.
Aaaaand we're back from our first commercial break! So go on, don't let me stop you, just picture the credits running along under the screen and be grateful the Allstate guy stopped talking…XD And thank you guys all so much for the awesome reviews! *hugs you all* Tried to make this one inciting/exciting, so it was exciting to write. Hope it lives up. ;)
.
.
West Seventy-Second Street. Two unmarked police cars carved their way through late-evening traffic, running full lights, but no sirens. The former provided open road; the latter would be an advertisement they could ill afford. Approaching Central Park West, both screeched to a stop, and four doors bolted open, two trunks popping to retrieve four vests.
All four were affixed. Three guns were unlocked and loaded. Three ran into the building. One followed.
Police. Police. Police. Writer.
The elevator was too slow, and it would have waylaid them. The three detectives pounded up the service stairs, Castle copying their every footstep. Their goal was the fourth floor. Reaching it was of little effort, and little time.
The strike team ran in silence, filtering single-file down the hallway, a dense fog of cigar smoke and incense blurring the lights overhead to further darken the night. No exchange of words was necessary for this act…done a thousand times before, and never quite familiar enough.
Never predictable.
Detective Beckett held the lead. And then the apartment door was right under them. "Stack 'em up," she whispered, out of breath, but it was pure habit. The instant she'd come to a stop, Esposito had already dropped to his knee at her feet, readying the sights on the assault rifle. Ryan spun out and flattened his back against the other side of the door, gun gauntleted, nodding that he was ready.
For his part, Castle did something totally rare. He stayed out of the way.
"Police!" Beckett called out, directing her voice through the bolted door. "Eduardo Vidal, N.Y.P.D!" Sending a fist sideways, she pounded on it; once, twice, three times in rapid succession. "Open the door!"
No answer. Only a shuffle of movement from inside.
Not wasting a second, Beckett's glance went to the boys. "On three," she whispered. Rather than speak the numbers, she let each of her three measured nods do the talking, and on the third, Ryan whirled out from the wall, brought up a knee, and landed his foot squarely beside the brass doorknob. The internal locking mechanism shattered, and with a bang the door flew open, slamming hard into the opposite wall.
The three of them flooded in, each spreading out in their own direction. Castle scurried in and followed Beckett.
Ryan had gone right. He eased up to the open bedroom door, so close to the wall that his rolled-up shirtsleeve caught a hinge, leaving a torn scrap of powder-blue hanging from the metal. Elbows locked, finger in the trigger, he spun in, eyes darting in all directions. Behind the door, the open closet, under the bed.
Nada.
From her place in the living room, Beckett heard his shout of "Clear!" as clear as day. She was still rigid, hurrying and yet taking her time, inching around everything that blocked her vision, prepared to use it as cover if she had to.
Esposito had swarmed left. His rifle raised, butted against the shoulder of his vest, he swept into the kitchenette, taking note that the coffee there had been freshly brewed. Still hot. Passing through, he moved into the bathroom…
And found the window wide open. He was halfway through it in an instant.
"Yo, fire escape! Now!" Beckett's head snapped in the direction of the call, and in a flash, she was darting across the apartment. Ryan's eyes went just as wide, and he ran from the bedroom doorway, leaping the couch to stay on her heels. Not quite sure what to do, Castle followed, wishing frantically that he had a way to stop the guy before he disappeared into late-shift foot traffic…that, or at least a video camera.
"NYPD! Hold it right there!" Esposito's holler rang from the iron girders as he climbed down in pursuit, but so did the clanging of leather shoes on metal, two levels below.
Beckett leaned her whole torso out the open window, got a view of the fleeing Vidal's head and shoulders, and took two potshots at his heels, both of which missed, their target flashing too quickly. "Ryan, cover the front!" she shouted over her shoulder, and didn't have to turn to hear him stop on a dime and bolt the other way behind her, out the apartment door and down to cut off Vidal's escape. Beckett adapted her aim. "Stop! Freeze!"
She pulled herself past the windowsill and held a strong footing on the iron-bar landing, but between Vidal's speed and distance on them and the risk of hitting Esposito, who'd just hit the ground running, there was little to no hope of collaring him any time soon…
Until his running path took him right underneath his own living room window. From which a ceramic globe bookend hurtled to earth, smashing like a flash bomb barely a foot in front of Eduardo Vidal's feet.
The five seconds Vidal spent in ducking and flinching back to dodge shrapnel were five seconds he couldn't afford. He felt a crashing force at the back of his calves and fell painfully to the sidewalk, barely getting used to the press of cement against his cheek before a knee landed hard in the middle of his back, his arms being bent to receive handcuffs. His pained wince came simultaneously with the click.
"Don't think we were quite done back there," huffed Esposito. "Eduardo Vidal. You have the right to remain silent."
Washed with momentary relief, Beckett caught her teammate's eye as he twisted to look up at her, sending a nod before stepping back through the open window. She left herself breathe normally for the few moments it took to meander back into Vidal's living room…
And that was when she found Castle and shoved him by his vest against the wall.
"You do realize that if that had hit his head, we'd be looking at another body, right? What were you thinking!"
The writer's eyes were wide, partially at the 'tell me you saw that!' of his success and partially in surprise at her reaction. Not that he should've been so surprised. "Hey! I-I stopped him, didn't I?"
"You don't have the authority to stop him, Castle!" she reminded…not that it ever got through to him when she said that.
Now he was smirking airily. "Well, good thing I just happen to be an un-biased, klutzy houseguest who just happened to be passing by the window when it slipped from my hand. Besides, I aimed ahead of him." Then the digression started, the topic getting lost in Castle's head. "Personally, that thing was asking for it - how could a guy with Vidal's money spend any of it on something as tacky as knickknack-y bookends? Guess money really can't buy you taste, not that that's any new news…"
Beckett sighed as Castle trailed off, surveying the rest of the apartment's décor as if that was the real subject here. It was an age-old debate anyway, and she knew when to give up. "Yeah, well, next time you decide to throw something out the window, why don't you try your manuscript first," she deadpanned.
"Ooh. You sting me, Detective."
.
.
.
It wasn't a long process to prepare their chief suspect for interrogation. Within the hour, Beckett was stepping out of the elevator after a walkthrough of Vidal's apartment - a job CSU would be continuing until they could confirm or disprove it as the crime scene for absolute sure - and Ryan was there, handing her off a coffee.
Castle tried not to look intruded-on.
"Uniforms brought Vidal into the interrogation room about fifteen ago. Esposito's waiting behind the mirror; figured you'd want in on it," the detective reported, matching Beckett's stride. "Guy says he doesn't need a lawyer."
"Because he's confessing?"
"Because he didn't do it. So he says."
"Yeah, well…" Beckett stopped there, laying a hand on the knob of the door. "That's for me to find out. Thanks."
"No sweat."
As Ryan broke away to head elsewhere, Castle stepped into Beckett's line of vision before she could open the door. It didn't mean to come out, but he couldn't help himself. "He's getting you coffee now? Since when?"
His muse blinked a few times as if trying to figure that out. "Since…I don't know," she said, confused, "it's thoughtful. Why does it matter?"
"Well, it…" Stammer time. "I guess it doesn't matter, per se, I was just wondering…I…didn't notice it as a habit before."
"Uh huh." Now she was starting to get it. Beckett folded her arms and sized up her opposition. "Tell you what, Castle, you can pee all over your territory somewhere else, some other time, okay?"
He raised his palms. "Hey, I wasn't - "
"Right. Sure you weren't." She almost had to chuckle to herself. Almost. Poor Ryan - unless he knew what he was doing; she wouldn't put it past him. "If you're coming in, come on," she advised, and down went the door handle.
Open went the door. There was Esposito, arms crossed, looking through the mirror. "Hey," he said. "You ready?"
"As ever." With one nod, setting her coffee cup beside one of the camera monitors, Beckett headed for the second door, pulling it open.
The moment she stepped in, she was greeted with the sense that Eduardo Vidal was a dangerous man. Just like Nick Bailey had said. He was scared, almost frantically so. And it was all being channeled into an unstable anger. That much was obvious before the man even spoke so much as a word.
It didn't last long that way. "I did not kill that woman!" Eduardo's accent was thick, his volume higher than necessary.
The door closing softly after Castle, Beckett took the chair across from their suspect, folded her hands, leaned forward, and didn't waste any time. "Then why did you run."
"Because I knew I would be accused!" The wiry entrepreneur's voice still resonated through the room.
"You really think running is the way you're gonna convince us of that?" Beckett asked harshly. He didn't scare her. She needed to do the scaring here.
Vidal poked an index finger hard into the table. "I did not say I expected to be charged with murder - only after do they tell me I am a suspect. I did not know Ayumi was dead! I said I expected to be accused."
Looming behind her right shoulder, all friendliness hidden behind impatiently crossed arms and the unflappable mask of 'Ice-posito', Esposito wasn't impressed either. Or frightened. "Accused of what?"
Switching his best mafia-like glare between the two detectives - especially the one who'd caused his harsh landing earlier, plus Castle, just out of suspicion - Eduardo wasn't talking. He shook his head, flashing the faint ghosts of scars on the back left side of his neck. "I have done nothing. They frame me. I cannot lose what I have built now."
Beckett's eyes and tone were both razor-sharp, boring into him, her face mere inches from his across the table. "Then talk - because let me tell you something Mr. Vidal, you're sure as hell going to be losing a lot if you're on your way to the island for murder."
Quirking an eyebrow, Castle threw in, "I highly doubt they'll let you bring that pool table to your holding cell. Or tacky bookends."
"You do not understand!" Vidal roared. Wrong time to chime in. Eduardo was cracking fast, neck vein bulging with his wild black eyes. "Ayumi…era como si ella era mi hija. Yo no haría daño a ella!"
No one had to look at him expectantly - Esposito was the one who had anticipated this in the first place. "He says she was like a daughter to him and he wouldn't hurt her," he informed the other two, leaning forward, bracing himself on the corner edge of the table, flicking a glance between his teammates and Vidal.
Vidal wasn't pausing now. The dam had broken, and out came the flood. "Corrí debido a mi negocio. Mi tienda no ha estado ganando bastante dinero. El presidente de compañía se haría furioso si él fuera consciente de este; él podría sustituirme inmediatamente."
"He says he ran because of the store. They're behind in cash and if the company president knew about it he'd be furious, maybe even fire him on the spot."
"Tenemos a inversionistas, muchas personas ricas que han contribuido a nosotros. Para salvar nuestra tienda, algunos de ellos…" At this point, Vidal exhaled heavily, tipping down his head to rake both hands through his slicked black hair, as if to avoid hitting something. Or someone. "Ellos han…obtenido el dinero…ilegalmente."
Now Esposito's eyes went narrower as he processed, leaning harder on the table to lessen the gap another inch. "Ilegalmente... Quién consigue el dinero ilegalmente? Cómo?" Beckett's and Castle's curious eyes darted to each other, the former realizing this was no longer her interrogation, the latter wishing he had some sort of 'Certain British Spy' in-ear translating device.
"Los inversionistas, los inversionistas de tienda, aquellos que nos han dado donaciones en el pasado! Malversaciones. Fraude. Les digo que no quiero ninguna parte de este, pero ellos no me escuchan." No matter the language, impatience, frustration were universal. Vidal had it in spades, adding to the fear and anger.
"Esposito…" Beckett prodded.
"The store's got investors: rich, high-profile, people who've donated before…thinks some of 'em are resorting to embezzling and fraud to keep it from bottoming out," he explained quickly, not bothering to fully look back over his shoulder. "He says he tried to contact 'em, tell them he didn't want any part of it, but they didn't listen, kept it up."
"Committee anonymity," Beckett realized, "no one's ever required to meet or contact at all."
"Who's that dedicated to a single department store? Risking jail to keep it in business?" Castle wanted to know.
"People can be shallow," Beckett replied, dryly and obviously. Possibly a little hint in there too. But, to Vidal, she added, "What does this have to do with Ms. Walker?"
"If anything…"
"Cómo es significativo a la víctima, tu empleado?" Esposito covered, for good measure.
Vidal shook his head, his anger shaking him. Stress was causing him to treat the language barrier as a grey area, and he stressed every word of his next assurance. "She did not agree with what they're doing. Ayumi era uno de nuestros representantes de empleado en una reunión de la junta directiva reciente. Cuando era terminado, ella me dijo que ella quiso llamar la policía."
"Ayumi served as employee representative at a recent board meeting, and once she caught wind of what was goin' on, she said she wanted to call the cops."
Grateful for Esposito's fast fluency, Beckett took the opportunity to interject, "Is that why you and she were fighting?"
"Good grammar," Castle stage-whispered. Clearly still un-housebroken.
He went ignored, and Vidal was as insistent as ever. "I told her very strongly it was a bad idea! I told her that to start a…a…" He was grasping for the correct English idiom. "To start a witch hunt against such important investors would mean I would have to fire her if anyone knew! Before the company president could learn of it!"
"The threats Nick Bailey heard," Beckett realized under her breath.
Now Castle leaned forward, a quizzical look in his eye, offering his first useful contribution to this conversation. "Did any of these investors know that she was against their little misadventures in financing?"
He seemed to struggle, finally giving only a conflicted "…I don't know."
"Mr. Vidal…" Beckett pressed.
"There is no way of knowing for sure!" he erupted. "I wouldn't know! Only Ayumi would know. As I said, they do not deal with me. For all I know, they keep the store in business only to please their friends; they appear benevolent, charitable, and no one gets caught, that is all they care about. Me, I cannot risk to lose everything I have worked for because of that. Yet even if somehow I turn them in, there is no doubt they would tell the courts I was involved from the beginning - and who do you think the courts are going to believe? The only way I do not lose is to stay quiet. Even then, nothing is permanent."
Well. At least from where Castle was sitting, suddenly the 'running from arrest' thing was a wee bit more understandable.
Esposito hung his head and shook it exhaustedly, but he hadn't begun to know exhaustion. He wouldn't really know until the answer arrived to Beckett's next question.
"Mr. Vidal," she began measuredly. "These investors. I need names. Who are they."
It was only then that the bags under the darkened man's coal eyes were noticeable, even under the fluorescent lights. For once, his gravelly voice was a rasp, not a shout.
"No one could remember so many. There are hundreds."
.
.
.
"Hundreds?" Ryan looked sick already. As in, kind of green, and in a 'nothing-to-do-with-Ireland' way.
Beckett sighed as she passed out folders from the armful she'd carried, all obtained via search warrant, all containing the names and information of Spencer & Rourke's finest fans - most of whom could get into a fully-packed five-star restaurant on surname alone. "Yep. According to our buddy Eduardo Vidal, none of them ever contact him directly. All the money that they donate goes straight to the store's account at the Federal Reserve Bank, and he only figured out that something shady had to be going on when the bank called: three separate donation checks to his store bounced in the same month. He talked his way out of it and the bank let it go - "
"Nothing like customer favor…"
" - but the checks were signed off on by the company and couldn't be traced to any specific person; only that they weren't using their own money, let's put it that way. When he wrote to the committee to tell them to back off, radio silence."
Castle picked up the story, everything they'd learned from the end of the interview. "Good Ol' Eduardo cried odd duck at the last board meeting, and was more or less told it was impossible…and to basically sweep it under the rug or kiss his job goodbye. Which…got passed down to Ayumi."
"Sounds like she shoulda kissed more than her job goodbye," Esposito pointed out.
"We don't know who or how many were sending the bad checks, but if any of them knew, it'd only have taken one to kill Walker for poking around in the wrong affairs," Beckett concluded, taking a sizable stack for herself after delegating the rest among the boys, Castle excluded. "So, we run background on all of them. Something's bound to turn up. If they've got a history of violence, flag 'em and tag 'em."
Ryan looked over the 'Q through Z' folder he'd been handed, and needless to say, still wasn't looking particularly thrilled. "I'm guessing Vidal had an alibi for the murder, then," he pitched, somewhere between bitter and dryly amused at the irony.
"Brick-wall solid," Beckett admitted. She, too, hated Square One.
.
.
.
Half an hour after tiredly returning through the door of his apartment, Rick Castle was doing something his tax guy usually had to bribe him with write-offs to do. He was staring at his open financial dossier, held aloft above his face by two elbow-locked arms as he lay face-up on the sofa.
At least, until he was snuck up on.
"Being sued at last?"
"Jeez!" He was a good three inches away from the open book falling onto his face, avoided by a last-minute save, thank you very much. Rick swung his legs over and sat up, casting a quick little glare up at the intruder. "You know, you're awfully ninja-like for a woman who usually announces to the world when she enters a room."
"I know," Martha breezed, but then she nodded at the dossier, making it clear she was getting her question answered, or at least placated for the time being.
Rick sighed. "No - it's not me being sued, or rather nobody's being sued at all…it's just…how do you get away with donating hundreds of thousands of dollars of embezzled money to the struggling outlet of a major corporation?"
"Don't ask me, darling, I've never tried."
"I know that, it's just…look." Castle picked up the leather-bound ledger and tapped the middle of the right-hand page. "When I do my banking, I have to sign every check. It says it right here, there's the record."
"Well, you are mortal…"
"But the checks the company was receiving weren't signed, they were stamped. By the president of the company. And yet no company president, sleazy or not, would take the risk of bringing down the whole chain of stores just to save one; he'd probably rather put a '45 in his mouth."
"Mm, just like in that awful movie with…" Martha swirled her wine a bit in its decanter. "Oh, what's his name, I can't remember."
"So I'm thinking…whoever stamped those checks, it obviously wasn't the guy who's supposed to be stamping the checks. It was a forgery. From somebody who didn't know the checks were about to fall through…and from somebody who's protecting themselves or somebody else. Somebody with a really good reason to want the store to stay open…" It was about there that Castle's newly-ignited theory candle ran out of wax. He looked up at his mother, puzzling over the final blanks.
"Don't look at me, kiddo," was all she said. "You're the author."
And on a shopping question of all things. He knew he should have asked her before drinks.
.
.
.
"So…here's what I think. Ready?"
"No."
"Beckett…"
"Castle…"
"You'll like it. I swear. Or…well. You'll…something, anyway. Point is, it's not a crazy theory, I'm serious."
If anyone were to ask Beckett at right about this moment, she'd have said that the elevator ride from the doors of the O.C.M.E. to Lanie's underground floor was way, way too long. Still, crossing her arms, she exhaled, "Fine. What do you think - no no: how would you write it?"
"Well." Castle was silent for a few beats, building up the suspense, and then: "Our killer has six personalities."
Her head flicked over to stare at him. "And you don't call that a crazy theory."
"Think about it. This is a person who's smart enough to forge the company president's seal of approval, but dumb enough to send un-secured stolen cash. He's - "
"Or she's - "
"He or she is smart enough to make sure they can't be traced for financial fraud, but then goes and commits murder."
"Possibly commits murder. It could still be an unrelated crime."
"Yes, but you and I both know that the likelihood of that is lower than Cher ever having a hit again."
"Besides, that's only four personalities. What're the other two?"
"Oh: I thought it was obvious. Jekyll and Hyde."
She couldn't decide between smirking and rolling her eyes yet again, so Beckett didn't: instead she walked out of the open elevator and pushed through the double-doors to Lanie's autopsy room, this time making sure Castle was following, as if she had to. You never knew when he'd start touching things around here.
"Well well well, look who's early," Lanie noted. For someone who'd called twenty minutes ago to say she had the basic autopsy results, she was oddly engrossed in all things stitch and scalpel.
"Interrupting?"
"Honey, please. I ask for interruption down here."
"She has a point," Castle agreed.
"Well, at this point we've got a few hundred suspects and no other leads, so anything you've got, bring it on, I could use it about now." Beckett came around the table to stand near Lanie, looking down on the body, as if whatever she heard could be applied toward a conclusion that much quicker with a visual aid.
"When you put it like that." The M.E. took the hint and got down to business. "Cause of death was that crack to the head, like I thought, and there was nothing funky going on with any of her tests, etcetera etcetera… But. Those bruises on her arms and torso?"
"Yeah?"
"Well, to the untrained eye, with the way the bruises bloomed, they look like your average abrasions. But, once you get 'em under the microscope…" To demonstrate, Lanie swiveled the lens around on its mechanical arm, eyes going from the detective to it and back again, smiling slightly at her find. "How would you describe that shape?"
"Kind of…oblong?"
"Exactly. If I were you I'd drop that theory about your abuser and your killer bein' two different people. My year's salary says these marks were made by the same weapon that left that nasty C.O.D. wound on her head."
She was right. It was unmistakable. "So before he got even, he gave her a beating she'd never forget," Beckett murmured, eyes lingering on the body for a few more moments.
"Yep. I've got one more routine checkup and a fingerprint sweep to run, but that's the jist of it."
Straightening up, Kate sent a light smile toward the doctor as she turned to go. "Thanks Lanie."
"Yep, anytime."
Castle exchanged a friendly wave with the good doctor as he went to follow…but, by the time the detective reached the door, she paused, turning halfway back around, a curious look passing across her face. Therefore he came within about six inches of plowing into her: luckily nobody noticed his recovery.
"…Hey, Lanie?"
The M.E. looked up, almost looking sort of surprised that they weren't gone yet. "What's up?"
Beckett pointed left, toward the supply closet. "…Did I hear…? Is…" You know what, she wasn't sure if she wanted to know. Or if she was just going crazy. "Nevermind."
Lanie shrugged. "Suit yourself."
One slightly puzzled nod, and Beckett swung through the doors, ignoring Castle's 'what did I miss?' look with practiced skill.
.
.
.
"Castle? Big Ricky Castle? Get out! How goes life?"
A grin spread easily over the author's face, and he gladly allowed himself to be pulled into the hearty handshake he was offered, afterward taking a good look at the fellow who'd started it. "Fletch! Good to see you buddy. It goes well…" Then he caught Beckett's eye, of course, and cleared his throat, making a small amendment. "Well. Not for…an…unfortunate…" Better to let that sentence combust and turn it over to the introductions. "Fletch, this is Detective Kate Beckett. We're investigating a homicide. Beckett, this is - "
"Hayden Fletcher," Kate supplied, giving 'Fletch' and only 'Fletch' a hint of a knowing smirk. The kind that might or might not have defined exactly how much Beckett knew about him already. She extended her hand for a shake, directly professional.
The first order of business, on her watch at least, was to pay a visit here: to the upscale, high-rise office of the Chairman of the Donations Board - a title that was about as official as anything you'd find on Knockoff Alley, by the way, given that the board was volunteer-based. Still, organization was paramount, and among that protected little society, if any of them held answers, it would be this man here. The one with two glass walls and enough framed certificates to tile a floor.
She received only a nod for it. "Detective," Fletcher greeted, appropriately going a bit more somber as he shook her hand. Though he couldn't resist one last joke for the afternoon: "It's hard to believe anyone's allowing Castle here to be part of an investigation."
"I'm investigating; he's…assisting," Beckett corrected.
"Well. Either way." The young mogul motioned behind him to the lucite desk and the two art-deco chairs perched in front of it. "Please, anything I can do to help."
"Thank you." Kate gave Fletcher a head start, motioning for Castle to wait back with her. She whispered: "I shouldn't be surprised at this point, but: you two know each other?"
"Indirectly. Like you know your eighth maternal cousin twice removed by marriage," he whispered back. "Actually we run in a few of the same 'society' circles; it's more an…acquaintanceship by reputation."
"Huh. Bully for you." The detective dropped her last bit of sarcasm behind her and completed her walk toward the chairs, pulling one out for herself before Shadow Boy could get any chivalrous ideas. "Mr. Fletcher, as the organizer of Spencer & Rourke's donation committee - "
"And a…'V.I.P. customer,' let's not forget," Hayden flashed, along with a must-have-been brilliant smile.
" - I assume you must have heard that one of the sales associates at your 'preferred location' was murdered two days ago?" Clearly, Beckett wasn't going to be charmed. Amazing that some people still had to be told that.
"…Yes. Yes, I did…horrible, that. Unfortunately I've heard about everything by now."
"Everything? Can you define 'everything' for me?"
"Well, the murder! I never encountered Ayumi personally, but, when I saw the police blotter in the news I just…it's something you never want to think could happen so close to your life, you know?"
Did she ever. "Were you also aware that at least three checks in the past month from your committee to that location were voided as fraudulent?"
Hearing that, the late-twentysomething's hazel eyes expanded. "What? But…but, that's impossible. All of our members undergo a validity check before we okay their money. We only assemble to give back - how could…?"
"It doesn't matter how, Mr. Fletcher, the only thing that matters right now is why."
"We think it's the phony good Samaritan who caught on to Ayumi's distaste for liars and decided she knew too much," Castle chipped in.
Absorbing this new information carefully, Hayden Fletcher leaned back to the extent his leather desk chair would allow, steepling his fingers thoughtfully, studying both his guests with a controlled gaze. "I'll assist in whatever way I can, Detective, but…I've never had reason to doubt my fellow investors, until now," he finally aired. "If you're looking for a murderer…" Spreading his hands plaintively, he plainly summed up, "I wouldn't know."
Beckett made a decision then. That was all she needed to hear to know differently.
.
.
.
"We know Fletcher knows more than he's saying about the checks, but we can't try to pin the murder on him, not yet."
It was the morning of the third day on this case, and, even after taking the past seven hours off to go home, catch a few winks and freshen up - under orders of course - it still frustrated Beckett that the answer hadn't hit her yet. It was hiding. And she hated when they did that.
Capitan Montgomery knew all of the above without even having to confirm. "He's not cooperating?"
"Oh, he's cooperating, all right; he's just more tight-lipped than some."
"And he's got an alibi."
"On the to-be-checked list as we speak."
Roy remembered too well what hitting a wall was like. Still did. So, he merely instructed her to "Keep at that list," and then, instead of picking at it any further, he nodded instead toward the alcove across the bullpen. A frail-looking woman in her mid-fifties was waiting pensively on the couch. "While you were out, vic's family finally made contact. Keiko Walker. Mother."
"Has she been…?"
"Here long? No. Maybe twenty minutes." The captain laid a brief reassuring hand on Beckett's shoulder before he took his leave. "Good luck Detective."
Not five seconds after he was gone did a voice come from behind her. "Well. It's not going to be a cake walk…get it? Cake walk, Keiko Walker…?"
Beckett let her shut eyes roll back to her brain, clenching her jaw just to avoid bodily harm - causing, not receiving - and pivoted around on her heel, a 'look' ready and waiting. "Seriously. Wow, Castle."
Having just regained his breath from jogging from the elevator, the writer beamed like a child, oblivious to scorn. "I know, right?
"How long were you waiting with that one?"
"About a minute."
.
.
Phew. Okay: for the record, I'm not nearly as fluent in Spanish as I'd like to be, and I've never operated a major (and majorly indebted) department store, so I'd appreciate any indiscretions forgiven. I'm trying to make this as twisty and as accurate as possible - you should see how many Google Maps tabs I've saved with NY locations XD - so I'm hoping it's coming along nicely for all of you as well.
Like I said in the previous chapter and will continue to say, if there's anyone (ages 14 and over) interested in joining a Castle roleplaying forum, check out the bolded paragraph in my profile. Thank you.
And as always, reviews absolutely make my day! I love knowing what you guys think so far and which parts you like best, so THANK YOU to those who have and please, don't stop now; click the button! ^^
The next chapter's in progress: in the meantime, 'commercial break.' ;D
.