ACT TWO

"…cause we're the pirates who don't do anything, we just stay at home and lay around, and if you ask us to do anything, we'll just tell you, we don't do anything…" Castle sung to himself as he went through Peritti's papers, stacking them into neat piles.

Getting to the bottom of his stack and end of the song he picked up the pace and the volume, forgetting he was in a police station, "…and I've never licked a spark plug, and I've never sniffed a stinkbug, and I've never painted daises on a big red rubber ball, and I've never bathed in yogurt and I don't look good in leggings…" he ended on a crescendo, his arms out in dramatic pose.

"Ahem?" the voice was heard behind him and he turned to see Beckett standing in the doorway of the conference room.

"…and I've never been to Boston in the fall…" he finished with a flourish.

"You know," the brunette gazed slightly bemused and confused at him. "I pretty sure you've done at least three of those things."

"You'll never know…" he dropped his voice into a manlier, seductive tone, "but I want to state for the record that I look very, very good… in leggings."

"I never doubted," she smiled with tight lips, trying to hold back a laugh. "What was that song from anyway?"

"Veggie Tales," Castle informed her with a grin at her amusement, "it's amazing things you have to watch when you have a kid in the house."

"Well," she nodded in sympathy, "I'm sure Alexis copes."

"Yeah," he smiled at fond memories, then blinked, "hey!"

"What do you got here?" Beckett interrupted as she picked up one of the stacks he had made.

"Timeline," the writer started to proudly point out the piles, "some of these papers have date stamps when printed off the net, accessed or requested, and it seems our victim was researching the Andrea Doria first, then changed course and went after the Washington Irving about a year ago."

She nodded in approval, "And the Fitzgerald?"

"Researched it for about a two month spread," Castle picked up one of the smaller piles, "about six months ago."

"And that pile?" the detective asked of the large stack at the end of the table.

"No time stamps," he frowned.

"So he originally started his thesis on the Andrea Doria," Beckett said thoughtfully, "but changing your thesis isn't suspicious in its self."

"He seems to have done it here," the writer pointed to a large stack. "Nothing is dated for about a month, then nothing but Irving."

"Peritti is only guilty of not keeping his advisor up to date then," she sighed, "and now we've run out of leads and back to square one."

"I still think it's off," Castle sat down, starting to thumb through some random papers. "I've read the write up he did for the Andrea Doria and some of his previous papers and he knew what he was doing, but this all speaks otherwise."

"Life isn't a novel, Castle," his friend replied gently, "it's not always that neat and tidy. That's why we have a whole storage area for cold cases."

He looked up at her sharply, "We've never had to put a case in there, not going to start now."

Beckett opened her mouth to say something, but paused, smiling softly with a nod of her head. "Then we start from the beginning."

"Right," Castle smiled broadly, taking a deep breath, trying to get serious, or at least as close as he could. "He lets his killer in, so he knew them."

"Ryan and Esposito spoke to his friends," the detective leaned back against the table, "they all went to Atlantic City without him, alibis check out."

That gave him slight pause, "Why didn't he go with them?"

"He said he had work to do, but they think he was making a polite excuse because he was broke like most college kids," her voice trailed off a bit, "we looked into money as a motive, no unusual bank transfers, purchases. None of the usual indicators."

"Hmm," he already knew they had exhausted many of the usual motives, "could it have been an accident?"

"Accidently shot himself?" the words were almost incredible.

"Someone accidently shot him," he explained, "then panicked instead of calling the police."

"Possible," she sighed, "Why do some people believe it's better to run rather than admit to a mistake?"

"Fight or flight," the writer shrugged, "natural instinct."

"You think though," she crossed her arms, "with all those cop shows and detective novels out there they would learn something."

"Yeah," he held out the vowel, trying to figure out what else they had missed. "What about Pendelcote?"

"Confirmed killed with an oar, well, technically a paddle according to Perlmutter," she filled in him. "Looks like a crime of opportunity. Karpowski likes the ex-wife, motive and dodgy alibi."

Now there was a thought, "Did the ex know Peritti?"

"Karpowski beat you to it," the detective almost laughed, "the ex has been in Oklahoma for the past five years, only flew back up a couple of days ago to discuss alimony payments, or lack thereof, can't connect her to Peritti."

"Do we really think Pendelcote's death was a coincidence then?" Castle frowned.

Beckett patted him gently on the shoulder, her hand not dropping away, "Seems like a strong possibility."

"You know," he leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand, "if this was one of those shows or books, the needed clue would magically appear about now."

"But this isn't," she gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, and he turned his eyes to meet hers, and in them an acknowledgment of the friendship they shared, "you can't always expect clues to walk through the door—"

"Who's the man!" Ryan burst through the door of the conference room, startling them both.

"Yeah, yeah," Esposito followed in behind him.

"Guess who was right all along," Ryan rubbed his hands together, an eager grin on his face.

"George Orwell?" was Beckett's sarcastic reply.

"Edgar Cayce?" said Castle and this caused the room to pause, something he seemed to have a natural talent at. "What?"

"Anyway," Ryan waved his hands, "it was of course I who was right."

"Right about what?" Beckett asked.

"Go ahead," the man gestured to his partner, almost giddy, "show them."

With a sigh and roll of his eyes, Esposito passed over a folder, "We found the dealer who sold the musketoon and it was a credit card purchase, got a name."

"Hah! Musketoon!"

"He was sure it was a musketoon," Castle couldn't help himself, "and wasn't confusing a blunderbuss for one?"

"Ah," the detective blinked a couple of time, tried to say something, but was completely lost for words and pouted slightly.

"Castle," Beckett leaned the file down so he could read, "that name look familiar to you?"

It only took him a second, "Ketter, that was Peritti's old advisor."

"Ketter is dead though, right?" Esposito asked.

"About a year ago," Castle said the words as much to himself as out loud as he shifted the piles he had made.

"Explains where Peritti got the musketoon," Beckett continued the thought. "Ketter could have given it to him or he somehow took it when he died."

"That's interesting…"

"What is, Castle?" she asked him.

"Ketter died about a year ago," he held up a stack of the papers, "and about a year ago Peritti changed his research to the Irving."

She thought that over, "Doesn't mean it's related."

"Doesn't mean it's not," he pointed out.

"If this pans out," the woman crossed her arms, "you're going to be insufferable, aren't you."

"Yeah," he smiled, "most likely."

""""

After a knock on the door of the modest home, a young woman answered. "How can I help you?"

"Detective Beckett," his partner held out her badge, "we would like to speak to Gwen Ketter."

"That's my grandmother," the woman opened the door and gestured for them to come in. "I'll get her."

They were left to wait in the living room, Castle doing his usual nosing around, he liked to look and see how people lived. No two houses were ever alike, and the clues they left to their hobbies or true personalities could be fascinating. This was the home of a naval history fan with many portholes, anchors, signs, and other things he had no idea what they did hung up on the wall.

Staring down at the silver platter with whiskey glasses and decanters, there was a bottle of Captain Morgan's, pretty much empty.

"Kate," he picked the bottle up to show her, "why is the rum always gone?"

She didn't dignify that with a response, instead turned to the approaching older lady, graying hair up in a bun, aged features, but who looked very familiar.

"You work at the Maritime Industry Museum," Beckett said and it clicked into place for Castle. This was the lady at the information desk when they came to see Pendelcote.

"Yes," Gwen frowned, "is this about David's death. I already spoke to that other detective, ker-pow something?"

He was going to have to remember that one.

"Actually," Beckett gestured for the lady to have a seat, "we're here about your husband."

"Harold?" she sat down, her granddaughter next to her. "Oh, this is Sophia, she came to stay with me, it's been a troublesome year."

"First my grandfather dies," Sophia spoke up, "now her boss."

"Did Mr Ketter and Mr Pendelcote know each other?" the detective asked as she sat across from them.

"Yes," a small smile formed on the elder woman's face, "they were in the Navy together. That's why David gave me the job at the Museum after Harold died. It keeps me busy and connected to Harold. He loved his ships."

"He died in a boating accident, off Cape Cod?" Beckett asked, the request to the local police was being processed for the report but so far it hadn't came through.

"Harold went there every year, to fish," she got a far away look. "But he was getting older, not as spry as he used to be."

"The main sail wasn't rigged right," Sophia finished for her grandmother, "it caught and hit him hard in the chest, caused some kind of cardiac arrest."

"That young man tried to give him CPR," Gwen was able to continue, "but his heart just couldn't take it."

"Young man?" Castle managed to get out before his partner did.

"Yes," she furrowed her brow, trying to remember, "one of his students but I forget his name."

"Joshua Peritti?" Beckett offered.

"Josh," Gwen seemed more sure, "sounds about right. I saw him at the funeral. He wanted forgiveness for not being able to save Harold. I told him that he tried, and that's all anyone can ask."

"Didn't try hard enough," Sophia said bitterly.

"I know you adored your grandfather, Sophia," Gwen patted the woman's hand, "but it was his time to go, when you get to my age, you'll understand that."

"Do," Beckett started to fiddle through the black zipped folder she often carried and pulled out a photo, "you know what happened to this item?"

Gwen held it out at a distance, squinting her eyes a bit, "I'm not sure what it is."

"Some kind of shotgun?" Sophia shrugged.

"I've never seen it before," the older lady finally decided.

"Your husband bought it a few months before he died," Beckett informed.

"I'm sorry," she passed the photo back, "he often bought naval memorabilia, it would end up here, at his office, his boat."

So that meant the musketoon could have been picked up Peritti at any point, gift or no. Castle glanced up and his eyes happened to fall onto a photo perched on the wall that was also very familiar, a bit of that going around at the moment.

"The Washington Irving," Castle said as he walked over to the black and white image of the passenger liner before it was hit by the oil barge that sent it to the bottom of the Hudson.

"Yes," Gwen smiled again, "one of my husband's obsessions."

"Your husband was obsessed with the ship?" Beckett's tone was as surprised as he felt.

"He had this idea," she continued, "you see, he believed when it sank it had a secret cache of gold bars from Albany, destined for a steamer to take it down to Washington DC, to the US Mint."

Castle had read through much of the research from Peritti's place and even though it was mostly basic stuff, there was enough in depth information to know that, "There was no mention of that in its history."

"I know," the older lady sighed, "it was his white whale. No one believed him and his only information was from a journal of a man who passed away in the '60s who was a cabin steward on the Irving."

"That's a bit flimsy evidence," Beckett replied in the non-judgmental way she was good at.

"There was difficulty raising the ship and getting it salvaged," Gwen shrugged, "but that didn't prove anything either. Harold was obsessed that the gold was either stolen when it was salvaged, or still lying at the bottom of the Hudson, on top of the Holland Tunnel."

The writer heard something in those words, "Did Pendelcote know about your husband's obsession?"

She nodded, "The only one who didn't think him a complete crack pot to consider such a thing."

"And he knew that Peritti had been looking into it," Beckett said what he was thinking. "They were probably researching it together."

He let himself smile, he was going to indeed be insufferable after this, "And they had another partner."

"Our killer."

""""

"Esposito," Beckett marched into the squad room with purpose, they had new leads, they were going to follow them and she was going to ignore Castle. "Has the incident report from Ketter's accident come in yet?"

"Ah," the man grabbed a manila folder off his desk, "yes, the police report. Still waiting on the Coast Guard's report."

"I still say it's pirates," Castle walked in behind her, "I mean, sunken gold, musketoon, high-seas chicanery."

"I wouldn't call the Hudson the high-seas," she mumbled as she read through the accident report. Two witnesses and she knew them both. Handing the file over to her partner, "Luck of the draw, huh?"

She watched as the writer read the information, seeing the grin that would form on his face as he came to a conclusion. As silly as he could be, he was extremely bright, and she always respected how he could marry the two personalities together.

"I think we owe someone a visit," he grinned.

""""

When they got to Professor Dobins' office, it was suppose to be his study hour, but the door was locked.

"Looking for Dobins?" a woman called from the other side of the hallway, a quick glance around the office showed her to also be a history teacher, though more Medieval in nature.

"You know where he went?" Beckett asked, flashing her police badge.

"Indefinite lunch?" the historian replied annoyed and began to ramble, "left at noon, hasn't come back, and I had to take care of his one o'clock and cancel the classes for him and act like his bloody secretary for every whiney student trying to get a hold of him."

"Ah, thank you," the detective replied, taking out her phone.

As she moved off, Castle asked the lady, "Did he take anything with him, any big objects?"

She shrugged, "Just his laptop bag I saw but I wasn't really looking."

"Ever see him with a blunderbuss?" the writer decided to ask.

The teacher stared blankly at him for a moment, "Are you high?"

Beckett grabbed his sleeve and pulled him to the side, "BOLO is out on Dobins, not sure we have enough yet for a warrant."

"Want in his office?" the professor stuck her head out in the hall.

"That would be nice," Beckett said slowly.

The woman flashed a key and walked over to the door, "Serves him right for skipping out and leaving me to do everything."

With a click the door popped open and the teacher stood to the side and waved them in.

"Until we know where we legally stand," Beckett said as she walked forward, "only what's in plain sight."

"Of course," he replied but as they walked into the small room he raised his eyebrows at the mess, various papers, files, books, photos, strewn about the place. "Looks like he tore out of here in a hurry."

Beckett squatted down next to a folder that had fallen just inside the door, its contents spread about, one of them a photo of the Irving, "And looks like he knew more about Peritti's research than he let on."

The evidence was there, but still, "You think he would be capable of murder?"

"He deals with whiney students all day," the teacher said behind him, "trust me, we'll all capable."