Disclaimer: I do not own Castle or the recognizable characters who appear in this story. Any other names, for characters or businesses, are fictional.
Week Six
"Hey Beckett," Esposito calls out from his desk. "Check out the Ledger's website."
"Working hard, then, Espo?" she replies, shaking her head. Seriously, if they focused on their paperwork, it'd be done before lunch. But the attention that helps her team be so effective in the field seems to flee entirely when they sit down to attend to the paperwork. If the boys are already surfing the internet, they'll be lucky to finish before clocking out tonight. And that's if they're not distracted by a new case.
"Just checking the odds on tonight's game. Butler is totally gonna win. Right, honeymilk?" Esposito replies, clapping his hands and rubbing them together in anticipation of the bet he already considers won.
"Nah," Ryan replies, trying to annoy his partner. "They're gonna get Duked again."
Esposito's growl in reply makes Beckett laugh. "You seem to be in a good mood, Espo. Your bracket must be looking pretty good then?" she asks as she pulls up a browser and points at the Ledger's homepage. The reminder of his annual sub-par performance seems to have done the trick and redirected Esposito back to his paperwork, or at least away from college basketball.
Interminable IT problems continue to plague the precinct as the techs continue their battle to cobble together a reliable network with cast-off, outdated, and hand-me-down equipment. The system is limping more than usual today, so it takes a moment for the webpage to load, but the headline is terse, big, and bold: "DA Denies Trysts, Harassment."
As the page resolves and Beckett clicks the link on the main story, her sense of anticipation grows. This is the way to start the week. After another weekend spent in quiet contemplation, she's starting to develop a plan. She knows what she wants, now it's just time to start planning intentional steps forward. And the foundering of the DA's political aspirations will remove what she hopes is the primary barrier for one of those goals – Castle's return to the precinct.
Her feeling of schadenfreude increasing as she reads through the article, her wide smile doesn't distract her from distilling the key elements of the story: inappropriate relations with two staffers who've come forward so far. The DA office's terrible record at retaining female talent, which was previously justified by an inability to compete with the wages offered by the private sector, now seems far more sinister. Already, one anonymous attorney has spoken about the atmosphere created and fostered by DA Turner, and her statement paints him more as the primary architect of a toxic environment than the lone perpetrator.
How odd, she thinks, that had her mother not been killed, she might've found herself dealing with this nonsense firsthand.
Beckett shakes her head when she reaches the third paragraph, which includes the sexting allegations as well as the transmission of unwanted photos. Wondering again at the hubris, Beckett can't help but reflect on Montgomery's comment from last week. How many cases has the DA tried where electronic evidence damned the defendant? And yet here he is, texting and sending inappropriate pictures. She wouldn't believe it possible if it hadn't happened to so many others. At least the DA's last name differs from that of the Representative from New York's 9th congressional district – just imagine the salacious jokes at that would otherwise result.
The Ledger is clearly out for blood, as Turner's defense isn't even mentioned until the fourth paragraph, and the journalist has done nothing to make it sound more credible. Misunderstandings. Jealous lies. "Mistyped addresses" – really! And, of course, the allegation that this is all a smear campaign dreamed up by his unnamed rivals, which everyone should ignore lest it distract the DA from his important job of prosecuting criminals (at least the ones outside of his office). It's hard to see how Turner was a credible threat in the mayoral race with skeletons like these and such pedestrian talking points behind which to hide them. Perhaps his speechwriter has already abandoned the campaign.
But Turner is vowing to fight on, to use this "false allegation" as a platform on which to fight crime from the DA's office and then City Hall. Montgomery was right – Turner's too proud, or too delusional, to realize what this means for his political aspirations. It looks like he's settling in for a prolonged fight.
"Enjoying the read?" she hears from behind her, as if thinking about her captain summoned Montgomery. "I imagine Weldon's getting a good chuckle out of it," he says, his own smile showing his thoughts clearly.
"You think it's true, Captain?" Esposito asks, perking up from his desk.
"What I think," Montgomery replies with a stern tone of voice, "is that we're all about to get buried in work. You know what happens next – the DA's gonna push on all fronts so that the strong performance of his office distracts from his current problems. Our phones are going to start ringing off the hook. So," he says with finality, "if you want any chance of watching tonight's big game, your paperwork – all of it – had better be filed before you otherwise think you'd leave."
Gulping visibly, Beckett's teammates spin toward their desks and set to work. Montgomery catches Beckett's smug smile, raising his brows at her in challenge to her own state of readiness. Chagrined, she turns to her files.
"I'm going to spread the word," Montgomery announces in a loud voice. "It's not just Homicide that'll get calls from the DA's office." Then, in a tone meant just for her, he continues. "And then I've got an interesting meeting to prep for," he says while catching her eye. "You did your part, now it's time for me to do mine."
"You sold me out, you son of a bitch," Turner growls as he falls into the booth across from Montgomery. "Don't think I don't know you're behind all this – the electronic fingerprints point right back to your precinct."
"That's funny," Montgomery says slowly, letting the DA see that he's completely unperturbed by the charges. "I thought you were behind all this. You and your inability to comport yourself like a decent human being."
Turner's about to snarl something in reply when he catches himself and slams his mouth shut. "Are you wired?" he asks, to which Montgomery replies in the negative.
"Am I under investigation?" the DA follows up.
"The media certainly thinks so," Montgomery suggests. Then, to hasten things along, he rolls out the line that he expects to repeat often during their meeting. "Neither I nor the NYPD is engaged in any investigation of you or your campaign," Montgomery says formally, making it clear through his monotone delivery that he's parroting an official line.
Seemingly satisfied that he's not being entrapped, the DA puts an odd device on the table between them. Montgomery figures it's some kind of white-noise generator, a measure to protect against surveillance. Just as well – he'd picked this place because the ambient noise would make recording difficult. He's got more interest in avoiding recordings than does the DA.
"Where's my beer?" Turner asks petulantly, eyeing up the cold mug around which Montgomery's hand is curled.
"Bar's over there," Montgomery notes with a jerk of his thumb. "Massa."
"Is that what this is about?" Turner charges, anger flaring up again. "You and Weldon looking out for each other? Fightin' whitey and sticking it to the man? Well, guess what? I'm not going down."
"How in the hell did you get to be the DA," Montgomery asks, outwardly maintaining his sense of calm while continuing his effort to rile and confuse Turner, "being so damned stupid? You're not going down? You're already six feet under."
"Says you," Turner spits back, his hand unconsciously grasping for a drink that he still hasn't ordered. "I've got enough to take down your boss, and after Weldon's gone I can deal with you."
"Turner," Montgomery replies in a tone of pity that's accentuated by the slow shake of his head, "if I was doing this for Weldon, you never would've seen me coming."
These twin "confessions" – that Montgomery is, indeed, digging up dirt on the DA and that he'd do it even more effectively at Weldon's request – knock the DA back into his seat. As he struggles to make sense of what he heard, Montgomery takes pity on him and signals the bartender for the double boilermaker he'd already ordered for the DA, despite his earlier comment.
"Explain," Turner commands as the sound of the mug hitting the table knocks him out of his ruminations, though it sounds like a request.
"This is why you could never be mayor," Montgomery starts, fanning the embers of Turner's anger and prompting an enormous gulp from the mug. "You should've already figured this out, and you sure as hell shouldn't need an explanation from me. The people you're running against have their entire careers mapped out and you haven't even thought beyond the next step."
"So, who's pointed you at me, then?" Turner challenges. "Some up-and-comer? It's that jackass union president, isn't it?"
"Think, idiot," Montgomery chastises, his voice firing up for the first time. "Who could compel a hard look at you and Weldon? It sure as hell isn't someone down the food chain. You're thinking about this the wrong way."
"Wait," Turner replies, holding up a palm as he swallows the bait Montgomery laid before him. "You're investigating Weldon, too?"
"Neither I nor the NYPD is engaged in any investigation of you or your campaign," Montgomery repeats the party line, again making it clear that he doesn't believe a word of it.
"Forget the bullshit," Turner says with an expansive wave of his hand. "Who's behind this?" he demands.
But Montgomery won't be commanded or bullied. Sitting calmly in his seat with mug still in hand, he takes a slow drink before seeming to puzzle over Turner's question. "Who could prompt an investigation of the Mayor and the DA?" Montgomery ponders. "Who would be threatened by the political rise of new challengers?"
"An incumbent, then," Turner murmurs, proud of his deduction and taking another great swallow of alcohol as a reward. "But who?"
"Who knows?" Montgomery replies with a shrug. "It'd have to be someone with connections, someone who knows how City politics work," he speculates, taking another drink and hiding his smile when the motion prompts Turner to do the same. "Probably someone familiar with the workings of the DA's office, too."
Turner slumps back in his seat, thinking furiously. Either the man's more of a lightweight than expected, Montgomery thinks, or he's even less politically astute than feared. Or perhaps even more naïve, Montgomery wonders, thinking that he could dive into an enticing political pool that wasn't already infested with sharks.
Montgomery's just starting to wonder if he needs to lay out more breadcrumbs, or maybe start spelling the name, when the fog clears from Turner's eyes. Looking sharply at Montgomery, Turner leans in, drawing Montgomery forward with his intensity. "It's Bracken, isn't it?" he whispers, hissing so much that Montgomery can feel the beer-soaked breeze on his cheeks.
"Neither I nor the NYPD is can be compelled by a senator to conduct an investigation of you or your campaign," Montgomery says speaking the absolute truth but trusting that his earlier uses of a similar phrase will convince Turner of the opposite.
"He thinks I can unseat him?" Turner wonders aloud, still whispering but now looking almost validated.
"You? Of course not," Montgomery pokes again, back to stoking Turner's anger. "He's afraid of Weldon challenging his seat. He's afraid you'll figure out what he did while he was in the DA's office. Why do you think he's trying to tarnish your whole group instead of just you?"
"What do you mean?" Turner asks in confusion. "What did he do when he was an assistant DA?"
"How should I know?" Montgomery derides. "It's your office, not mine. All I know is there's something there, something about how he funded his campaign, that's got him nervous."
"So, if I figure it out," Turner extrapolates with difficulty, clearly letting his foggy brain run with grand visions of triumph, "I'd have leverage."
"Or a tombstone," Montgomery interjects, noting the immediate look of confusion and fear. "Don't you get it? You're playing in the big leagues. He's trying to ruin your career now, when you've got nothing. What do you think he'd do, who do you think he'd hire, if he thought you actually found something?"
"Bullshit," Turner replies, bravado failing to mask fear. "If this is something he'd kill to protect, you wouldn't be helping him."
"Neither I nor the NYPD is engaged in any investigation of you or your campaign," Montgomery says, yet again.
"Stop fucking saying that!" Turner whispers harshly. "We all know you're looking for something!"
This time it's Montgomery who leans forward, drawing Turner in with the lure of their shared jeopardy. "Maybe, but I'm no fool. There's only one way to deal with someone like Bracken," Montgomery whispers. "If I figure out his secret, I'm going straight to the press. My precinct will leak like a sieve. I'll put it in the goddamn signature file of every email that leaves the precinct. The only way to hold Bracken off is to make this public. I sit on it and I'm dead. But if it goes public, he's out of the picture and I can go back to actually doing my damned job."
Soliloquy delivered, Montgomery sinks back into his seat, leaning over his own drink. Carefully, he glances up to see if he's laid on the story too thick, made the hints too obvious, or scared Turner off. This whole meeting is for naught if Turner refuses to fight.
"You can try," Turner whispers harshly, still leaning forward. "But it's my office. I've got the information somewhere. And I'm going to find it and cram it down that bastard's throat. He tried to ruin my career? Fuck him. I'll get the goods on him and bring him down myself. I'll turn his little scheme into the case that wins me the election. Then Bracken'll be in jail, Weldon'll be unemployed, and I can kick your sorry ass out."
"You can try," Montgomery repeats placidly. "I've outlasted DAs and mayors, even governors. But maybe you're right. Retirement's starting to look pretty good," he confesses, privately satisfied that he said at least one honest thing during this assignation.
"So, how's your boy doing?" Lanie asks as Beckett approaches her table at the small wine bar. An attentive waitress drift over as Beckett's still sitting down, disappearing in a blink to fill her order.
"He's okay, I guess," Beckett replies, dropping her elbows to the tabletop. "At least that's what Alexis says."
"Why does Alexis know about Josh?" Lanie asks with faux innocence, using her question to drive home an entirely unsubtle point about her friend's assumptions.
Nodding to acknowledge the touch, Beckett smiles gratefully at the waitress and takes a sip of wine before returning to Lanie's question. "There is no Josh. Not anymore."
Eyebrows raising in surprise, Lanie surveys her friend to note that aside from looking tired, she doesn't look particularly distraught. She might even look a little lighter, but it's hard to tell. "Your parents let you out of time out?"
Rolling her eyes, Beckett decides to volunteer an explanation rather than spar. "There was no more reason to wait, if there ever was. I've actually been trying to get hold of him for more than a week. I finally got through this morning. Well, this morning for me."
"How'd he take it?" Lanie asks, wondering about how that phone call went.
"He wasn't surprised," Beckett replies nonchalantly. "In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say that he was already acting as if we'd broken up."
"Do you mean he…"
"I don't know," Beckett shrugs. "Just a vibe I got from the conversation. We didn't talk that long."
"Yeah," Lanie answers with a shrewd look, "those kind of calls can cost a lot."
Marveling at her friend's uncharacteristic subtlety, Beckett can't help the small smile that forms on her cheeks. "They can, but this one didn't. In fact, I'd say it was free. Or maybe freeing."
"Speaking of free," Lanie replies with an upturned brow, "when are we heading to Florida?"
"What?" Beckett replies, caught short. "Why are we going to Florida?"
"Because you have tickets for a trip for two," Lanie reminds her friend. "And if Josh isn't around, then I'll happily take one for the team."
Beckett smiles in reply, then blushes. "Sorry, Lanie," she manages to whisper. "But I have other hopes for that trip."
"That's right," Lanie asks in a tone that shows her direct nature has returned to the fore, "if you spoke with Alexis, it sounds like Josh wasn't the only man you called today."
"He was, actually," Beckett corrects, pausing to take another small sip of wine. "Alexis called me."
"About…," Lanie prompts in exasperation when Beckett doesn't offer an explanation.
"She asked if we could meet to talk about colleges," Beckett replies with another small smile. "Stanford in particular, but also the process I went through when applying. She's spoken to Castle, of course, but his choices were a bit more constrained when he applied because of their financial situation back then."
"Something she doesn't need to worry about," Lanie notes. "That man'd spare no expense for his girl."
Beckett nods at this statement, since Castle's devotion to his daughter is apparent and requires no confirmation.
"Does that mean," Lanie asks leadingly, "you have an invitation to visit the loft?"
"No," Beckett answers quickly. "Well, yes, but I turned it down. We'll meet at a restaurant. Castle asked me to give him some space and I'll respect that. No more sneaking into his building."
"Wait a minute," Lanie commands with an upturned palm. "When did you sneak into his building?"
"Last week," Beckett replies with a blush. "I figured it was a safe time to drop off his birthday present at the security desk."
"Oh, damn! I totally forgot his birthday!" Lanie frets. Then, with a cross look, she smacks her friend in the shoulder. "Why didn't you remind me? Can we repurpose your gift to be from both of us?"
"You're horrible tonight," Beckett laughs. "What's with all the attempts at subterfuge? If you want to know what I got him, just ask."
"What did you get him?" Lanie replies immediately.
"None of your business," Beckett answers just as quickly, taking another drink. Her expression cracks under her friend's glare, smile and chuckle escaping despite her efforts. "I got him a book, obviously."
Looking confused, Lanie sits back. "I get that you're giving him some space," she starts, pursing her mouth, "but a book? I would've thought you'd want to give him something more personal, maybe something that would make him think of you fondly."
Beckett doesn't reply immediately, but her blush gives her away. But rather than tease or threaten, Lanie waits attentively for an explanation.
"I think it's a perfect gift for an author," Beckett confesses. "A first edition, first printing of Live and Let Die, the second James Bond book," she says with a self-conscious shrug.
"Did you at least write something personal in it?" Lanie asks, wondering about her embarrassment.
"No! That book cost a fortune, I'd never write in it," she replies quickly, aghast. "I wanted to get him one signed by Fleming, but I would've had to sell my bike," she continues, to Lanie's shock. "I did my writing in his birthday card, which I slipped into the book."
"Any grand declarations?" Lanie asks with a quirked brow.
"No," Beckett replies with an eye roll. "I don't think either of us are there yet. I just told him that I'm glad he didn't leave to write for Bond and thanked him for staying with me."
Lanie stares at her friend for a few moments before offering a quiet response. "I don't know, Kate. That sounds like a pretty grand declaration to me."
"Too late, probably," Beckett mumbles in reply.
"What's that?" Lanie picks up, as if she'd ever let a comment like that slip by.
"I think he's seeing someone," Beckett says with a shrug that fails to hide her concern.
"Why do you say that?" Lanie asks, and Beckett's so tied up in her own thoughts that she misses the odd look on her friend's face.
"The music," Beckett answers, as if that should be enough. "When I was on the phone with Alexis, there was music in the background when she went to ask him about going out this weekend."
"Is this a detective thing?" Lanie asks in confusion. "He was listening to music. So what?"
"Lanie," Beckett nearly groans, "it was Barry White."
Wondering if her friend started drinking before she arrived, Lanie pushes for an explanation. "And…"
"Oh, come on!" Beckett urges, waving her arms. "He's a middle aged white man and he was listening to Barry White. That can only mean one thing."
Lanie can't help but to laugh at her friend, who's tied into such knots that she might as well be reading tea leaves rather than liner notes. "Kate, that doesn't mean anything. Castle's a pretty happy guy. He was probably just getting his groove on."
"Exactly!" Beckett cries out. "That's what I'm afraid of."
"You're being ridiculous," Lanie objects with a shake of her head. "If I've ever met anyone who has his own internal soundtrack, it's Castle," Lanie declares, and Beckett appears to agree. "Besides," she continues, her tone growing less jocular and more scolding, "you're also being unfair. Did you think he was just going to sit around waiting?"
"No," Beckett admits quietly. "I know I'm being unfair. That's something else I'm afraid of."
Her friend looks so morose that Lanie can't help but confess. "I don't think he's dating her," she says quietly.
"What?" Beckett looks up in shock. "Her who?"
"His blonde friend," Lanie says gently. "I saw them at the Haunt. I was going to say hi, but they looked like they were working on something pretty intensely. Plans of some kind – he had papers spread all over the place. But they worked like colleagues, not lo… not like they were dating."
"But we were colleagues," Beckett replies. "She'd have to be gay or married to ignore him."
"You managed," Lanie reminds her friend unhelpfully.
"Fine. Gay, married, or an emotionally-stunted, fearful idiot," Beckett corrects herself. "Thanks, Lanes, that makes me feel so much better."
"Kate, I still think you're wrong," Lanie rallies. "I saw them and the way they interacted. I don't think you need to worry about her. But, look," she encourages, "you're seeing Alexis this weekend. Just ask her."
"Oh, that'll go over well," Beckett grouses facetiously in reply, looking at the hands clasped in her lap. "Hi Alexis, I ignored your father for years and only after he was gone and I was dating someone else did I realize I'm falling in love with him. Do you know if he's seeing anyone? Oh, and you should consider Northwestern. Yeah, she'd love that."
Expecting an immediate reply from her friend, Beckett looks up when she hears only silence. Lanie's stunned expression prompts her to replay what she just said, blushing furiously when she realizes what she confessed.
"Oh, Lanie, how did I make this all so complicated?"
"One dance, for old time's sake?" Castle hears from his side. He's not sure whether he's in the frying pan or the fire – he'd been trying to figure out a way to disengage from Skye ("with an e!") and Raine ("with a different e!"), lovely young women with a combined IQ of the salad he had at lunch, but he's not sure that dancing with his ex-wife is an improvement. He's been wary ever since he noticed that she arrived alone.
"Sure," he says smoothly, apologizing to Skye and Raine (where's Sleete?) for his departure. Leading her to the dance floor, he curses his luck again as the band downshifts into a slower-tempo song. With any luck, Gina won't remember…
"Isn't this the band that played at our party?" she asks as her hands meet behind his neck. Where's a good Catholic nun insisting on space between dance partners when you need one? "The one for your book release after-party?"
"It is," Castle confirms as he starts maneuvering them around the floor. "They're good. I've recommended them to a bunch of friends, so they were willing to do me a solid when I called a few weeks ago."
"Didn't your friend at Aegis already have a band lined up?" she asks in surprise. "I'd have thought the band would just switch to the new venue."
"There was some confusion," Castle explains as he sends her into a twirling spin that has the advantage of making her hands slide from his neck down his arms. "When the Clairborne closed, they thought the event was cancelled and booked a different gig. Winnie could've forced them to honor the contract, but we called Ray's group instead. Everybody wins," he says with a happy shrug. "The old band still has a gig and we've got better music."
"When did you become such a fixer?" Gina asks as they flit about the floor, impressing other couples with the fluidity and grace of their movements. When he just shrugs in response, Gina praises him anyway. "Well, it's a good look on you, Rick."
"I take it your good mood means that no one's trying to poach your authors?" Castle asks, shrewdly diverting Gina's attention to one of her preferred topics.
"We're fine. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd say someone intervened," she says while throwing him a knowing look. "Not only have my authors not been approached, but no one's put the hard sell on me to use Aegis, even though I crashed this party."
"Just good luck," Castle says with a small smile. "Or maybe karma," he admits while looking like an impetuous child, leaving no doubt that he thinks the universe owes her some good luck after what he's put her through. When Gina's flat look tells him that she wants more of an answer, he confesses. "I might've suggested that you were more likely to be impressed by restraint than a sales pitch."
"Thank you, Rick," Gina replies, surprising him with a quick kiss to the cheek. His uncomfortable reaction makes her laugh. "Oh, so you're bashful now? These lips have kissed you other places and I don't remember blushing then."
"Gina…," Castle says as he slows, unwilling to continue at least their verbal dance.
"Sorry, couldn't resist," she says with a perched brow. "I forgot that you're 'just friends' with everyone these days."
"That's right," Castle readily agrees, happy to reinforce that point. "Just friends."
"Well," Gina drawls out, happy to have boxed him in, "if you're looking for friends, and you've proven yourself so charming at events like this, we should be talking about more promotional events of your own, Rick."
"There is no way I'm talking shop tonight," Castle says resolutely. "I'm drinking, dancing with beautiful women, and enjoying myself – none of these things are helped by talking about professional responsibilities or promotional tours. So, not tonight," he repeats himself.
Gina looks like she's going to object, until she instead remains quiet. "Okay," she finally agrees softly, shocking her ex-husband. "We'll wait, see how things go after your current lark." She acts as if that's the end of the conversation, but Castle knows her well and recognizes the look that she's giving him now. "Actually, now that I think of it, you'll be free by Memorial Day, won't you? If you're looking for 'just a friend' to take to the beach house…"
"So, who's the blonde pounding vodka at my bar?" Maddie asks as Castle leads her out to the dance floor.
"She's my boss," he explains lightly. "My editor at Black Pawn."
"She looks like she's not exactly happy with you," she says as Castle chuckles. "You must be a difficult employee," Maddie says with an inquisitive look. "Or was she looking for a little workplace romance? She's been watching you all night and was not happy about the attention you've received. I thought she was going to go snap those models in half."
"Well," Castle fesses up, "in addition to being my boss, she's also my ex-wife," he shrugs.
Maddie laughs for a few moments until she realizes that he's not joking. "Seriously? Your ex-wife is here? And you work with her? Are you crazy?"
"Often," Castle replies with another laugh. "The situation certainly keeps me on my toes," he says while twirling them about, using fancy dance moves to accentuate his comment. As he'd hoped, Maddie's soon laughing and letting the topic shift. "So," he says to accelerate the move to safer conversations, "tonight seems to be going pretty well, right?"
"It's gone beautifully," Maddie agrees, looking at him happily. "This could be a very big deal for Q3, Rick. I've been chatting people up all night. If even a small handful of those contacts lead to anything…" she trails off, eyes bright with imagined possibilities. "And that doesn't even include the press we'll get tomorrow."
"I'm glad," Castle replies with a small, satisfied smile. "You deserve any success that results from tonight. You put on quite an event, Ms. Queller," he says formally, nodding at her and prompting a light blush. "But that reminds me – I owe you some money."
"No, Rick," Maddie disagrees. "I'm poised to launch Q3 into the upper echelon. If anything, I owe you."
"Hey, no welching," Castle complains in reply. "The whole reason we set up our secret little side account was so that there was a budget for the little things that'd push this party over the top. Those things weren't cheap and I said I've cover it."
"Do you seriously think you can be more stubborn than me?" Maddie asks with a challenging look. "You worked with Becks, I get it, but she's got nothing on me. You lose, Mr. Castle – I'm not charging you a dime."
"Half," Castle replies equably. "Let's split it. Say yes, then we can focus on dancing," he intimates with a low rumble and his best rakish smile. "Come on, Maddie," he whispers to her, "share something with me."
Taken aback by his sinful approach, Maddie's momentarily stunned. Then, she laughs at herself. "Oh, you must've tied Becks in knots," she chortles. "Fine," she relents. "Half."
"Left breast pocket," Castle says, surprising her. When she reaches in, using the opportunity to run a hand across the planes of his chest several times, she finds an envelope.
"Nice trick, Carnac," Maddie says with just a hint of annoyance. "What if I hadn't said anything and wanted the full amount?"
"That envelope's in a different pocket," Castle challenges with a raised brow, daring her.
"Damn," Maddie pouts. "That must be what I felt when I brushed against you earlier. And here I thought you were just glad to see me," she smirks.
"Oh, Maddie," Castle laments in return, "if I were that glad to see you, we wouldn't be able to dance this close together," he promises with a quick wink.
"You're incorrigible," Maddie laughs in reply. "I love it."
They are quiet for a bit after that, taking the opportunity to enjoy the dance floor. The event is close enough to its conclusion that Maddie can relax by a degree, trusting that there's not much that can go awry now that the food has been served, desserts mostly demolished, and the bars remain well-stocked, despite Gina's late assault. Castle, in turn, uses the opportunity to survey the guests, feeling a small sense of satisfaction as it looks like the event has gone well.
"So, about Kate," Maddie says gently, instantly shattering Castle's sense of calm.
"Maddie, I don't want to…"
"The thing about Kate is that in some important ways, she hasn't changed since we ran around together," Maddie explains, ignoring Castle's attempt to evade this conversation and using their dancing embrace to hold him tight. "I know we're not supposed to talk about what happened to her mom, but it hurt her. She's still a young woman in some ways."
If he can't avoid this conversation, Castle figures he can at least refuse to participate. Rather than look at Maddie, he decides to look up. Until the first thing he sees is Gina, with drink in hand, staring at him, which sends his face back down to where Maddie's dancing against him. Trapped.
"One thing I could always count on with Becks," Maddie says with eyes gone hazy in recollection. "She'd pick the wrong guy. Every time," she reinforces with a laugh. "At first, she played it off as a way to tweak her parents, and that was definitely a plus. I didn't complain, because I'd get the better end of the deal," she says while casting Castle a wicked look, accentuated by a hand that trails along his arm.
"Maddie," Castle interjects. "We can't…"
"Hush, Rick," Maddie interjects again, moving her hand to hold a finger against his lips to keep him from speaking. "I know things between us can't happen – that's one of the reasons it's so much fun to flirt with you," she says with an impish smile that easily matches anything in his arsenal. "Becks would always come between us, and that's not right. But I want you to give her a chance. I know you could leave with a companion tonight," she says, lifting a brow in case he tries to challenge her comment. "And maybe that's what you want or need. But don't do it to spite my friend, please. She might be an idiot, but I can't believe she'd be so stupid as to actually let you get away."
Looking up with him with wide eyes, Maddie decides it's time to let Castle speak. But, just to play a bit first, rather than pull her finger away from his lips, she lets it trail down, tracing a sinuous path over his chin and down his neck until coming to rest over his heart.
"She's made her choice, Maddie," Castle says in a low voice, heartbroken to find himself thinking about her again. Beckett's not here, has nothing to do with this event, which had been a rousing success up until this conversation. And yet now he's haunted by the specter of his foiled dreams even as he tries to wake.
"No," Maddie disagrees. When Castle won't look at her, she raises her hand again, this time cupping his cheek. "She's made the wrong choice. And as bad as Kate's been about finding the right partner, she's been very good about moving on from her mistakes," she shares, hoping to impart some hope. "You worry me, Rick. I can see the walls you're trying to build. Just give her one more chance. Please?"
His heart in a vice, Castle doesn't know how to answer. Years of breeding, his mother's constant instruction in how to be a gentleman, and his general nature tell him to relent to Maddie's request. But the last thing his heart needs is another round as Kate Beckett's heavy bag. Pushing against her hand as he looks away, he finds that the need to answer is a distant second to addressing a much more dire situation.
"Rick?" Maddie asks as she feels him stiffen and watches his jaw square.
"I'm sorry, Maddie," he says, barely getting a handle on his fury, "but I need to go."
"Hey, you still owe me a dance," Castle says loudly as he approaches the corner of the room, where a very drunk and very forward guest has sequestered Fred. She's fending off his advances, but even as Castle approaches he sees the bleary-eyed older man clamp a hand around her arm just above the elbow, trying to pull her to his side. The look of relief on her face reveals exactly how glad she is to see Castle.
"Hi, Rick," Fred replies with relief, trying again to tug her arm free. She's unsuccessful, but the motion turns the man slightly so that he finally notices Castle's approach. His story is apparent in a glimpse – an expensive suit dismissively worn, slightly unkempt due to the inebriation of its owner. The man himself looks small and mean, though refined – an executive used to getting his way, Castle thinks. But probably a client or someone important to Aegis, which is why Fred didn't just haul off and belt him.
"Hi, sis," he says as he approaches close and leans down to give her a peck on the cheek. "Introduce me to your friend quickly, before the band packs up. You can't let the evening end without a dance for your little brother."
"Little brother?" the man nearly squeaks as Castle looms over him, not having backed away after his greeting kiss. "I didn't know you had a brother," he says, dumbly.
"Rick, this is Edward Thwaitt, CFO of…"
"Arctic Jungle, the IT solutions provider," Castle finishes smoothly, extending a hand so that Thwaitt has to release his grip on Fred's arm to shake hands with him. "You've got a fascinating business model, Mr. Thwaitt. Your wife was telling me all about it just a little earlier," he says while craning his neck to find the beleaguered Mrs. Thwaitt, for whom Castle feels more affection now that he's met the poor woman's excuse for a husband.
Thwaitt grimaces, either with the idea of his wife being called over to join them or by the crushing grip in which Castle holds his hand. Either way, he's happy to scuttle off as soon as his hand is released.
"Why do I suspect that planning this event isn't the most trying or distasteful part of your job?" Castle asks as he turns his attention back to Fred.
"Let's dance," she replies tersely. "We can talk there."
Extending an elbow, Castle offers her a courtly walk to the dance floor. The short walk allows them both a chance to calm themselves, to bask in the success of an event that's otherwise gone well.
"Thank you," Fred says as they blend in among the other dancing couples. "I don't like needing to be rescued, but I was running out of ways to put him off. Firm politics and client loyalty be damned, I was about ten seconds from screaming, kicking him, or both. Your solution was much preferred. Thanks, little brother," she finishes with the first smile he's seen on her face since the encounter.
"Sorry about that," he chuckles. "I wasn't sure who he was or what he knew about you. Appearing as a jealous boyfriend might've started something your bosses wouldn't have appreciated, and if you'd told him your preferences it would've made it look like you were inventing reasons to avoid him. A family connection seemed like the most expedient, non-nuclear option," he chuckles again. "Besides, I always kind of wanted a sister."
"There's not enough women in your family already?" Fred asks, cuddling into his bulk to shake of the dregs of Thwaitt's creepiness.
"Now, maybe," he laughs. "But when I was young, I was often on my own," he says wistfully, recalling changing addresses, schools, and performance halls. "I always thought of a sister as a kind of portable friend, someone who wouldn't get left behind with every move. Someone who could've explained women to me."
"Sorry, Rick," Fred replies, some of her usual spark returning, "but the Sisterhood rules prevent sharing that kind of information. I'm already on probation for some of our earlier discussions."
"I knew it!" Castle crows. "My deepest conspiracy theory is confirmed! I can now die a happy man."
That comment gets him an unpleasant look and a slap to the chest. "Don't even joke about that. You take far too many risks to say things like that. I wouldn't even let you joke about that if you were an accountant, much less some crazy author who feels compelled to jump into risky situations in the name of authenticity," she growls.
"Sorry," Castle answers with contrition, kicking himself for being impolitic just when he was trying to soothe Fred. Deciding that changing gears would be safest, he maneuvers them around the dance floor while surveying the party.
"Looks like things are breaking up," he whispers to her. "I suppose you need to circulate see your guests out the door?"
"I do," Fred agrees, though she makes no move to depart. "Just one more song," she says like a teenager asking for one more hit of the snooze alarm. Learning from his recent mistake, Castle remains quiet, letting the swaying motion of their dance provide his friend with a chance to restore herself.
"Thanks, brother," she says as the next song ends, pulling him down for a quick kiss on the cheek. "Time to put this party to bed."
Castle follows her from the dance floor, watching as she engages so adroitly with the most important clients of her firm. While he's got his own goodbyes to which he must attend, Castle carefully ensures that he's never out of her sight, lest anyone else try to manhandle his friend.
"Richard Castle," he hears a man call from his left shortly after he's said goodnight to his publishing peers from Black Pawn. Turning, he sees a sandy-haired man with a radiant smile that displays his perfect teeth. Unlike Thwaitt, this attendee remains immaculately put together, looking more like he just arrived than someone who'd been drinking, dancing, and socializing for four hours.
"Adam Asher," he introduces himself with an outstretched hand, "Managing Director at Aegis. I just wanted to thank you for your help with our event. When Winnie said that she had a friend helping out after the disaster with our last venue, I was happy to have any help we could get. Then I find out it's a famous author who not only finds us a new location, but invites his friends and spends time himself lavishing attention on our guests. You're a lifesaver, Mr. Castle."
"You've got the wrong guy," Castle reacts, slurring his words just a touch. "I was just looking for a good party and Winnie took pity on me. The models were a nice bonus!"
"Mr. Castle," Asher says as he leans in, "I appreciate the effort, but you can drop the act. I sell things to people who don't want to buy, and I'm very good at it. I can see through the motives and interests of every person in this room. Your playboy routine is a good one, but I don't buy it."
Giving his companion a look, Castle decides that he probably is pretty discerning. So, rather than feign ignorance or dissemble, he offers a small smile and a shrug.
"When I say every person," Asher continues after a nod in return, "I mean every person. I know why it was so important to Winnie that tonight go well," she says with a perched brow as both men turn to look at the woman in question. "Don't misunderstand me," he says when Castle starts to look cross. "I'm a big fan of hers and appreciate the motivations that might lure her west. But that doesn't mean I have to make it easy for her."
"Mr. Asher," Castle replies in an even tone, "I'm a big fan of Winnie's, too. That's why I helped in whatever small way I could this evening. And why I'll help in whatever way I can for whatever might follow."
"Please, call me AJ," Asher replies. "And let me back up, because you clearly don't trust my motives. Let's just say this: Winnie isn't the only one eyeing LA. Who says she'd need to leave the firm if she moved there? But keep that under your hat, okay? It's a fierce enough business without our competitors knowing our hopes and aspirations."
Nodding, Castle extends his hand again. "Thanks for the clarification, AJ. Please, call me Rick." After another handshake, Asher turns, so that he and Castle are standing next to each other, surveying the guests as they start to head toward the exit. Fred catches sight of them, offering a laugh and a wave, before she goes back to bidding farewell to more Aegis clients.
"What a night," Asher says after a few moments. "I should be thanking our departing clients, so I'll take my leave. But, Rick?" he asks, turning his head to catch Castle's attention. "Any chance we could enlist you in next year's effort?"
"Depends," Castle answers with a smile. "If Winnie asks, I'm not sure I could say no."
"Fair enough," Asher says with a nod, recognizing the implication of Castle's statement. "Thanks again. It was a pleasure to meet you, Rick," he says while giving his hand yet another shake.
"Likewise, AJ," Castle says with a laugh, nodding to some clients who look like they could use some shepherding into a cab. With a rueful smile, Asher heads off in that direction.
"Brown-nosing with the boss?" Fred asks from his side, surprising him.
"You wouldn't believe where he asked me to put an autograph," Castle replies as if scandalized, pulling a delighted laugh from his friend while distracting her from the topic.
"I don't know, Rick," she says doubtfully. "I had time for a little more internet research on you. From what I read," she says primly, "I doubt that there're many places you haven't graced with a signature."
Blushing slightly, Castle still laughs. "Oh, vile calumnies! Astirred by wretched jealousy and blackest envy!"
"Quite a vigorous defense for someone who not only confessed to past wickedness but also a weakness for the fairer sex," she laughs in reply, nodding over her shoulder toward the knot of models near the door who trying to organize the next stage of the party, with several casting hopeful glances in their direction.
"So, it's time to shut this party down. A small group of preferred clients are heading over to a club. I was going to invite you along," Fred teases with a look over to the weather models, "but it looks like you might be getting a better offer."
"Please," Castle objects. "Better than spending time with my sister?" he asks while offering her an elbow, thinking that there's no way he's going to rest easy until he sees her to her door.
"Excellent," she replies, sliding an arm through his. "Let's go say goodbye to your friend Maddie, then we'll head out. Once we're in the car," she adds with a knowing look, "I'll look forward to hearing what you and AJ were talking about."
A/N: Another long chapter, but I didn't want to move anything around for this week. There are some adjustments coming up to balance things in Chapters 7, 8, and 9.
For those who are curious but don't want to do the internet search, the Representative from New York's 9th congressional district in 2011 was Anthony Weiner. His first scandal, which included the sexting references, broke in May 2011 (roughly a month after this chapter takes place), so there's a little bit of realistic confirmation that politicians can, indeed, be this stupid. Representative Weiner and I'd had a confrontation several months prior, in which I came off the worse. So, some of the emotions attributed to Beckett in this chapter (particularly the unseemly delight in watching the implosion of a political career and the disbelief about the hubris politicians can display even when their careers are mortally wounded) have a real foundation.
For those of you curious about what Castle's doing outside of the precinct, I expect that will be discovered within two weeks (our time, not story time).
