The next day brings her an early morning yoga class, part of her Sunday ritual she is loath to forego even for the case, and it is small and peaceful as usual, allowing her to centre herself for the day and the week ahead. It has been a turbulent few days, both personally and professionally and the rituals and exercises are a way to lose herself to her limbs and physical senses, release the pressure and tension as she sweats and stretches till she leaves feeling renewed, the weight temporarily lifted from her shoulders, concerns muted for the time being.
She clocks in alone, giving the boys the day off. Gates is strict about use of police resources and bringing in detectives over the weekend, and she decided she alone is all that is required to chase down the mysterious JM.
She goes through Kruger's professional and personal contacts, sifting through old emails and records, the slow and methodical kind of police work Castle always professed to hate but in actuality was good at, could power through reams and reams of files looking for anomalies, looking for aberrances in a few hours or even overnight doing a better job than her or Espo or even Ryan (the best researcher amongst the three of them). Maybe it was his own internal editor's eye for reading or his mystery-author sense of consistency, but she'd spent more than a few pleasant hours poring over letters, files, bank records and what-have-yous with him. Even in the first case they'd worked together, when the mail had been the fan mail sent to him as they'd been brought together over the murder of Allison Tisdale, they'd worked the pile together, tracked down the red-herring suspect (as it turned out).
Her morning turns into lunch, but the search bears fruit of sorts. Jayanth Malinga was an intern for her at Washington a few years back, Jared Miller is an old college friend who pops up in a couple of friendly but innocuous emails and Jean-Alaine Mondreaux is a colleague from a 2-year stint spent in a consultancy in Paris. Chasing down pictures and matching them against the description from the sleazy barista narrows it down to Mondreaux or Miller, and likeliness makes it Miller.
She chases a hunch, and makes a quick phone call.
"Emma, its Kate Beckett. Detective Beckett. Hope, I'm not bothering you."
"Oh, hi Kate. How can I help you?"
"I was just saying down a couple of stray leads and a name popped up. Did your wife know someone called Jared Miller?"
A pause on the other end of the line tells her she might have scored a hit.
"Jared…was an old friend of hers. They even used to date, back in college. He worked in DC for a few years, in politics like her, and even came over to our house for dinner a few times. I never liked him. Charming but…fake, you know. Plus, well, I used to get jealous. Petty, I suppose."
"But he and Victoria stayed friends?"
"I guess she knew the old him. She knew I didn't like him, so I think they stayed in touch mostly by email and stuff."
"Thank you, Emma. I'll be in touch if I need anything else. Have a good Sunday."
A basic information search on Miller turns up little. Never married, splits his time between New York and DC, worked on campaigns on both sides of politics, on national, state and federal level. Once for Bracken, back in the day, though that could be coincidence. Castle always insisted there were never any coincidences in murder cases though, and more often than not she agreed with him.
The rest will have to wait for tomorrow though, including a possible interview with Miller himself, as she needs to get down to meet Castle for their…date? Appointment? Whatever it is. Turning up late would not be best idea in any case.
He's already there as she walks in, the navy blue of his open blazer contrasting well against the bright blue of his shirt, and even brighter blue of his eyes. He's sitting in a corner, a small square section of space devoid of other people. Hushed conversation from other booths is difficult to distinguish in any case.
"Hey Castle, getting started without me?"
"Never, Beckett." He smiles, that easy unconsciously sexy smile that makes her glow a little on the inside, before maybe remembering that they're at a state of détente and tamping it down again.
The waiter swings by before she has a repartee, and he orders a cappuccino. Not his usual. She orders an Earl Grey tea. Not hers either.
"I see our drink orders have changed. I picked up the cappuccino habit during a short stint in Melbourne at the end of my travels. What's your excuse?" He raises an eyebrow, and she squirms a little internally.
"I…don't like drinking coffee anymore."
"Oh? I remember you used to subsist on caffeine at one point. How long have you not been drinking coffee?"
She meets his eyes fully, letting the contact sit, spark between them, a tingle of electricity in the air.
"Three years."
A sharp intake of breath on his part as he processes that answer. She fidgets nervously with a lock of hair, toying with it with her fingers.
"I…that's not really playing fair." His smile is a little sad, a little careworn around the edges.
"I don't want to play fair." She wants to touch him. She wants to touch him so badly. She wants to feel the warmth of his skin against hers, that slight pleasant shock she always used to get at the contact, and then the slow burn of the heat that would build inside her if the contact lasted. She wants to feel it again, she hasn't felt it in three years, hasn't quite felt complete without it.
She must've been staring at his hand, or it was their old telepathic connection, He lifts his broad fingers, moves them towards her. She looks up at him, invitation in her gaze, daring in his. When the pads of his fingertips close on her arm, and stay there, not moving, something long dormant and locked inside her stirs.
"I remember you might've slapped that hand away once…" His voice is low and husky, scrambling parts of her brain.
"And there was a time when we knew each other's coffee orders off by heart. Things change."
She pushes one ankle forward, finding his foot, nudging against it. There is an edge to this sophomoric flirting, a darkness that colours it from the outside in. They never used to do this. Be this brazen. But she's sick of being the ice queen, and she'll bet a dollar for every criminal she's ever caught that he's not interested in defrosting one twice over.
They're interrupted by the arrival of their drinks, but she's determined not let an opportunity slip by her. Not again.
I've hit a patch of writer's block on the story. Trying to work past it, bear with me.
Leave a review, as always, with your thoughts.