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.
A/N: It's been a while! You might want to take a look at the last chapter to reset the stage before wading into this one. Or, if you don't like the rough stuff, you might want to wait for the next chapter. More below.
Castle hasn't even stepped into the interrogation room and Beckett's already on the verge of losing control. Never content to sit back and let someone else lead an examination, she's especially on edge as she watches Vulcan Simmons through the one-way mirror. He's staring back at her – uncertain of where he is or who has shackled him to the chair, but his vast experience of visiting interrogation rooms lets him know that someone is watching. So, he poses. Muscles flexed and face frozen in a rictus snarl, he awaits his questioner while glowering at any hidden observers.
She's promised herself, and her partner, that Castle will lead and she'll control her reactions. And she'll abide by those promises. But, she really, really wishes the window was transparent so Simmons knew she was here.
"He's quite a piece of work," Shipton offers casually as she glances at the prisoner. "We were lucky to take him alive."
"He's a tough guy, always has been. We go way back," Beckett manages to reply. Honestly, she'd been so focused on Simmons and the upcoming interrogation that she'd forgotten Shipton's presence.
"Yes, that's what Rick said," Shipton notes. Beckett's brow furrows again at this comment. She's not worried about Castle sharing too much of her history with Simmons or this case. But she's growing wary of Shipton's continued references to her partner.
Her thoughts are shelved when she sees the door behind Simmons open as Castle enters the room. He steps in quietly, carefully setting the baseball bat down so that it leans against the doorframe. Bound to the chair, Simmons can't see Castle or the bat. Instead, the captive tries to ignore the presence at his defenseless back, but his discomfort is clear.
That changes when Castle rounds into view while carrying a folding chair. Simmons releases a deep, rumbling laugh as Castle sets up the chair while ignoring the prisoner.
"Shit," Simmons laughs, "I thought I might be in trouble. But it's just you."
"Yep," Castle agrees amiably, "just me."
The writer's ready and easy agreement seems to confuse Simmons. He'd clearly expected some kind of response – bluster, query, fumble, something. Instead, Castle sits patiently while awaiting some word or sign from Simmons.
The gangster's confusion doesn't last long. With nary a sign in advance, he throws himself forward, snarling and letting the snap of his manacles burst through the room. From someone of his size and temperament, it should be terrifying.
This time, though, it's Castle who lets loose a chuckle. "Scary," he deadpans after a good laugh.
Again, Simmons looks confused. This encounter isn't going as expected. Behind the mirror, Beckett can see the moment when Simmons decides to pursue a different strategy with Castle.
"You're a dead man, you know?" Simmons blusters, opting for a different type of threat. "You can't keep me here, and when I get out…," he trails off ominously while cracking his knuckles even with his wrists handcuffed. "When I get out, I'm gonna have fun. I'm gonna start with your little girl. Then your lady cop. They'll have to convince me who's better, because when I get bored, my boys get the leftovers," he promises with an ominous chuckle, thinking about handing off a plaything for his employees. "And you'll be there to watch it all."
Beckett wishes, surprisingly, that she could see Castle's face to see how these threats are affecting him. But he's sitting in the folding chair with his back to the mirror, so she can see only the set of his shoulders. There's no suggestion of rigidity or drooping, but that's hardly enough to…
"You have confidence in your boys, then?" Castle asks, conversationally.
"They know their place," Simmons rumbles in reply. "They'll show your bitches a good time."
Castle chuckles again, each laugh an irritant to Simmons. "Funny you mention 'knowing their place,'" he muses. "You're the top dog and they compete for the best place in your organization, right?" he suggests, watching Simmons nod almost proudly. "You're the handler and they're your dogs, bred to be vicious and opportunistic. How do they feel about you being a white boy's bitch?"
"Interesting tactic," Shipton notes. As a black woman herself, she'd wondered how hard Castle would push the racial tensions inherent in this power structure.
"Never thought I'd hear that kind of language from Castle," Beckett admits. "He's so well-spoken that he seldom curses, unless he's teasing someone."
"He's articulate and eloquent. It's part of his appeal," Shipton agrees as she watches him with a small smile that Beckett doesn't miss. "But he's smart enough to do what's necessary to get the information we need."
"So, he's done this before, then?" Beckett presses.
"Obviously," Shipton responds with turning her head, her voice betraying some impatience. "You saw what happened to your shooter."
"The hell you talkin' about?" Simmons growls, so incensed by the charge that he forgets to bluster.
"The guns, the drugs, the women – how do your boys feel about the fact that the money ends up in the pockets of a rich white man? Do they hear you calling him 'master'?" Castle asks with a laugh.
"I'm gonna…," Simmons blusters again, struggling with his bonds before getting himself under control. "Nice story, writer," he sneers instead, reminding himself that he's in interrogation and would be best served by keeping his mouth shut.
"It's not a story. I know you bear all the risk and he pockets all the money," Castle answers nonchalantly. "I know that he can burn you at any moment. I know you'll go down and he'll laugh while he replaces you with a snap of his fingers."
"You don't know shit," Simmons rails again. "You think I don't know how to protect myself?"
"I think you believed a politician," Castle laughs incredulously in reply. "I think you're a gullible pawn who mistook a small bit of leeway for actual protection. Pretty funny, actually – big, tough guy like you getting conned by a pampered politician."
"A politician?" Beckett asks, mind spinning. This is what Castle promised – they're zeroing in on her mother's killer. This is why he made her promise should wouldn't fly off on a solo mission. She's imagined many villains, but a politician?!
"He is now," Shipton replies quietly, seemingly teeing up Castle's next strike.
"But he wasn't a politician back then, was he?" Castle asks before Simmons can react to his previous charge. "He was just a sympathetic ear in the DA's office who let you run amok for a nominal fee, right?"
"DA never had nothin' on me," Simmons gloats, leaning back in his chair. His seeming confidence is shaken, though, when his casual effort to cross his arms is impeded by the shackles.
"You must've wet yourself when he left the DA's office," Castle ponders, continuing his antagonism. "There went your golden ticket. But talk about a reversal of fortune! Instead of losing your protection, your master goes to Washington. New contacts, new lines of business, new money."
"I'm not hearin' any questions," Simmons replies, equanimity restored by the simple reference to his protector.
"Because I only have one," Castle says easily in reply. "And I'm not quite ready to ask it yet."
"I'm not answering shit," Simmons promises, trying again to cross his arms and looking in irritation at the restraints on his wrists. "I want these cuffs off and I want my attorney. You can't keep me here and my lawsuit for this bullshit's gonna bankrupt the city."
Beckett furrows her brow at Castle's laugh. It started as usual, but seemed to curdle mid-way through, growing sharper and ending with an edge that could cut.
"What's with Castle?" Beckett wonders aloud, unfamiliar with this dimension of her partner's personality.
"The gloves are about to come off," Shipton answers. Unlike Beckett, she seems unsurprised by this development.
"He's made allusions to this," Beckett replies, thinking back to Castle's comments about the dark things he's done since his abduction and the threats to Alexis. She didn't think he was exaggerating, but the way he sounds right now is putting her on edge, and she can't even see his face.
"He's surprisingly effective, after only a bit of training," Shipton offers, sounding impressed. "We found the rough in the diamond."
"Look around," Castle encourages his prisoner with a wide sweep of his arm to indicate their surroundings. "Does this look like a police department?" he laughs at his rhetorical question before piling on. "Do I look like a cop?"
"You're a cop's pet," Simmons replies easily. "The pussy-whipped follower getting' pumped for your money and your rep."
"Finally!" Castle replies in a happy voice. "It's about time you started swinging back. I've been hoping for some fire, some good lines to use in dialog. You've been very hackneyed and B-grade so far. Let's try to elevate the conversation, shall we?"
"Elevate this, motherfucker," Simmons replies eloquently with as much of a pelvic thrust as his chair allows. "Attorney. Now."
Castle shakes his head in dismay. "Oh, Virgil," he laments as he rises from his chair. "Yes, I know Vulcan isn't really your name," he offers as he starts drifting around the room. "I know all about you. You're not a dumb guy. Foolish and credulous, sure, but not dumb. I'd hoped for better from you."
"If you think you know me, then you know what's gonna happen when I get out of here," Simmons growls, testing his bonds again. "Hell, I don't even have to get out. I got friends, man. Friends who help a brother out. One call's all I need," he offers as a dark promise.
"No attorney, no phone," Castle replies as he continues his slow drifting around the interrogation room. It's bothering Simmons, who doesn't like Castle moving in and out of view. He's also starting to grow concerned that this discussion continues despite his repeated requests for his lawyer. For the first time, he considers that this might be a different situation than he's faced in the past.
"And as for your friends, they're pretty busy," Castle continues. "I don't know what the hell Sneaky Pete was thinking, pulling that drive-by in the Kings' territory last night. I mean, I know they're a rival gang, but taking a shot at Mrs. Mendoza? And from such a recognizable vehicle? That was just stupid."
"Pete's car got boosted," Simmons replies angrily before his eyes widen in realization. "You stole the car? Oh, you gonna burn now, white boy. Pete loves that car. And the Kings'll know this is all a setup. You're gonna get it from both ends, boy, and I'm gonna like hearing you scream."
"And we're back to the clichéd dialog," Castle grumps. "You overestimate your pal Pete. He's not very bright. Trusting his reputation to protect his car, not reaching out to the Kings, trying to take your place – no, not very bright. And the rest of your lieutenants – Skinny, Horse, and Big T especially – they aren't very happy with Pete's attempt to take over while you're gone. So, you've got the Kings pushing from the outside and your boys fighting amongst themselves on the inside. I'm not sure you'll find your crew to be the high-efficiency criminal enterprise you left behind."
"They know their place," Simmons says again, even more ominously this time. "They'll get in line or they'll get dead. Then we'll deal with the Kings. I was looking to expand anyway. You just sped things up," he laughs.
Castle walks around to where Simmons can see him again and adopts a look of confusion. "So, you'll just walk back in and they'll stand aside? Seems unlikely."
"My boys are good, but they're like cops," Simmons replies with a piercing look at Castle. "None of 'em are strong enough. I might have to break a few," he ponders, making it clear that he's talking both about criminals and cops, "but maybe just for fun."
"You are strong," Castle nods as he continues to walk around his captive. "But you know what makes me laugh about you tough guys?" It's either a rhetorical question or Simmons chooses not to answer, but that doesn't bother Castle, who's now roaming back into the prisoner's blind spot. "You bench press, you do your squats. Your neck or your thigh is probably as big around as my waist," Castle admits while he moves toward the door to retrieve the baseball bat before continuing his circuit to end up in front of Simmons, whose eyes take in the sight of the bat.
"All that work, all that mass – it makes most of you stronger," Castle says while the pokes the prisoner in the chest lightly, acknowledging the massive pectoral muscles. "But it also magnifies your weaknesses," he explains as the barrel of the bat moves down to tap first on Simmons' knee and then his ankle. "How many football careers end with a knee injury?" he asks as he lifts the bat and puts it on his own shoulder while moving slightly to Simmons' right. "How many power lifters can't do the footwork?"
"You make a shitty bad cop," Simmons laughs, taunting Castle. "This ain't tee-ball, boy. You don't even know how to…"
But before the criminal in the chair can finish his taunt about Castle's lack of physical prowess, the bat's already in motion. Castle's a tall man with long arms. He would've missed a fastball, but his bat speed is impressive as it arcs around until slamming to a stop on Simmons' right kneecap.
The resounding crack of a shattered patella can only be heard for a short moment before a heavy scream drowns out everything else.
"Holy shit," Beckett breaths out, her face so close to the window in the observation area that her curse fogs the glass. "He did it. He actually did it."
"Simmons wasn't taking him seriously. Now he will," Shipton replies, unaffected.
"But Castle didn't even ask his question," the detective objects. "He should've gotten an answer first. Then he could see how it changed."
Shipton casts an odd look at Beckett, who finally notices and furrows her brow in response.
"I find it interesting," Shipton speculates, "that you're more bothered by his tactical plan than the explosion of violence." Her comment is all the more telling as both women realize they're having a conversation while ignoring the screaming of a large injured man just a few feet away.
"I figured things would get rough," Beckett replies with a light shrug. "But what threat does Castle still have?"
"There's still the other knee," Shipton says with a shrug of her own.
Castle hasn't been idle while the ladies had their discussion or Simmons was screaming and struggling in the chair. After placing the bat against the wall directly in front of the writhing prisoner, he's moved the folding chair to Simmons' left side. Slowly, making sure he's commanding Simmons' attention, he takes a seat.
Simmons is a wreck. He's still conscious but tears of pain streak his face. His voice is raw from screaming and his neck muscles are seizing from the strain he's putting on his bonds. His wrists bleed from his thrashing in the chair and his ankles are probably a mess, too. He's fighting the pain to focus on his torturer, trying desperately to regain enough composure to spit in the face of his enemy.
But his mouth goes dry at what Castle does next. Sitting beside the prisoner, Castle moves his right hand to his left cuff, fingers stealing inside long enough to extract one of the holstered knives that Beckett saw on his forearms their first night together. With oddly out-of-place care, Castle slides the knife into the pants at Simmons' thigh, about six inches up from the knee. Delicately, he orbits the knife around the thigh, cutting the pant leg free. With a tug to tear the fabric beneath Simmons' leg, Castle tugs the pant leg down. The material pools around Simmons' ankle shackle, leaving him looking oddly exposed with one naked lower leg.
"The problem with creating an environment that depends on physical strength, ferocity, and violence, is that you've got to be strong enough to keep your troops under control," Castle says conversationally as he holds the knife over Simmons' thigh, spinning it in place and letting its point drill a small hole in the skin.
Castle waits until there's a small bead of blood on the knife point to continue.
"I'm sure you could still control your thugs with one good leg. You could be the dapper gentleman gangster," Castle imagines aloud, smiling at the romantic notion. "After all, you could get a cane with a hidden knife or sword or something." Again, he spins the knife over Simmons' thigh to emphasize the point. "But I can't imagine you retaining control from a wheelchair."
With that pronouncement, Castle lets the knife drift downward, scratching a small furrow as it moves toward the back of Simmons' knee. "One shattered kneecap and one set of severed tendons and ligaments? All your muscles wouldn't save you then. You'd never walk normally again. You'd be a literal sitting duck. I tend to doubt that your budding sociopaths would adhere to the Americans with Disabilities Act."
"What do you want?" Simmons groans, eyes riveted on the knife.
"I know about Bracken. I know about the Forward Foundation and the money laundering. I know about your drug routes, the guns, and your trafficking operations," Castle prefaces, making it clear that he knows enough to both deter and detect a lie. "I want the accountant – I want the person who controls the money flows."
"Bracken?" Beckett asks in disbelief. "Senator William Bracken?!"
"Yes," Shipton answers with some sympathy. "Your old boss and his partners were kidnapping gangsters for ransom and he found out about it while he was in the DA's office. Rather than arrest them, he blackmailed them for the money. Your mother's efforts to get a new case for Pulgatti threatened to expose the conspiracy."
"Montgomery was in on it?" Beckett asks as the tear in her heart widens.
"Yes," Shipton repeats again, "though he tried to repent. If you got Rick's letter at the bank, you know that your old captain built a file. It's been very useful so far. If we can get the accountant behind the financing, we'll know all the players and how to choke off their funds."
"And we'd get RICO," Beckett replies almost immediately. She knows she's seizing on the mundane aspects of the case in the vain hope that it'll help her function as she tries to wade through the horror of Montgomery's betrayal or the enormity of the task before her. "The RICO Act gives us more tools to track down the conspirators, more penalties, and more jail time."
Shipton looks at her sadly as she considers her next words. Finally, she opts for simple, blunt honesty.
"You don't really think we're trying to arrest these people, do you?"
"He'll kill me," Simmons groans.
"And I won't?" Castle laughs, looking toward the bat while also pressing the flat of the blade against Simmons' leg. "Seems to me you need to worry about the here and now. Your best chance of surviving is to give me the name I want so you won't have to worry about Bracken."
"I want protection," Simmons argues, voice hoarse and low. "I want assurances."
"Protection? I'll protect you from my partner, who'd dearly love to toss you into another interrogation window," Castle replies easily. "Assurances? I assure you that you'll experience nothing but blinding pain until I get the name I want," Castle promises as he reaches over and knocks on Simmons shattered knee with his fist, setting off another bout of thrashing and whimpering.
Simmons takes several long moments to calm down before he seems to be working himself towards making another demand.
Castle's done waiting. "So, which is it? The name or the knife?" he asks abruptly as he turns the knife and drives the point into the back of Simmons' knee.
"Zoltick!" Simmons gasps, stopping the knife's insertion. "Steven Zoltick. He does the books."
Beckett watches as Castle rises from the chair after collecting more information on the unfortunate Mr. Zoltick. He walks behind Simmons before bending to whisper something in the prisoner's ear. Whatever was said causes Simmons to sag in his chair, but Castle doesn't linger.
The sound of a door closing catches Beckett's attention. She's alone in the observation room. Shipton must be on the move to follow up the lead from Simmons' interrogation. Annoyed at letting herself be left behind, Beckett bolts for the door to make sure she's not left behind. She's finally got the name of her mother's killer and a solid lead to follow. She's upheld her promise to not run off on a solo mission, but she'll be damned if she lets herself be excluded from what's going to follow.
She just notices Shipton turning at the end of the hallway and hustles to catch up. It looks like they plan to move on the name immediately – Shipton's meeting with Castle's father, Talbot, and one of the other thieves-cum-agents. But Castle's nowhere to be seen. Understanding blooms quickly, despite her own distractions. Beckett pauses only a moment before backtracking toward the interrogation room.
The door to the men's restroom is across the hall from the door to the interrogation room, so Beckett takes a guess and pushes through the door with little regard for modesty. The sight before her makes her glad she did. Freed from the need to look in control in front of Simmons, Castle looks like hell. Fists braced on the counter with cold water screaming out of the tap, Castle's eyes are wrenched shut as he breathes deeply to avoid being sick. His sickly pallor, wet shirt, and general shakiness provide clear testimony of the emotional frailty resulting from his violent performance.
They'll talk about Bracken. They'll talk about the accountant. They'll talk about how this all seems to be spiraling out of control, the violence and criminals and threats and fears. But for now they will take refuge in silence. Beckett offers solace as she wraps her arms around him from behind, and he accepts it as the tears start to flow.
A/N: My hiatus stretched longer than anticipated. Many thanks for those of you who checked in. I'm on the mend after the car accident - back and neck are feeling better. That's good news for me and bad news for the story, since it means I'll be up for our big vacation next week. I'm hoping I can write on the plane flights, but laptops and river trips don't mix.
While I was recovering, a few folks really made me smile. Abettis left a very nice review on one old story and recommended another, prompting a flood of new readers. And Castlelover777 plowed through some of my other stories and made me chuckle (which hurt but was still welcomed) with some reviews. Thank you! And thanks as well to those who checked in given the dearth of new updates.
I'll reiterate my earlier pledge: this story will be finished. I'm hopeful that the updating pace will pick up once we're back from vacation. As for now, I need to catch up on reading other stories and replying to reviews.