bank things for at least another week. St. Patrick's Day still looks like the end of this current crush of work, so I'm hopeful that I can pick up the writing pace after a little celebration.
To all my fanfic writer friends, I owe you an apology: I'm way behind on reading. I've got 15 chapters queued up, including the concluding chapters to some stories I've really enjoyed. Trust me, I'm looking forward to catching up! And to my famous move-script writing friend, apologies for not getting this chapter posted in time for your flight.