A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 2
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.
Thursday, February 16, 2012 – 6:01 p.m. – At Richard Castle's Sausalito Home
Kate Beckett sits with her feet propped up on the ottoman in the den, relaxing with a slice of pineapple chicken pizza in her hand. She gazes at the chunks of pineapple before taking another large devouring bite, savoring the flavor. She reaches across to pick up the wine cooler. Beside her sits Richard Castle, who is equally lost in his little slice of heaven.
They have left the Castles complex early today, as it has been a relatively quiet afternoon there. Their guests are settled in, and in truth, Kate's mind is elsewhere. According to the team at the site, there has been no sight of Tom Hamilton since he dropped his wife off. He hasn't been back to the site, nor has he called. For two days. She finds this odd, since he is the one who dropped her off, and up to this point, their marriage had seemed as normal as any.
Both of them, however, are pulled out of their own thoughts as the local newscast begins, blasting from the large screen on the wall.
"We begin our broadcast this evening with news of yet another missing girl here in the Bay Area. Tamara McNeil, age nineteen, was reported missing this morning by her father, Arlington McNeil. According to Mr. McNeil, Tamara as last seen downtown on Geary Street at the bus stop near the St. Francis hotel, where she had just finished her shift."
The rest of the news story is lost on the pair, as both have stopped chewing and swallowing, now absorbed in the story, staring at the image of a beautiful young black woman. Two days ago a woman gets admitted into their facility. The primary reason for her admission is a marriage literally crashing on the rocks – physically – because of the reactions of the couple to their daughter going missing. And now, two days later, another girl is missing. They cannot help but think of Grayson Hamilton.
"Interesting that she is black," Kate offers aloud.
"Huh?" Castle grunts. "Why is that interesting?"
"Because statistically speaking, television coverage of minorities who go missing is lacking by the media," she replies. It was a revelation she received from Lanie Parish while in New York City. "It's a phenomenon only now really being discussed – and not enough. I'm just . . . pleased to see this coverage, given what I have experienced on the east coast."
"Shouldn't matter," Castle finally grumbles, before realizing that he has rarely – if ever – seen coverage of a missing minority.
"Agree wholeheartedly," she replies, taking a swallow from her wine cooler. "Aside from race – don't you think this is . . . strange, Castle? I mean, yeah I know the numbers. At any time, some thirty to forty thousand women are missing in the United States at any time. But –"
"But there are no coincidences," he continues for her. "I don't know if this is the universe trying to tell us something, but there has to be a reason we just met Pamela Hamilton and heard her story about her daughter, and now we hear this story . . ."
He tails off, as she leans her head into his shoulder.
"There's always a story with you," she smiles.
"The answer is always in the story," he smiles in return.
"But what is the question?" she asks, as they now have settled into a familiar – and efficient – routine. "What is the question we should be asking ourselves here?
They are quiet for a moment, mulling over her question. They continue eating their pizza in silence, Kate now leaned forward over the ottoman, her eyes drifting around the room. Castle remains leaning back into the cushions, his eyes closed, a story forming in his mind.
Suddenly, Kate takes out her phone, and pulls up a contact, hitting SEND. A few seconds pass before she begins speaking again.
"Jen," she begins, "how goes it?"
Detective Jennifer Blackard from the San Francisco Police Department sits back in her chair in the Mission precinct.
"Finishing paperwork, Kate," she tells her friend.
"Still at the office, I see" Kate realizes. "Should I call back?"
"If you like me at all, please give me a reason to put this stuff down," Jennifer laughs, and Kate laughs with her.
"A question," Kate begins. "Castle and I are sitting here watching television, watching the news and –"
"You didn't call to brag to me about your cush life with the cute writer-turned-philanthropist did you, Kate?" Jennifer chuckles.
"No, not this time," Kate smiles in return. "I wish. Actually, it is about a missing woman. Tamara . . .?"
Kate looks questioningly at Castle who fills in the last name.
"McNeil," he says.
"McNeil," Kate continues. "This is the second young woman we have heard that has gone missing in three days. I know the statistics but that seems a lot even for –"
She doesn't finish her sentence, as Jennifer interrupts.
"Eleven."
Kate pauses, and then takes a breath. Surely she didn't hear this right.
"What?"
"Eleven," Jennifer repeats. "She is the eleventh young woman to go missing in the past five months since Labor Day."
"What?" Kate repeats, the disbelief clearly evident in her voice. How in the world do eleven girls go missing in such a short period of time? And how have she and Castle been here and not heard anything about this?
"How do that many girls go missing and nothing –"
Jennifer interrupts her yet again.
"Not girls, Kate. Young women. Girls is a misnomer," her detective friend tells her. "In pretty much every case, these are young women, not girls. Their ages range from 18 to 23 years old. They are all beautiful. Right now they are being classified as runaways or just missing persons, but, Kate - not one of them – not a single one – has a reason to run away."
"City Hall," Kate muses aloud with disgust, now placing the call on her speakerphone for Castle to listen in. "The alternative is politically difficult."
"I agree," Jen tells her, "as do most of my colleagues. But you know how it is and who controls media coverage. All of these young women are successful in whatever they have been doing, whether it is as a student in a post-college job. No boyfriend problems, no husband problems."
"You suspect trafficking," Kate says. It is not a question. Castle's eyebrows raise, now thinking of Grayson Hamilton. If they are thinking it, then certainly her parents have thought this. And yes, just thinking about something like that for one's daughter can probably cause things at home to deteriorate quickly. He frowns as he leans in closer to listen.
"Yes, we suspect some type of human trafficking, but the streets are completely silent on the matter," Jen continues, which Kate realizes is odd.
"You're sure?" Kate asks.
"There is no underground buzz about girls going missing, about anyone looking for young women. Nothing at all."
For a few seconds both sides are quiet. It is Castle who finally interrupts the silence.
"Well, you are a private investigator," he reminds her with a smile.
"Jen, we need to do lunch or dinner. I can be there tomorrow before noon."
Detective Blackard considers this for a moment, then makes her decision.
"Not here," she tells Kate. "There is a small diner – Mel's – off Geary Street."
"Near Anza, right?" Castle chimes in.
"That's the one, Rick," Jennifer replies. "Let's keep this away from the eyes and ears here for now. They've got a tight lid on this and I don't want to be viewed as a leak."
"Gotcha," Kate nods. "Noon?"
"See you then," Blackard tells her, and then quickly adds before signing off.
"And Kate . . . this could get ugly."
"I know, Jen," Kate replies solemnly. "I know."
She glances over at Castle, who is already standing and moving toward the door leading out of the den to the rest of the house.
"Where are you going?" she asks, but she already knows the answer. She knows how he thinks.
"Back to the complex," he answers as he watches stand up, gathering her plate and wine cooler bottle. He knows she is following.
"We need to talk with Pamela Hamilton again," he tells her as he leaves the den room.