Hey, guys. Sorry for the slight delay. Thank you for all of the reviews this week. Sorry that I wasn't able to send out personal responses before posting another chapter. Real life responsibilities are catching up with me, but I'll try my best to manage my time a little better. As always, suz24 is made out of cool. On with the story!
Beckett watches as they wheel John Raglan's body out on a stretcher, bathed in red and blue light, while Montgomery reams her out. Ryan and Esposito try to cover for her, but the Captain knows better. He knows how she gets about her mother's case, like a little girl running around with scissors.
"Go where the evidence leads, not the other way around," he warns. "Do you read me?"
"Yes, Sir," she answers. It'll be hard, but she can be objective about this. She will be objective about this. "Loud and clear."
Esposito follows the bullet's trajectory through a window on the fourth floor of the building across the street while Ryan checks in with Raglan's neighbors, and Beckett drives to the precinct to change, hardly able to concentrate on the road as her mind flies in a million directions.
In the washroom, she strips out of the cream sweater, streaked with blood, and drops it into the sink. After scrubbing for ten minutes, the rusty stain remains, and she heaves it into the wastebin with a heavy plop.
Dick Coonan is dead. John Raglan is dead, and somehow, it all connects to her mother's murder. She can't help but feel responsible. Would Raglan have even come to her if it wasn't for Richard Castle's threats? He had terminal cancer, but he didn't need to die today. He could have spent the next few months with loved ones, family, friends. Instead, he's lying on a slab in the morgue while she stands here, alive and trying to salvage the blouse covered in his blood. It makes her feel sick.
She leans over the sink, hands gripping either side of the basin, and breathes in through her nose. Having a breakdown isn't going to help anyone. She needs to pull herself together and find out who was behind the hit, and that will bring her closer to uncovering what really happened to her mom twelve years ago.
At least this time, the FBI won't be interfering.
She changes into her spare shirt, splashes some water on her face, and steps out into the bullpen ready to get to work.
Esposito comes in with news. No prints or shell casings or witnesses found at the scene, but the building was secured, so the sniper had to have a keycard to get in. It's not much, but it's a start.
Ryan follows with his findings. Raglan had no next of kin, but he did have a friend who came to visit upon occasion, another retired cop named Gary McCallister.
Two hours later, Beckett's sitting across from McCallister in the interview room. She offers him her condolences as he pours liquor into his mug of coffee and takes a long sip.
"Still tastes like piss," he grunts, voice like sandpaper from age and cigarette smoke. "I sacrificed my best years and worst marriages to this damn city. You'd think that would be enough, but it never is. Had to gobble up my best friend too."
She tries to coax information out of him, but the ex-cop either doesn't know what she's talking about or is playing dumb. In her gut, she feels it's the latter.
"I don't get it. Raglan was retired by the time you came on the job. What did he want with you?"
"Raglan was helping me with a...cold case that I was working on. And I believe he was killed to keep him quiet." She studies McCallister. He's not offering up anything. "Look, Raglan seemed to think that the case had to do with something he did nineteen years ago. What was he into back then?"
He takes offense at that and lashes out, seems to think she's trying to drag his partner's name through the mud. But he gives her a name.
"Vulcan Simmons? He runs half the drug trade in New York."
McCallister explains that his old buddy was a gambler, strapped for cash. According to rumor, he got involved running drugs for Simmons from his patrol car. It's a good theory but doesn't seem to connect to her mother at all. Still, she thanks Gary McCallister for coming in to which he responds with another grunt.
Assault, attempted murder, extortion, possession with intent, witness intimidation. Vulcan Simmons certainly has quite a rap sheet, but he hasn't been booked in years. That means he's dangerous and smart, the worst kind of criminal.
"Guess he's come a long way since Washington Heights," Ryan remarks, and her head shoots up from the file.
"Wait, what? You said Washington Heights?"
Sometimes she forgets that the younger cop has a history in narcotics. "Yeah. Back in the day, Simmons used to run the drug trade in Washington Heights. Why?"
Beckett mentally files through the list of names Richard Castle gave her when he broke into her home. It all pieces together. This could be the connection. "My mom and a group of her colleagues put together a campaign called Take Back the Neighborhood. They were trying to get drug dealers off the streets in Washington Heights."
So Vulcan Simmons hires Dick Coonan to get rid of her mother and the others, and he pays off Raglan to cover it up. Then, when Raglan tries to tell her the truth, he's silenced.
"We'll have him in the box before lunch," declares Esposito.
Good, good. This is it. But her stomach rolls, and she's torn between anticipation and dread for what's to come.
Simmons comes in well-dressed and relaxed. He makes a crack about the room, something about the paint being different, and then he smiles. She feels like she's staring at the Devil incarnate, and it shoots ice through her veins.
"You'd have been about sixteen, wrestling some pimply kid in the back of his daddy's wagon, wondering if you were going to give it to him or not." Suddenly, she regrets convincing Espo and Ryan to let her lead the interrogation on her own.
So she does the only thing she can do. She ignores him. "What was your association with Detective John Raglan?"
The man pretends to think on it for a while. "Thirsty cop, right? Couldn't pick a winner to save his life." It matches up with what McCallister told her. "Well, Detective, our association as you put it exceeded the statute of limitations many moons ago."
"There's no statute of limitations on murder, Mr. Simmons."
He starts mocking her, using his knowledge about interrogation techniques to get a rise out of her. But she won't let him.
"Look at me," she demands. "Twelve years ago, Johanna Beckett led a big Take Back the Neighborhood campaign in Washington Heights. Johanna Beckett was murdered along with two of her colleagues and the desk clerk. They were professional hits carried out on your orders, and you had your pet homicide detective John Raglan bury them." She takes the photograph of her mother and slides it across the table. "Look at her face. Tell me you don't remember her."
His tongue comes out to wet his lips, and he leans forward as he speaks. "You know, Detective Beckett, I think I do remember her. Bled out in an alley like the trash she was."
She feels her fingers twitch. If he doesn't quit it, she's going to do something she regrets. "Mr. Simmons, you better watch it."
But he continues, "Rich bitch from uptown on safari in the Heights. Somebody should have warned her not to feed or tease the animals. If they had, she might not have gotten eaten." He stands and buttons his jacket. "From what I hear, though, she was pretty tasty."
Blinded by rage, she flies from her seat and grasps Vulcan Simmons' lapels, shoving him up against the one-way glass. It splinters, fractures running in all directions under his weight. He chuckles, and she lets out a growl so primal that it would scare her if she wasn't so furious. In all the chaos, Richard Castle's words filter back to her. Look him in the eye. Raise the knife. Watch as he struggles. It's evil and sick, but she wants it. She wants to see Vulcan Simmons suffer.
"Remember your old life, Vulcan. Savor it. Because I am going to take it all away."
Even as Esposito and Ryan barge into the room, tearing her away and yelling for her to stand down, the drug dealer laughs. It rings through the doorway, but Beckett keeps walking, doesn't stop until she's back in the washroom.
She leans against the door and pants. As the adrenaline wears off, she feels a stinging pain and looks down at her hands. Her fingertips are sliced. One shard of glass sticks out of her knuckle, and she hisses. There's a first aid kit in here somewhere. She opens a drawer under one of the sinks and fishes out the tweezers, cleaning them with antiseptic. Damn it, it burns.
The cuts aren't deep, and the fragment is large enough to dig out without much effort. At this point, fear over the consequences of her actions is outweighing the pain. Shoot, shoot. What was she thinking? What has she done?
Captain Montgomery has to let Simmons go because of her. He kicks her off the case and sends her home even though she begs.
Grabbing her jacket, Beckett all but runs out of the bullpen, making every concentrated effort not to cry in front of her fellow detectives. Shit.
She found the man who ordered her mother's murder. She found him and let him get away, and now she's off the case. But she doesn't need the Captain or the Twelfth Precinct to take Vulcan Simmons down. They won't help her, fine.
She's knows someone who will.
When Kate gets back to her apartment, the door is open. Typical. Not even her newly installed deadbolt could deter him. Inside sits Richard Castle at the dining table with a bottle of wine and a box of pizza.
"Honey, you're home. Hope you don't mind that I ordered dinner." She doesn't even bother to roll her eyes.
"I've reconsidered your offer, and you were right. I need your help."
Thank you for continuing to read this story. Your reviews and follows and general response has been great motivation. Any questions or comments? Leave them below, and I'll see you guys next Thursday!