"Now that's a coincidence," Rick said, watching Kate's face as she got together a file. "Admit it. We're talking about Canfield, and here he is, wanting to speak to you."

"It's not a coincidence. It's …"

"What?" He raised his eyebrows in query. "Luck?"

"I don't believe in luck."

His mouth opened in surprise. "That's so ... Last time we played poker you –" She held up a finger, daring him to continue, and he just smirked. "Then what do you call it?"

"Opportune."

"You're thinking like a writer."

"Don't be insulting."

"You write in your spare time."

"I don't have any spare time," Kate responded, then internally berated herself for being on the defensive.

"You should let me see it. It might be good."

She was saved from having to hit him, or maybe tweak his nose again, by Ryan coming back into the squad room.

"He's here," the detective said. "Interview one."

"Good." Kate drew herself up, her armour firmly buckled back on. "Let's see what he has to say, shall we?"

Rick followed her closely. "You know, if Amanda was killed a week ago, and Canfield's bass case was stolen a week ago –"

"Maybe it wasn't stolen at all," she finished, shaking her head. "I get it, okay? Now, can we stop wasting time?"

The smirk turned to smug. "See? You are thinking like me."

As they entered the interview room, Rick was limping slightly.

"Mr Canfield." Kate barely smiled as she sat down, feeling Rick take the seat next to her.

"Detective Beckett." Canfield's face was warm, open.

"What can I do for you?"

"It's more … what I can do for you." He looked apologetic. "I … have to confess something."

Rick leaned forward, eager to hear this man admit he'd planned the whole thing.

Kate suppressed the urge to give Castle one of her looks, or possibly just shoot him and get it over with, instead saying encouragingly, "Go on."

"I … didn't tell you the entire truth. But only because I didn't know I had to."

Rick was bemused. This was about the oddest confession he'd ever heard. "You didn't know?"

In response Canfield slid something from his pocket, unfolding it before laying it flat on the table. It was the newspaper article on Amanda Tyler, torn from the front page of the New York Times. "This," he said.

Rick tensed again.

"This is an ongoing investigation," Kate said slowly. "Are you involved?"

"I know her. Knew her, I suppose I should say."

Rick wanted so badly to turn to Kate and say I told you so, but he held his tongue.

"Can you be more specific?" Kate asked.

"I saw the photo in the paper this morning, and I … well, honestly I did wonder whether to call you, tell you they had the wrong information, but I decided I'd better come in person."

"The wrong information."

"Yes. The woman … well, the girl in the picture … her name's Michelle, not Amanda. I knew her."

"How, Mr Canfield?"

"Juilliard. She was a student, I did some teaching there last summer, and she came to a few of my lectures." He smiled sadly. "I heard her play. She was an excellent pianist, if a little lacking in passion. But she could have been one of the greats if she'd applied herself."

"And you dated?" Rick put in, his face for once almost expressionless.

Canfield almost laughed. "Oh, no. Nothing like that. She wasn't my type, Mr Castle."

"Really?" Rick slid his eyes in an almost insulting fashion over Canfield's expensive coat, his silk shirt – dark green, this time – showing under what looked to be a handmade suit jacket. "You prefer boys?"

Canfield gazed at him, unblinking. "I may be an artist, Mr Castle, but I'm not gay."

Kate put her elbows on the table. "Then what is your type?"

"I prefer a real woman. Not a child." He made it perfectly clear he thought Kate was a most definite woman, looking her over just as thoroughly as Rick had him.

Kate was too professional to react. "And when did you last see her?"

"I've never met Amanda." He held up a hand, forestalling Kate's response. "But the last time I saw Michelle was probably four or five months ago. I gave a couple of lectures at the beginning of the semester, but I had to give it up. What with the Quartet, and the orchestra, I didn't really have the time."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She glanced down at her notes, as if refreshing her memory. "Can I ask what you were doing the evening after your double bass was stolen? Which was, what, just over a week ago?"

Canfield nodded. "The Saturday before last. I played the concert at the Lincoln Centre with my spare bass, as I'm sure I mentioned, then I went to the Blue Cat. I was there for a couple of hours, did a couple of sets with the boys, then went home."

"Anyone who can vouch for that?"

"At the club, of course. At home … Detective, I don't have a permanent significant other, live-in or otherwise." He looked as if he was about to say something else, then paused.

"Yes, Mr Canfield?"

"Was it my bass case?" he asked finally, his hands tightly clenched. "The article, it said … a double bass case. And you've been asking me about the theft. Was it mine?"

Kate gazed at him. "Yes, it was."

"My God." He sat back, licking his lips. "No wonder you think I'm involved."

"Do I?"

"Of course you do. Any sane person would. It's just such a massive coincidence otherwise."

"They do happen," Kate said. "Mr Canfield, can I see your hands?"

He looked at her, barely a twitch of an eyebrow marking his confusion. "Why would you want to do that?"

"Call it a hunch."

Canfield didn't move. "Do I need a lawyer?"

"Not unless you don't show me your hands."

Suddenly he smiled. "Of course. No problem." He laid them flat on the table, his polished nails shining in the light.

"Turn them over, please."

"Sure."

Kate and Rick leaned forward, staring.

"May I?" she inquired, reaching out.

"Go ahead. It's not every day a beautiful woman wants to stroke my hands."

Rick shot him a glare, but watched as Kate used her pen to press against Canfield's fingertips.

"Nothing," she murmured.

"What were you expecting to find?" Canfield asked, honestly curious.

"Evidence."

"Of what?" He took his hands back, placing them in his lap. "Look, I've seen enough cop shows to know all about what your forensic people can find under fingernails. But as you can see, I had a manicure this morning. Not for any nefarious reason, I can assure you. It's a regular weekly booking. Check if you like. Luigi's, down on 48th." He smiled slightly. "A man who plays a stringed instrument for a living has to take care of his hands."

"Are you willing to make a statement to that effect?"

"What, about the manicure?" He smiled. "Of course I will. And anything else you like. In fact, I swear I had nothing to do with Michelle's death, despite it being my bass case she was found in. The truth is I was playing at the Blue Cat on both Saturday nights. On my brother's life. If I had a brother."

Kate looked at him strangely, then made a note in the file, saying, "Thank you, Mr Canfield. I'll get that typed up and you can sign it."

"Can I do that later? I have an appointment." He shrugged. "We've called a rehearsal at the Blue Cat for this afternoon. After last Saturday, I … well, I wasn't playing at my best. I think we're getting stale, so we're going to try a few different things."

"How long does it normally take you, trying these new things?" Rick asked, adding, at Canfield's curious look, "Research. For my next book."

"Ah. Well, probably the rest of the afternoon. I have a meeting with my agent at five, so I'll probably go straight there."

Kate stood up, and the two men followed. "If you can pop back in tomorrow, the statement will be ready waiting for you." She stepped to the door and opened it. "Mr Canfield."

"Thanks."

Kate waited until he'd passed her, then said, "Oh, Mr Canfield? One more thing."

Canfield turned, amused. "Isn't that what Columbo always used to say? Just one more thing? Then he'd proceed to explain exactly what the villain had done, and how, and without a shred of proper evidence?" He held out his hands, wrists together. "Will you be putting the handcuffs on me?"

"Not yet." She looked him directly in the eye. "Did Michelle ever talk about a man named Andy? Or Andrew?"

Canfield thought for a moment. "Well, since I didn't really know Michelle, apart from perhaps to say hello to at lectures or concerts, I doubt she'd have felt inclined to impart personal knowledge like that. Who was he, a boyfriend or something?"

"Just checking," Kate said, smiling in that way of hers where it didn't reach her eyes at all. "And thanks again. I'm sure you can see yourself out."

"Yes, of course, no problem. And if you need any other assistance, please don't hesitate to call me. Any time." He gave a slight, ironic bow and headed out of the squad room, pulling on a pair of fine leather gloves as he went.

"You didn't tell him not to leave town," Rick murmured, watching Canfield get into the elevator and be whisked away.

"I doubt he's going anywhere."

"And Brock was right. That man needs treatment."

"What are you talking about now?" Kate asked in resignation, staring at him.

"Hardly the same person we spoke to before. Much more friendly, in an oily, confident sort of way."

"Perhaps he'd had a bad day before."

"Or maybe he's schizophrenic. Perhaps he does things and doesn't remember."

"He's not a character in a book, Castle. That sort of thing only happens in fiction."

"No, it doesn't. I did some research for Storm Chaser and –"

She rounded on him. "He was playing at the Blue Cat last Saturday while the diamonds were being stolen and Michelle Tyler killed. I'm sure we're going to be able to confirm he was at the Blue Cat the Saturday before too, when Amanda might have died."

"Might. Could have been later. You heard Lanie. She was pushing it being Saturday."

"And we'll check into his movements up to and including the latest she can give us. So unless you can come up with something more concrete …"

"He knew about Amanda."

"No, he said he knew Michelle."

"Later on, Kate. After he said the newspaper got it wrong. He said he'd never met Amanda." Rick leaned closer. "First he suggests there's only one Tyler girl, then he blatantly admits he knows Michelle had a sister."

"Hardly blatantly." But Rick's words had struck a chord.

"Check. Check the tape. See what he said."

"I don't need to."

"And you didn't tell him about Amanda and Michelle being twins."

Her lips curved. "You know me, Castle. I like to keep some things close to my chest."

"And such a nice chest it is too." His eyes dropped to where her cleavage would have been if she hadn't been wearing that red sweater of hers.

She looked at him, just a look, but one he knew all too well, then headed for her desk.

He grinned. Sometimes she made it just so easy.

"Boss." Esposito was waiting. "Dr Parish called again while you were interviewing Canfield. She got the rest of the tox results back. Michelle Tyler had the remains of a sedative in her blood." He checked his notes on the pad on his desk. "Benzodiazipine. Usually prescribed for sleeplessness, but in alcohol has pretty much the same effect as Rohypnol, and a lot easier to get hold of."

"Did she say how much?"

"Pretty high concentration. Probably more than one dose."

"So she was kept somewhere unconscious," Kate mused. "Not exactly ground-breaking news."

"Maybe at Canfield's place," Rick suggested.

"Castle, stop." She had had enough. "You're obsessed. Anyone would think you had the hots for the man."

Esposito and Ryan exchanged a grin. Sometimes it was just fun to watch their boss fight it out with the writer.

"There's just something about him," Rick said. "I mean, odd thing to say. Swearing on his brother's life." Something was niggling at him, kicking him in the hindbrain trying to get his attention, and he almost had it, wriggling just beyond his fingertips, something to do with the newspaper article … then Captain Montgomery called out from his office doorway.

"Kate."

"Sir?" She left Castle to his thoughts, interrupted though they were, and followed Montgomery into his inner sanctum.

"Can you give me an update?"

"On the murders or the robbery?"

"Both."

Kate briefly went over what they knew about the Tylers, which wasn't much. "There's no obvious suspects, at least so far," she added. "And with both girls dead, there doesn't seem to be any close friends they might have spoken to."

"What about the robbery? Did we get anything from the Waldorf's security cameras?" Montgomery asked.

"No, sir." Kate almost sighed. "The ones on that floor all went down at the same time, only no-one noticed because of what was going on at the Awards."

"The diversion."

"Yes. That and the fact that there were no forced locks …"

"An inside job?"

"I'm getting backgrounds on all the relevant employees, but it's going to be a long haul to go through them all."

"Well, do what you can. If you need more men, ask. Can't say I'll be able to do anything about it, but ask anyway."

Kate's lips twitched. "I will."

Montgomery nodded towards Rick, who was fiddling with his new phone. "Is he helping?"

"Honestly …" Tell the truth, Katie, she heard an inner voice saying, sounding just like her mother used to. And shame the devil. "Yes. I'm afraid he is."

This time it was Montgomery who smiled. "I know how it galls you to admit that." Then he was back to business. "Just find the bastards."

"I will, sir." Kate walked out of the office, pausing just outside the door.

Rick was sitting with his legs stretched out and feet up on her desk, two phones on his lap. As she watched he removed the SIM card from one, tossing the carcase into the trash bin before sliding the card into the new cellphone and pushing the cover back into place. Rolling it over in his fingers, he grinned widely.

Turning her back carefully, she spoke to Ryan, the only member of her team in sight. "What do we know about Canfield?" she asked quietly, a slight dint between her eyebrows.

Ryan turned his notepad back a few pages. "Merrick Canfield. Thirty-one years old. Single. Only child of Peter and Candice Canfield. Rich, thanks to daddy and mommy both now deceased. Musician. Pays his taxes on time, never gets a parking ticket ... squeaky clean."

"Too clean?"

"Not even a jaywalking caution."

Kate thought for a moment, then said, "Look into Canfield's background."

Ryan was surprised. "I thought we were sure he couldn't have been involved. He was on stage, remember?"

"Yes, but that was then, this is now." She subconsciously touched her arm, barely making contact with the bandage through her sweater.

Ryan leaned back in his chair, rolling his pen between his fingers and smiling like a shark smelling blood in the water. "Castle got to you, didn't he?"

"No, he didn't."

"Only he's been saying –"

Kate interrupted, glancing over her shoulder, but Castle was now talking on his new phone. "Only nothing. There's just … something about Canfield doesn't add up."

"How deep?"

"I don't want you searching the man's place, but see what you can dig up. Discreetly."

"That's my middle name."

"I thought your middle name was –"

He held up a hand. "Told to you in confidence."

Kate smiled. "Just see what you can find." She turned back to her desk, but the chair was empty. "Where's Castle?"

Esposito sauntered up, a file in his hands. "He just left. Said he had somewhere to be."

"Did he say where that was?"

"No. Just that he'd arranged for a new espresso machine to be delivered, and that you shouldn't wait up." At her look, he added quickly, "His words."

"I thought you didn't want him around," Ryan put in.

"I don't. But right now I'd rather he was where I can keep an eye on him."

---

Snow had finally begun to fall, individual flakes swirling down and settling for only a few seconds before vanishing as Rick drove through the traffic, with somewhat less than half of his mind on avoiding accidents and pedestrians and the rest of it on Merrick Canfield.

The man was guilty. Guilty as sin. One eyebrow raised. That was actually a good book title – Guilty As Sin. Probably already been used, but that didn't mean he couldn't keep it on the back burner of his mind. Come to think of it, there was a film he recalled, something tawdry and … anyway, he'd better keep his attention on the job in hand.

He couldn't say why he thought Canfield was behind this. All of it, even the jewel heist. And that galled him, more than he cared to admit. It was like writer's block, only worse. If he didn't get around it, more people might get hurt. People like Kate. It might only have been a graze, but a few inches to the right and he could have been having to write an obituary, not finishing the first Nikki Heat novel.

Perhaps what he needed to do was plan it out. Like he was doing for the next book, lay out all the things he knew, all the things he thought he knew, and the even bigger pile of things he didn't know but was happy to make a guess at, and see whether he could join them up. Maggie used a digital tape recorder, one he'd bought for her a year or so back as a birthday gift. She'd just talk into it, mostly crap, but occasionally a nugget of pure gold came out of all the dross. Perhaps he should borrow it, see if he could talk himself into the solution.

A truck hooted at him, and he realised the light had gone green. Waving over his shoulder he moved off, taking the next right and pulling up.

Kate couldn't do anything, wouldn't, not without proof. But he was a private citizen, and if he got caught, well ... what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

He was about to get out of the car when his phone rang, an annoying trilling that he was going to have to change as soon as he had time. He still hadn't quite figured out all the options, and didn't know who was on the other end, so as he pressed the answer button he said, in his most mellifluous tone, "You have reached the phone of the rich, successful and incredibly handsome Rick Castle. If you're female, between the ages of twenty and –"

"Rick?" It was Maggie.

"Hi, Mags."

"Where are you?"

"Sitting in my car. How about you?"

"On my way to the precinct. I was going to buy you lunch, as a thank you for last night. And an apology for my behaviour."

"I don't recall you doing anything you needed to apologise over. Unless you did something while I was asleep. Should I feel violated in some way?"

She laughed lightly. "You know what I mean."

"Mags, there's nothing to be sorry about. You care about me. Which is nice. And you don't what anything to happen to me. Which is nicer. And very appropriate."

"Idiot," she said good-naturedly. "So ... lunch?"

"Sorry, no can do. I have ... something to do."

There was a pause, and he could imagine her face, the puzzled look turning to one of ... if not horror, then something rapidly approaching it.

"What are you up to, Rick?" she asked slowly.

"Nothing."

"I know that tone. It's the one you used when you persuaded me there was no need to worry about the Dean's dog, that it was only a little thing, and it turned out to be a damn great Dobermann with teeth like headstones. I've still got the scars, Rick."

"It was a love nip, nothing more."

"Rick ..."

"I just ..." He had to tell her, he knew that. Just in case something went wrong. "I want to take a look around Canfield's apartment. See what I can find."

"Is Kate with you?"

"No. Just me."

"Then don't be stupid!" Maggie was getting angry. "If the man is a double murderer, do you think he'd baulk at having to get rid of another body? Damn it, Rick, he already tried to shoot you!"

"And he's not going to be here. He's got rehearsal at –"

"Here? You mean you're already at his apartment?"

"Sitting outside." He glanced up at the tall glass building, the top floors disappearing into the grey gloom of falling snow.

"What's the address?"

"What ... why?"

"Because I'm going to come there and stop you!"

"I don't want to be stopped. Mags, the man is guilty. I just need to prove it."

"And get yourself killed in the process!"

"That isn't actually part of the plan."

"You have a plan? An actual plan? You're not just going into this like you do everything else, like a bull at a gate?"

"Well –"

"No. You stay put. I'll come and get you."

"I don't need my hand holding."

"More like your head examining."

"The article was torn, not cut, Mags." It had come to him, when he was sitting at Kate's desk, seeing how she kept things neat, ordered.

"What?" Now she wasn't just angry, but bewildered too.

"Canfield is a control freak, like Kate only a lot more so. Probably OCD. He'd never tear a story out of a paper, he'd cut it. Carefully, making sure it was dead square."

"Rick, please, I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm not sure either, but I think there's two of them."

"You're not making sense."

"I know, and I'm sorry. But, Mags, I'll be home in time for supper. Just make sure there's a nice hot meal on the table, and I'll see you soon." He flicked the off button before she could do more than take a breath to berate him again, and smiled. He knew Maggie, better than perhaps she knew herself. If she did get to him, she'd only want to be part of the action, and he didn't her to be put in harm's way, any more than Kate. Not that there was going to be any harming going on, of course.

He slid the phone inside his coat and climbed out of the car, snowflakes immediately sticking to his hair and eyelashes. Besides, this was his gig. After all, he'd signed his life away – the least he could do was enjoy it.