Disclaimer: I'm not creative enough to have characters of my own that are anything like them.
A/N: I know it's kinda long… But I hope it doesn't drag.
For what it's worth, it was worth all the while
"He's not responding, Sir." reported the taller man, standing in the door frame.
He stood a little below six feet. His already mostly gray hair, which he kept short, and the lines on his face indicated that he was well on his way to fifty, maybe beyond. Despite that, he had an athletic figure, which at the moment, was hidden under his gray suit.
The man he'd been talking to stood at the window, looking out on the beach and the sea beyond. In the midday sun, the view was magnificent.
He was almost a half foot shorter than his employee, and visibly older, too. Still, he took great pride in staying physically fit, thus there was not the slightest hint of a paunch under his white shirt.
"Then we'll have to assume he's failed, Charles" he replied. "In which case, we're sure to have some visitors in a couple of hours. Twelve years I've been waiting for this to happen. When I learned that she was training to become a cop, I knew it would come down to this. Somehow, I knew… Only the old fool Montgomery and his knowledge prevented me from taking… preemptive measures. Even dying didn't put a stop to him."
Garving turned away from the window and walked to his desk, pouring himself a drink from the lone bottle of whiskey that stood in one of the corners. He took a sip, savoring the alcohol's taste.
"Should I call for the helicopter?" asked Charles.
Garving grunted. "No need. Running's not gonna end this." He paused. "Call Vasil. Headstrong that she is, she's never cared much for her own life. But she's made the mistake of caring about the lives of others… people who are a lot more vulnerable than she is, and even more so right now."
A slight smirk appeared on Charles' lips. "So where should I send him?"
"I hear the writer has a beautiful young daughter… And you know how Vasil likes his prey."
"What about Beckett? Shouldn't we kill her, too?"
"That wouldn't change much, I'm afraid. The others would carry on. Especially now that they know who I am. Besides, there's still Montgomery's old friend with his stalemate scheme. He might bring me down if I killed her."
"As you wish, Sir." Charles tilted his head, turning to leave.
As Charles walked out, Garving drained the last drops of liquid from his glass, then put it down and walked around the desk. Sitting down in his large leather-covered desk chair, he opened a drawer and checked his trusty old Beretta. Pulling back the slide, he relished the sounds of the well-oiled metal parts working together just as they were supposed to. The slide snapped back into position as he released it, pulling a round from the cartridge into the chamber.
Smiling to himself, he flipped off the safety and placed the handgun on the desk, behind the small filing box, so that it was invisible to anyone who came through the door. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair and waited.
…
Castle was in his kitchen, freshly showered and dressed, helping himself to a large cup of coffee before he would head back to the precinct, when his phone rang. He set the coffee pot aside and picked up the device, anticipation flaring up when he saw Beckett's image on the screen.
"What is it, Kate?" he said by way of greeting.
"Listen, Castle," she replied, "tech pulled a number and prints from the phone. The prints match Preston's, so it's definitely his phone. Now the number," she paused, as if to gather herself. "It belongs to a Mr. Rufus Garving, or rather his beach house in the Hamptons. I'll be by your place in ten, we'll talk on the ride there."
"Wait," he said, "please tell me we're doing this right. With backup, and an arrest warrant."
"Since when do you care so much about protocol?" she asked, sounding a little amused.
"It's not about protocol," he shot back, "it's about making sure that we get out of there alive. Preferably without that guy getting away because of some protocol violation."
"Sorry," she said. "I couldn't get hold of a judge, so we'll have to do this without the warrant. But Ryan's in the car with me, and we have a whole tactical team riding out there now." A beat of silence passed before she added, "I'm not going to take chances, Castle."
"Good," was the only reply he could think of. "I'll be outside, then."
"See you," she said, then hung up.
Slipping the phone into his jeans pocket, he cast a longing gaze at the coffee he'd just poured. He took a sip from the still hot beverage, then opened a cupboard and took out three metal travel mugs, distributing the remaining contents of the pot among them. After taking another sip from the cup he'd be leaving, he grabbed the three mugs and headed for the door.
"Rick?"
Castle turned to see Mansfield, leaning against the study's door frame, looking at him.
"Where're you headed to?"
"We've a lead on another suspect," Castle replied, "We're going to take him in."
"With backup," Mansfield said, a statement, not a question. "How dangerous do you think it'll be?"
Castle shrugged self-consciously. "I hope not too much so."
He set the mugs down on the small side table before he put on his shoes and coat.
"Look," he said, "it's a long story, but I've got to be there."
Mansfield nodded. "Your call, Rick. Just be careful." He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I don't have to remind you of that one time where you–"
"No, you don't," Castle said over him. "And I will."
He opened the door and picked up the mugs. "See you later."
Shutting the door behind him, he let out a low sigh. At least it hadn't been Alexis who'd caught him leaving. He wasn't sure if he'd been able to brush off her questions as easily as he'd just done with Mansfield's. Because he knew that 'dangerous' was a euphemistic description for what he–they–were going to walk into.
…
"Not that I'm complaining about having proper backup," Castle said as he slipped into the back seat of Beckett's cruiser, "but what happened to 'keeping this under wraps'?"
Looking in the rear-view mirror as she eased the car back into the mid-day traffic, Beckett answered, "Attack on the precinct."
Castle's eyes widened. "What?"
"Someone dressed in a police uniform entered the building and tried to take Preston's phone," she explained. "He took Ryan hostage, and shot one of the uniforms."
"Oh God," Castle groaned. "But you're fine," he said to Ryan, "so that means… you stopped him."
"Gates put a round in his head," said Ryan.
"Is that… good?" Castle asked.
"Well, at least he won't cause any more trouble," said Beckett. "But on the other hand, he can't tell us anything… Who he is, if he was working for anyone. Might be better that way, though."
He understood. That he'd tried to steal the phone strongly suggested that he'd been working for the dragon, and that could mean that he'd known about Montgomery, like Lockwood had. That the man was dead mean he wouldn't be able to spill the secret. Still, if they happened to catch the man who was behind this, Rufus Garving, he reminded himself, alive, then they might not be able to stop him from uncovering the late captain's dark past.
He wondered if Beckett planned to bring him in in cuffs or in a body bag.
"Who– who was shot?" he asked.
"Officer Hughes," replied Ryan, grimacing as though the memory caused him physical pain.
Despite not being a cop, Castle knew all the officers who worked in homicide; surprisingly many of them were fans of his books. It was actually only surprising for the ones who'd been fans before Nikki Heat – he suspected that some had only started reading them since he'd become Beckett's partner. He'd signed a whole stack of books for a variety of officers, too. As was his habit when he was at a signing, he chatted with the everyone he signed a book for, and thus he'd come to know odd bits and pieces about most of the regular occupants of the homicide floor.
He tried to remember what he knew about Hughes. His first impression was that he was a loner, quiet, doing his work with a lot of dedication, but rather staying for himself. When he'd come to Castle, asking if the writer could maybe sign his copy of "Hell Hath No Fury", Castle had been surprised, but taken the chance to pry a few things from the young officer. Hughes had a girlfriend, a college student who was working on her master's degree. Script writing, if he recalled correctly. He'd never met her, and he hoped that the first time wouldn't be at her boyfriend's funeral.
The fact that Beckett had said "shot" and not "killed" let him hope.
"How's his status?"
"I guess he's still in surgery," said Ryan. "No news is good news, I think."
Castle sank back into the seat. After a moment, he remembered the travel mugs that he still held in his hands, and offered two of them to Beckett and Ryan. His eyes might have tricked him, but he thought he could see small smiles on each of their faces.
The remainder of the ride out to Long Island passed in silence. Castle hadn't asked where exactly in the Hamptons the house was, but by the length of the ride and the scenery that passed outside of the car, he wouldn't have been surprised if it had been at the furthest end of the island.
A little before that, though, Beckett took a turn off of the highway and onto a smaller road. After another couple of minutes she stopped the car in the cover of a set of big bushes. It was already getting dark outside, since the ride had taken probably three hours. She motioned for the two men to get out and walked around the car to the trunk. She opened it and grabbed their bulletproof vests, tossing one to each of the men. They draped their coats over the trunk before strapping the vests on, then pulled the coats on again, covering the vests, except for the slight bulge created by the protective gear.
Both cops checked their weapons, making sure they were well reachable, before the three set off to walk to the house.
The bushes extended up until the gate that lead onto the property, growing over the large metal construction and along the driveway as far as one could see from the outside. Just before the gate, they were greeted by a police officer in full tactical gear, dark vest, helmet, gloves and knee and elbow pads. An automatic rifle was slung across his back, a pistol strapped to his right thigh.
"Detective Beckett?"
"That's me," Beckett answered, extending her hand.
"Lieutenant McDuff," the man replied, shaking the proffered hand. "I have my boys spread out around the premises, but so far everything looks quiet."
"Have you seen anyone in there?" asked Ryan.
"There's at least two people inside. Moving shadows in one of the upstairs windows, but you can't see them from here. But for all we know there could be a dozen just lying around and waiting. May I ask what this is about, Detective?"
Beckett hesitated. She didn't want to say too much, but the lieutenant deserved to know, since he and his men might be putting their lives at risk in this operation.
"The man who owns this house is strongly suspected to have hired a professional killer to murder a man. Upon his arrest, that killer injured a colleague of ours." She paused, letting the words sink in before she continued with the even less encouraging information. "I'm certain that he did it, but we don't have substantial proof for an arrest warrant. So officially this is not going to be a suspect take-down, but just a friendly interview. Which is why I would like you and your men to stay out here, to act as backup if anything goes south in there. Alright?"
The lieutenant nodded. "Guess we can make that work. You have radio?"
"Not yet," said Beckett.
McDuff pulled a small box radio from one of his many utility pockets and handed it to her.
"Take my backup," he said, "set it to permanent transmit and put it into your pocket. That way we'll know instantly if you need help."
"Thanks," she replied, handing the device off to Ryan, who pressed the required buttons, then stashed it into one of the pockets of his vest.
Then he went a little ways away from the group, to test the transmission quality. When McDuff gave him a thumbs up, he returned.
"Can you get in through the gate?" asked Castle, eyeing the sturdy looking metal bars.
"It just has a lock," replied the lieutenant, "and that we can blow up."
Satisfied by the short exchange and their preparation, Beckett walked over to the intercom set into a steel panel on the far side of the gate. She rang the bell, and only moments later static crackled in the speaker, followed by a male voice.
"Yes?"
Beckett swallowed. Here goes nothing. "This is Detective Beckett, NYPD. I would like to speak with Mr. Garving, please."
Silence.
"On what matter?" asked the voice.
"Are you Rufus Garving?" she returned.
"No."
"I would like to discuss the matter with him personally," she replied.
Another silence, longer this time.
"Please come in," the voice said, terminating the connection with a clicking sound. A motor began to whir somewhere, and half of the gate swung inward.
"Let's go," Beckett said. She trudged through the gate, Ryan and Castle following closely.
…
Vasil peered through the scope of his rifle, which was trained on a set of windows on the top floor of an apartment building. He grumbled. The loft's inhabitants had drawn all the curtains carefully closed, and they appeared to be made of a very thick and dark material, since almost no light penetrated through them. There were no shadows either, so Vasil had no clue how many people, if any, were inside.
After five more minutes of fruitless spying, he left his perch on the roof of the building that was located across the street from his target, disassembling and packing up his rifle before he rode the elevator down and walked to his car, which he'd parked one street away. He placed the rifle case on the back seat before he ran through his options.
The apartment had three permanent residents, the writer, his mother and his daughter. Odd arrangement, he thought absently. That didn't much matter to him, though. None of the three would be a match for him. The one question left was how to get into the building, or past the doorman, to be precise, without arousing any suspicion. He could, of course, kill the doorman. One more body wouldn't be an existential problem, though it might give things away if anyone entered the building before he made it out again. Plus, Vasil preferred to keep his jobs isolated. Randomly killing people who were in the way was not his style, and he only did it when he had no other choice. That hadn't happened often.
He opened the glove compartment and fished out a simple mobile phone. He hadn't really had time to conduct research on his target, but he'd made enough to copy the apartment's phone number into his phone's contact book. It never hurt to be prepared. Grudgingly he pressed the call button, holding the phone to his ear. There was a click, then a young girl's voice came through the line.
"Hello, this is Alexis Castle speaking."
So she was home. Good. "Uh, Castle, you said?" he responded with a strong Russian accent. "Sorry, wrong number."
He ended the call. So at least the girl was home, which meant that he would be able to carry out his assignment. He stowed the phone back in the glove compartment, then turned around and fetched another bag from the back seat. From it, he pulled a simple rain jacket with the logo of one of the many small messenger service firms printed on the back, and a baseball cap with the same logo.
The last item remaining in the bag was a stuffed manila envelope, the kind that could contain anything from papers to a pound or two of explosives. This one was harmless, though, containing parts of a newspaper, only serving as a dummy package. He disliked explosives anyway. They were messy and volatile.
Vasil preferred knives. Small, easy to hide blades that were just as deadly but more precise. Sure, they required him to get close up to his target, but that way he could be sure that they were really dead. Shooting someone from a distance always held the risk of missing, and blowing them up was just imprecise. Sometimes he did resort to guns, but only when left with no other option.
To him, there was nothing better than a quick, clean cut.
He exchanged his black coat for the messenger jacket, put the cap on his head and, after closing the bag, slung it across his back, fastening the strap over his chest. With practiced motions he made sure that his knives were all in position before he opened the door.
The street was deserted as he got out and rounded his car, producing a folding bike from the trunk. He rode it down the street to his target, where he chained it to a lamp post, then jogged up the steps leading to the door. It was locked, but before he could search for the bell, the doorman came over. Vasil stood back as the door was opened.
"Can I help you?" the doorman, who certainly was at least fifty years old and carried around a belly that Vasil guessed was the product of a sitting job and a penchant for food, asked.
"Delivery for Castle," Vasil said, not a hint of his earlier Russian accent left in his voice. The years he'd spent cultivating the New York accent had served him well on multiple occasions.
"Mr. Castle is out," the doorman informed him.
"It's for Ms." He made a show of pulling a piece of paper from the breast pocket of his jacket, glancing at it as if checking the name. "Alexis Castle, actually," Vasil replied.
If the doorman was in any way puzzled that a teenager would get messenger deliveries, he didn't show it. Instead, he said, "Please wait a moment," before closing the door and walking to his desk. When he returned, he said, "I can sign for it, and bring it up to her."
This is taking too much time. "Sorry, she has to sign for it personally," Vasil insisted.
The doorman sighed, then stood back and opened the door fully.
Vasil gave him a nod and a "thank you" as he walked in and headed for the elevator.
Up in the loft, Jake Mansfield stood by the door, every muscle in his body tense. His instincts told him that the situation was bad, or at least it was going to be. The caller, who had claimed to have dialed the wrong number, was one thing, and on its own maybe even a credible coincidence. But that now, hardly five minutes later, there was a messenger with a delivery for Alexis, who had told him that she'd never gotten anything by messenger, smelled of danger. To hell with smell, it stinks.
This was exactly the sort of thing that Rick had hired him for. He'd sent Alexis and Martha upstairs, with orders to lock themselves in the bathroom and call the police if anything happened downstairs. Of all the doors on the second floor, he'd found that one to be the sturdiest, and it opened into the hall, so kicking it down wouldn't really work.
He absently checked his gun again, then decided to remove the shoulder holster and instead keep the weapon tucked into his pants at the small of his back. Out of sight from a potential attacker, and still readily available.
When the bell chimed, he took a look through the peep hole. Outside stood a man in jeans, a rain jacket that looked far too thin for early January temperatures and a baseball cap that partially hid his face. A bag was strapped to his back, and in his hands he held a simple manila folder and a clipboard with a form.
Curling the fingers of his right hand around the grip of his gun, he first flipped the lock and then opened the door with his left hand, as far as the chain would allow. He looked through the crack and down at the messenger.
"Can I help you?"
The man looked up at Mansfield, and for a fleeting moment his face showed surprise. Then he regained control of his features, his expression going completely blank.
"A delivery for Alexis Castle," he said. "Personally."
Fat chance, Mansfield thought. The man obviously hadn't expected to see him here, and although he looked just like an average messenger, something about him felt wrong. Mansfield took another, longer look at him. The jacket really looked too thin to be able to contain any heat in this weather. The jeans were clean. His face was… Hang on. The jeans… they're too clean, he realized. At least for a bike messenger who was riding around the city all day. A guy like that was bound to get dirt on his pants, and his shoes no less. As he thought about it, he noticed that there was just a single bead of sweat on the man's forehead, which had formed just about now. Nervous.
As if on cue, he cleared his throat. "Look, could you just get her, please? I have more deliveries to make."
Mansfield hesitated a moment, then an idea formed in his mind. "Of course," he replied. "Just a minute."
He closed the door, making sure to lock it again, then took the stairs up two at a time. He knocked on Alexis' door, entering after she called him in.
"I need your help," he began, silently praying that Rick wouldn't kill him when he learned of this.
Vasil felt the perspiration building under his cap. He wasn't sure if it was from the building's heating or a growing nervousness. Then again, he was a professional, he wasn't supposed to get nervous. Still, this man wasn't supposed to be there. Who was he, anyway? And why was he getting the door, acting all protective? The only conclusion that came to him, as he waited in the hall, was that the man was some kind of guard, watching over the writer's family. A plainclothes cop, maybe, or perhaps a private bodyguard. It was the only thing that made sense to him at the moment.
For a moment, after the realization had come to him, he thought of aborting the job. After all, he had not been hired to take on a trained fighter, who might well be armed. But then he thought of how he had successfully handled unexpected complications in the past. There'd been some nasty ones, but he'd lived through them all. So far.
The man, whoever he was, was the only obstacle standing between him and his target. All he needed to do was overpower him. Granted, the man was a lot bigger than him, but even the biggest man could only do so much with a knife between his ribs. Vasil had noticed that he'd kept the chain on the door, but he was confident that he could kick it down with one or two attempts.
Shifting the load in his arms, he reached into his left sleeve and pulled out a long, slender knife, hiding it under the envelope.
Mansfield stood with his hand on the door handle, Alexis a few meters behind, just so that she would be visible through the cracked open door. He peered through the peep hole, seeing the man where he had left him, waiting patiently.
If the man indeed had a different objective than delivering a package, he didn't seem deterred by Mansfield's presence. At least not enough to not go through with his job, whatever it was. He was aware of the possibility that the package could be rigged with explosives, but somehow he doubted that. In that case, he wouldn't have needed the whole business with Alexis having to sign personally. Except, maybe, to make sure that she really was there. But then there had been the strange phone call.
He didn't know what to expect here. All he knew was his gut was telling him he'd better be careful. Really careful. He gave Alexis an encouraging nod, then opened the door, leaving the chain in place.
"Can we hurry up, please?" the messenger inquired, shooting him an annoyed look.
"She's here now," he told the messenger, "if you hand me the form, I'll pass it to her so she can sign it."
Clever, Vasil thought, not giving me a chance to get close to her. I wonder if he knows…
He turned the clipboard around and held it out for the man. He let his eyes wander to the girl, taking in her youthful form, almost smiling. Oh, he would have a little fun before he'd kill her. Just a bit… But his time window was closing. He needed to act soon.
Mansfield took the clipboard, turning away from the door to pass it on to Alexis. The girl took a step forward, her brows knitted in thought. She was just reaching out to accept the board when her eyes went wide, with what he presumed was recognition, and the raised hand flew to her face, covering her mouth.
A moment later he felt something pierce the skin of his right forearm, and he let out a small cry, as much surprised as hurt.
When the girl reacted, Vasil knew it was now or never. He didn't know what exactly she was reacting to, but the look on her face spoke of recognition. The chance that she recognized his voice, once with the Russian accent and over the phone, now with purely American sound, was slim, but he had to admit that it was there. So he had no choice but to push his luck, and use the man's distraction to his advantage. He let the envelope slip from his arm and brought the knife up, reaching through the door as far as he could, and stabbed it into the man's forearm, making sure to keep the blade as parallel to the bone as he could.
Reacting to Mansfield's outcry, he took a step back, retreating his arm, then threw himself at the door, putting his shoulder where the chain was connected to it. The chain rattled and he let out the breath he'd been holding, but the door was still intact. He repeated his motion, but as he jumped at the door again, it was slammed against him, painfully connecting with his shoulder, sending him flying at the opposite wall.
Mansfield had recovered from the initial shock of the stabbing and Vasil's attempt to knock down the door and had put his whole weight, guided mostly by his left arm, into pushing the door closed. The thud of a body connecting with the solid mass, was in this moment very satisfying.
"Upstairs, Alexis," he said as calmly as he could. "Call the cops. And an ambulance," he added, noticing that she was still staring at the knife in his arm. It was painful, alright, but he'd had worse.
As the girl hurried to comply, he briefly assessed his options. It was either locking the door and waiting for the police, or going out to fight. The first option had the appeal of not risking further injury, but on the other hand it would take time for the cops to get here, and by then his attacker could've made a run for it.
He guessed that his wound would be okay as long as the knife remained where it was and he avoided taking hits on that arm. With the gun, his chances weren't bad.
He drew the pistol with his left hand, wincing slightly as he rested his right on the door handle. He checked the hall before he opened the door, hesitating for a moment when he didn't see Vasil anywhere. But he'd made his choice. He removed the chain, then pushed the handle and slowly opened the door.
When the door was halfway open, Vasil pushed off of the wall next to the door and delivered a kick to the lock, pushing both the door and Mansfield back inside the loft. The big man stumbled back, which Vasil used to dart inside. He didn't hesitate and went straight for his opponent, planting a foot on the man's injured forearm as he drew a second knife from his other sleeve.
Mansfield growled in pain, but at least the adrenaline rush brought him back around. Watching Vasil produce the knife, he carefully shifted his weight more onto his right side, blocking out the pain in his arm.
His gun had fallen from his hand when he'd been knocked back, and now lay a few feet away from him. He tensed, waiting for his attacker to present him with an opening.
And it came, when Vasil leaned forward, knife raised to deliver the fatal blow. Mansfield lurched, swinging his left leg up, and caught Vasil in the side with his knee. The killer fell over and away from him. He rolled back the other way, pushing himself to his knees with the help of his left hand. Before Vasil could get back up, he'd found his gun and, still kneeling, leveled it at him.
"Freeze," he growled.
Vasil slowly rolled to his knees, careful not to move so rashly that he would provoke Mansfield. He was nonplussed. The guy's got a knife in his arm and a door in the head and he's still fighting? At the moment, though, there was nothing he could do about it. Unless he wanted to risk getting shot, which was not really high on his list.
"I said FREEZE!" Mansfield said, louder and just a notch more threatening. "And drop that knife."
Vasil complied, letting his weapon clatter to the floor. What else could he do? He'd just screwed up a job. Royally.
The police arrived only a few minutes later, taking Vasil into custody. A paramedic had come up alongside the officers and was looking at Mansfield's arm as they led the attacker out.
"Sir, by all means, I should be taking you to a hospital," the young woman insisted.
"Just patch me up," he said, "and I'll swing by the hospital tomorrow."
"No," she replied, "the stuff I've got here will keep that arm of yours closed for a couple of hours at most. Not enough to last until tomorrow."
"Look, that man came for her," he said, nodding his head to Alexis, who was slowly coming down the stairs. "And its my job to look after her."
"You can't do that with a knife in your arm," she stated evenly.
"Obviously. Which is why I'm asking you to take it out and patch me up."
She stared at him.
"Please?" he added.
She shook her head. "You stopped that guy, didn't you? Think there's another one coming?"
"No idea," he said, shrugging. "But I'm not gonna leave my post until I know there won't be one."
She huffed in exasperation. "Can't you call someone to take over for you?"
"Nope."
"This is ridiculous. You know you're not doing yourself a favor, right? Say another one comes, tomorrow maybe, and you can't use that arm at all. You think that's gonna do her any good?"
He was about to snap back at her when Alexis, having come over, gingerly touched his shoulder.
"You should go to a hospital," she said, her voice steady, not betraying that she'd witnessed how the knife had been stabbed into his arm. "I can come with you, and I'm sure if we explain, they'll let me stay in the room while they take care of your arm."
He wasn't sure if that was such a good idea, considering that a hospital was big and someone could easily hide in the crowd and get closer than he liked, but then he didn't really think there would be another killer trying to get to Alexis. At least not today.
"Alright," he said. "Does your gran–" He interrupted himself as he saw Martha on the stairs, nodding at him. He couldn't say for sure if her nod was just confirming his unspoken question or if there was something more in it. However, even at a distance her eyes seemed to glisten a little. "Have you called your dad?" he asked Alexis.
"No," she replied, "I'm going to–"
"Don't," he said quickly. "He said they were going to follow up a lead on another suspect in their case, so I don't think he'd appreciate being disturbed. And besides, apart from this," he lifted his right arm, "everything's peachy."
Alexis gave him an even look, not quite sharing his sarcastic attitude toward the situation.
…
Rufus Garving nursed another glass of whiskey–the third that day–as he heard the doorbell ring. Moments later the door was opened and a few words were exchanged before people stepped inside and the door was closed again. He put the glass down as the visitors began to climb the stairs, then stood and straightened himself.
Beckett was a little surprised at her even mood as she entered the house. Considering who the man probably was, she would have expected to feel more… agitated… and less detached. As it was, though, she almost felt like this was just another case, just another possible suspect to interview. Except that somewhere in the back of her mind she knew that it wasn't.
Ryan and Castle were right behind her as she entered the large and richly appointed room, fanning out to flank her as she stepped in front of the desk, for the first time laying eyes on the man who, according to the evidence and her gut feelings, was behind her mom's murder.
Once more, she was having a staring contest with a devil, but this one didn't blink.
This one grinned at her, spreading his arms as though he was greeting her jovially, like a host would greet a friend coming to his party.
"Detective Beckett," he said, "pleased to meet you."
"Rufus Garving, I presume?" she asked, not letting his open manner faze or distract her.
"That's right," he answered. "What can I do for New York's finest?"
"You could tell us what you know about Anthony Preston."
"I'm sorry, who?"
"Anthony Preston."
He made a show of scratching the back of his head. "Uh, I don't think I know anybody by that name."
"But he knows you," said Ryan, entering the conversation. "Your number is in his phone."
"Is that so?" Garving asked. "Well, you can look my number up in the phone directory. I suppose this man got it from there."
Ryan opened his mouth to respond, but Beckett talked over him. "Mr. Garving, Anthony Preston is a professional killer, and a suspect in the murder of a Mr. Karl Weston." She watched him closely, but the man facing her across the desk didn't give a single sign that he knew the victim.
"Weston, you say? No," he said, shrugging, "can't say I know that name, either."
"Someone infiltrated a police station today," she returned, "trying to get this phone. I don't suppose you know anything about that, either."
"Can't say I do," he said.
"A shame," she replied, "because that man now sits comfortably in a cell. He had a lot to say…"
Garving's pulse went up. They've arrested Cole? he thought. Damn. But he wouldn't talk. Cole would never sell me out to the police. Would he? He maintained his even expression, not letting his worry rise up to his face. But he could not prevent the single bead of sweat from forming at his hairline, from where it subsequently trailed down the side of his face.
It was confirmation enough for Beckett to know that she was on the right track. Though it wasn't exactly a blink, at least she'd made the devil sweat. And she kept at it.
"He told us, for example, that he's been doing quite some work for you. The kind of work that is illegal and involves weapons and living people being rendered to dead bodies."
"I already said that I don't know him," Garving replied, "so I don't know why he would tell you that." He added a little anger to his voice. "In fact, I think I am going to sue him. This is calumny. Maddox was his name, you said?"
Beckett favored him with a stare, which he returned. For a long moment, she searched his eyes, waiting for the spark of realization. When it didn't come, she allowed herself a small, mirthless smirk.
"I didn't say anything about his name, Mr. Garving. But thank you for confirming that you do know him."
Garving's expression was hard and still as a stone mask. Inside, though, he cursed himself. Idiot, he thought, now she's got you. Time to change tactics.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Detective," he said. "This won't be enough to convince the DA that I have anything to do with what you're trying to pin on me, and it sure as hell won't hold in court."
Beckett didn't say anything. She just kept staring at him, studying his face. She wondered if any of the lines on his face had been caused by the murders he'd ordered, or if he'd always been cold enough to just shrug it off as part of what he was doing. Strangely she felt even calmer than before entering his office. It was as if the more nervous he became, the calmer and more detached she was. She was now almost at the point where it felt like she was watching a stranger talking to him, cornering him. She remembered Montgomery telling her that animals were the most unpredictable when cornered. And that that was also when they made mistakes.
She subtly raised her hand a little, brushing against her gun under her coat.
She knew she'd raised the stakes high when she'd thrown the first bluff at him. But when he hadn't called her, she'd kept raising it, and now she wasn't going to be the one to back away from going all in.
"We have evidence, Mr. Garving. Evidence that ties you to Mr. Preston. And we have the confession of Mr. Maddox, incriminating you in several other murder cases."
"I'd like to see that," he responded, fighting to maintain his calm demeanor. "And I'm sure my lawyer would like to see that, too. I'm not going to say another word without his consultation."
When a suspect lawyers up, it can always mean two things. Either he is truly innocent and feels that he is being maneuvered into trouble by the police, and he sees that move as the only one left to him to assert his rights. Or he is guilty and tries to worm his way out of the spot that the police have caught him in, or at least tries to stall.
Over the years as a detective, Kate Beckett had developed an instinct for which of the two was the case when a suspect demanded to call his lawyer. Usually she felt annoyed by it, since lawyers hardly did any more than make her job difficult, but aside from that she had a sort of feeling if the suspect was actually guilty or not. Of course that feeling wasn't always right, but there had been enough cases to confirm her instincts. And right now, they screamed "Guilty."
"Fine by me," she said, "but pointless."
She paused, studying Garving's expression as she took a moment to reflect on the situation. This was the moment that the last thirteen years of her life had been leading up to, she was sure of that. She was facing the man who was responsible for her mother's and Roy's deaths, and so many more. His expression betrayed nothing, yet he had all but admitted to what she'd accused him of. And he'd made mistakes. If just the mention of having arrested Maddox–whose identity would have to be confirmed, of course–was enough to get him to squirm, then she'd just have to push him a little more to get him to make his last mistake.
She knew it was a lot of a risk, but she didn't see a better option. It would have been a lot easier if Lieutenant McDuff and his men hadn't been able to listen to the conversation over the radio, but the situation was as it was, and, on second thought, she actually wanted to have that connection, just in case. She would just have to be careful to steer clear of Montgomery's involvement in everything. It wasn't like Garving could really call her on that; not without incriminating himself.
"You think you're so clever," she said, lacing her voice with humor. "Never appearing in person, always sending someone else to do the interaction, and then killing them so they can't tell on you. I can't imagine how scared you must have been when my mom took up the Pulgatti case thirteen years ago. I guess at first you thought she wouldn't find anything, but when she started asking the right questions and found inconsistencies in the case, you got nervous. And when she was getting close to unraveling it, you had Dick Coonan kill her and her coworkers, knowing that Detectives Raglan and McCallister would help you make it look like random violence. Because you had them in your hand.
"Things were quiet for twelve years, but when Raglan called me you knew you couldn't let him talk, so you had Lockwood shoot him. Just bad luck for you that we caught Lockwood, wasn't it? But he was patient, and after a while he managed to get the job almost done. Killed McCallister in prison, and then you got him out so that he could finish it up. So that he could kill me. Only Roy Montgomery didn't let him. My friend sacrificed himself so that I could live. But you still sent someone after me, and he was almost successful."
She had to pause as memories of that night at the hangar invaded her mind. Seeing the sad determination in Montgomery's eyes, cradling his dead body, weeping over him. She remembered the somber mood at the funeral, his wife and children quietly sobbing. Sharing a look with Castle while she gave the eulogy, knowing that no matter what she'd told him the afternoon before, he would stand with her. Hearing him shout her name in the same instant as the bullet hit her. Lying in the grass as the blood spilled out of her in time with her weakening heartbeat, helplessly listening to Castle begging her to stay, telling her that he loved her.
She almost felt the pain in her chest again, but she knew that it wasn't real. She did her best to swallow it down, focusing on the room around her, on the man in front of her, not ten feet away.
During her short speech, Garving had become more and more aggravated. He tried not to show it, but he couldn't really help himself. He was a person who tried to dominate each and every aspect of his life. He put himself above the people he interacted with, naturally regarding them as inferior. He had been called arrogant a lot in the past, but in reality it was far more than arrogance. It was a need to be in control that was driving him. A need to assert his strength, his power, through any means necessary. When he was in control, he relished it. Making people do what he wanted, knowing they feared the consequences too much to resist. Or they just enjoyed their jobs too much to question him.
But when he felt the control of the situation slipping away from him, his self-control faded away, too. It was only thanks to his great experience and willpower that he did not allow Beckett to taunt him into making any more admissions she could use against him.
For so long he had tried to bury the evidence against him, killing everyone who came too close to him. Except for Roy Montgomery and Kate Beckett. Well, Montgomery was dead now, but his knowledge had protected him until about half a year ago. Until he had been foolish enough to stand up to Garving. And after that, it had protected Beckett.
Let them know what they want, he thought, but that protection doesn't extend to others.
"Congratulations, Detective," he said, channeling part of his anger into a chuckle. "It seems that you've built yourself quite a nice story there. It's logically sound, I'll give you that, except that it's got one flaw: you can't prove that it was me."
"Didn't you listen? We've got Maddox' confession."
Oh no, she doesn't. I never told him any of that, he thought. But what does it matter? He knows enough to bring me down without that. What I need now is time, so I can make sure that he won't talk again.
Out loud, he said, "Whatever lies that man told you won't prove anything."
Castle had been listening, staying back like Ryan, but now he couldn't keep quiet any more. "Even if you keep insisting that you don't know him, the jury isn't likely to believe you. They need a story, something that makes sense to them and stays true to the evidence. And I can tell you that everyone will buy this story."
That was what Garving had been waiting for. He couldn't address him directly, not without arousing suspicion, but now that Castle had inserted himself into the conversation, Garving had his chance.
"I don't think we've met, Mr… wait, Mr. Castle, isn't it? The writer. I've heard of your books. Supposedly quite good, though I'm afraid they're not my genre."
"Pity," Castle shot back.
"Yes," Garving said. "Do you have family, Mr. Castle? I myself don't have any, never quite had the chance…"
"I don't see that that's any of your business," Beckett cut in.
"Oh, wait, I think I recall something about a daughter…" Garving continued, unfazed by Beckett's interruption. "Yes, lovely young girl… How is she, Mr. Castle? I hope she's not home alone, you hear terrible things happening every day…"
The threat was so blatant that Castle couldn't prevent the blood draining from his face. He tried to swallow the sudden fear, but found that his throat was constricting. Reason had abandoned him altogether, giving way to the terror that his instincts instilled in him.
"Last time I checked, she wasn't," said Beckett. "Castle, why don't you call her?"
Truth be told, Garving's words had been like a kick to the gut, even though Alexis wasn't her daughter, and she felt nowhere as calm and controlled as she tried to appear. But she knew that Castle would be switching into panic mode if she didn't do something, so she forced herself to breathe evenly and channel her fear for his daughter into quiet rage at the man who, apparently, was toying with her life.
What helped her was the knowledge that Alexis really wasn't alone, that someone who she thought could be a capable fighter was there to look out for her. Someone who seemed to be loyal to Castle, which was just as important in this situation. Judging by the sound of her partner's rapid breathing, said knowledge seemed to have eluded him.
It took him a moment to register her words, then he fumbled in his pocket for his phone. But when he had it out, his hands were shaking so badly that he had trouble pressing the right buttons.
"Beckett," Ryan said quietly.
She turned around. Seeing Castle's problem, and knowing the reason for it, was like a shot of gas into the already crackling fire of her anger. She yanked the phone from his hand a little more forcefully than necessary and deftly navigated through his phone book to Alexis' entry and pressed the call button. Seeing that he was still shaking, she dismissed the thought of handing the phone to him and instead held it to her ear.
A surge of relief ran through her when the girl picked up only moments later.
"Dad?"
"Alexis," Beckett said. "It's Detective Beckett. Is everything alright?"
There was silence on the other end of the line. Beckett almost prompted the girl again, but Alexis beat her to it.
"Is–is my dad okay? Has something happened to him?"
"No, Alexis," she responded quickly. "I–I mean he's fine. Are you?"
She heard a sigh on the other end. "Thank you. And I'm fine, I guess…"
Beckett took a moment to show Castle a smile and give him an encouraging nod, although she sensed that there was something that Alexis wasn't telling her. She could only guess what it would do to Castle to hear her next words, but now she wanted to find out what there was, because Alexis did sound unusually troubled.
"What do you mean by 'I guess'?" she asked, trying hard not to sound too worried.
Another moment of silence. Absently, she noticed Castle tensing up at her question.
"I… something's happened, Detective Beckett." A pause.
"What happened, Alexis?" she inquired, speaking softly.
"There… there was a man. He said he had a package for me, and that I had to sign for it, but Mr. Mansfield wouldn't let him. So he tried to force his way in, and he and Mr. Mansfield fought and the man lost. I called the police and they arrested him, but he stabbed Mr. Mansfield in the arm, so now we're at the hospital, and the doctor's just looking at the arm–"
"Hey, Alexis," Beckett cut in, "take a breath, okay? You're not hurt, right? And Mr. Mansfield will be fine, too?"
"Yeah," Alexis replied, "yeah, I think so." She paused, and Beckett heard the sounds of a background conversation. "The doctor says it isn't too serious. A few weeks rest and he'll be good. They're going to do an X-ray just to be safe."
"Good," Beckett replied, "that's good. I think your dad wants to speak to you, now."
She held the phone out to Castle, who hurried to take it from her hand and press it to his ear. His tension ebbed away with every second that he stood there and listened to his daughter's voice, as his mind registered the fact that she was alright and unharmed. The shaking from the initial shock had already subsided while Beckett had been talking to her.
Leaving him to carry out a hushed conversation with Alexis, Beckett turned back to Garving. It might have been her imagination, but she thought that he looked a little afraid. As if his mask of calm and control had finally cracked and was about to crumble to pieces.
"Looks like your plan backfired," she said to him. "The killer you sent has been arrested, without killing anyone."
His right eye twitched once. "What plan? And what killer? I don't think I know what you're talking about."
"Oh, I think you will, sooner or later anyway. In time, he will talk. Do you really think that denying will get your neck out of this?"
No, not really, he thought. Sounds like the girl has a guard… Whatever. He bowed his head, placing his hands on the desktop to rest his weight on them. His control wasn't slipping any more; it was all but gone.
Thinking that he could control the situation, deny everything and make her go away empty-handed, he had allowed her in. He had been certain that she didn't know anything substantial enough to be dangerous; at least not on the legal way. That she wouldn't let go, now that she had a lead on him, had been just as certain, but with a little time and leeway, he would have dealt with her.
It was a calculated risk, he told himself, you couldn't have known that Cole would talk. Hell, you trusted him, and for good reason.
He had always refused to think of himself as a gambler. Gamblers take chances, they play with risk. The good ones simply are those who are lucky a couple more times than the others. He, on the other hand, calculated the risks, made plans for every likely event that he could think of before making a move. And he was good at it; the past twenty years had proved that.
But this time, he had failed. A couple of mistakes, and everything he had so carefully constructed was about to come undone. He had trusted others to fight his battles and they had failed him.
Charles was still there, somewhere in the house. He'd just have to call, and the man would stand in the door in a few seconds. Charles would fight for him, if he needed to, but considering the others' defeats, he was not in the mood to place his fate in the hands of yet another one of his employees.
He chuckled inwardly. A few minutes ago he might have been able to throw Beckett and her entourage out. Declare the conversation terminated. If she had a warrant, she'd have shown it already, so there would have been nothing that she could have done. But now that he had, accidentally, given her a little foothold, he seriously doubted that she would just go.
His right hand was only a few inches away from the gun he'd hidden earlier. He made a conscious effort not to glance at it and instead raised his eyes to meet Beckett's gaze. Seeing the determination radiating from her, he knew that this was it. She would not back down, and neither would he. He couldn't.
"Nice work, Detective," he said, chuckling despite himself. "Very nice work, indeed." His hand was now almost on the gun. "Too bad it'll all be for naught." His fingers were curling around the grip and he brought his arm up, aiming the gun at her.
He had always thought that he was fast, especially for his age, but apparently he had underestimated the two detectives. For a moment he had a clear aim at her, but then Ryan shouted for him to drop his gun, and he made the mistake to let that distract him for the split second she needed to get her gun out and point it at him.
Adrenaline rushed through his veins, widening his senses. He could hear their breathing almost as loud and clear as his own, noticed that Castle was staring at the scene from across the room, hand on its way to return his phone to his pocket.
Garving blinked once, an eternal second passing by. Then his lips curled into a mocking smile. At last, he realized, he wasn't following any carefully crafted plans. When it came down to it, he relied on a gamble. One that he probably wouldn't win. Another mistake on today's tally, he thought.
He felt the first bullet tear into his shoulder just as his finger curled around the trigger. Reflexes contracted his muscles and his gun went off, the shot flying harmlessly toward the far wall.
Another round struck him, but the pain didn't even register in his mind any more. Two more followed in quick succession and he fell backwards into his chair, arms hanging limply down the sides.
A/N: Review, please? And if you find the few "original" characters I put into there too shallow, maybe you have some tips how I can make better characters in the future? :)