A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 17
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.
Monday, February 20, 2012 – 11:25 a.m. – At the San Francisco Municipal Transportation Agency (SFMTA) Main Building
Detective Jennifer Blackard sits against the wall, waiting for the receptionist to return. She has come here to the SFMTA building, and was directed to the Finance and Information Technology group who subsequently pointed her to the Security, Investigations and Enforcement department, who can provide archived videos from the buses. She has already sat down with Scheduling and reviewed their archives. Sure enough, Castle was right on target with his thinking.
Every single kidnapping incident which appears to have occurred on or near a bus also happened to occur somewhere along the 38 Geary bus route, which runs east-west through the city, from the coastline of the Pacific Ocean all the way east to downtown San Francisco. The route runs traverses Geary Street going west to the ocean and both Geary and O'Farrell Streets going eastward back into the city to Market Street. There are a few drivers who typically operate the buses along this route, and one of them is Jimmy Blankenship. And Jimmy Blankenship was working the bus on each of the evenings a disappearance occurred.
And no, Detective Jennifer Blackard does not subscribe to 'coincidences'. Instead, she sees these linkages as clues, as evidence, not coincidences. Her text to Kate Beckett, who is currently down at Fisherman's Wharf, was greeted back with a smiley face, and nothing else.
"Okay, she's busy," Jennifer had smiled to herself. No matter, by the time she, Kate and Castle split up this morning, departing from his home, all were in sync with the expectation that Jennifer would hit pay dirt.
"Detective Blackard?" a male voice calls to her, snapping her out of her current thoughts.
"Yes," she replies, standing and turning toward the voice. A small man, maybe fortyish with thin wire-rim glasses, stands behind the long window separating guests from the SFMTA employees.
"I'm Neil Francis," he smiles. "Robin over there told me you are looking for specific video archives," he tells her, nodding his head back toward the receptionist who is now sitting down again at her desk.
"Yes, Neil, thank you very much," Jennifer replies, returning the smaller man's smile. At 5'10, Jennifer stands roughly three or four inches taller than the shorter man behind the window. She flashes her badge as she talks, looking down at the man.
"I am looking for footage - for just one bus - but only for the dates and times that are listed here," she tells him, handing him a printout of the specific times she is looking for – times that coincide with the missing women's kidnappings. She does not mention Jimmy Blankenship, does not mention the missing women, does not mention why. She does not need to, as she hands him the subpoena she received on an emergency basis this morning.
"Here is a subpoena for the records I need from you, just so you don't get into any trouble with your superiors," she tells him.
"Subpoena?" he wonders to the woman in front of him. "This sounds serious."
"Just typical police business," she deadpans. "Everyone always asks 'do you have a subpoena?', so we are being a bit more pre-emptive nowadays," she smiles, dazzling the man with a flash of teeth. He smiles in return, as he gazes at the printout she has handed him.
"Give me a minute, I will be right back," he tells her. She returns to the chair up against the wall, musing about how much they have learned in the past four days – after more than four months with no clues, no hints, no whispers – nothing, nada, zip. That in itself tells her that someone very powerful has put the lid on things here. She stays caught up in her thoughts for another minute and half before Neil returns. She smiles as he calls out to her as she realizes he has not returned empty-handed.
"So," he begins. "Here are eight CDs, one for each of the days that you have asked for."
"All for bus 38?" Jennifer double checks.
"All for 38," he acknowledges. "You weren't looking for any others you were you?"
"No, not at all," she replies, smiling again. "This is exactly what I need, Neil. You've been a tremendous help. Thank you very much."
"No problem," the small man smiles. He watches as Jennifer walks toward the door, then turns to walk back to his desk along the windows in the back.
Detective Blackard pulls up her contact texting group – Amigos – and smiles as she quickly types in a message for Kate and Castle.
JENNIFER: Got the CDs. Headed to the precinct to view.
She walks to the elevator and enters, pushing the button for the ground floor, anxious to get to the precinct and get started.
Neil Francis – by this time had made it back to his desk. He frowns momentarily before punching in the digits on his cell phone. After a couple of rings, he is rewarded.
"Hey Jimmy – it's Neil at MUNI," he begins. "You wanted to know if anyone ever came asking for video footage of the 38. Well, it just happened."
"You're kidding," a groggy but now very concerned Jimmy Blankenship replies. Jimmy is just a couple of hours into his sleep after a long night and morning on the streets with his bus.
"No, sir," Neil replies. "Came with a subpoena. Asked for –"
"It was a cop?!" Jimmy half screams into the phone?
"Yes, sir . . . well, of course, sir," Neil tells him. I wouldn't hand videos out to just anyone who asks, sir," Neil continues.
Jimmy Blankenship plays him ten thousand dollars a month – in cash – just over double what Neil gets for a salary from the city. That guaranteed Jimmy a heads-up if anyone ever came snooping, or started getting too close. And this is what he considers 'getting too close.' After a few seconds of silence, a very shaken Jimmy Blankenship recovers.
"Thank you, Neil," he tells him, steadying his voice as much as he can. "You did the right thing by calling me."
Blankenship hangs up the call, and immediately punches in another contact on his phone. He gets three rings before an answer.
"Babe, we've got a problem," he tells Mara Blankenship.
Monday, February 20, 2012 – 11:25 a.m. – Same time, at Richard Castle's Sausalito Home
Richard Castle stayed home, as Kate Beckett and Detective Jennifer Blackard got into their respective cars – okay, technically the Ferrari is his, but don't try telling Kate that. He had smiled as the women drove away, confident that they are on the right track. As they drove out of sight, he returned to the den, and to the task at hand watching the surveillance tapes from Eddie Baker's home-away-from-home.
Now, after another seven-plus hours of starting at the screen, his eyes begging for relief, Castle walks upstairs to the master bedroom, into his bathroom, and splashes cold water onto his face. Leaning over his sink, he closes his eyes as the cold water drips off his face, down his chin.
He has been focusing on finding Barry Adams and Cynthia Bartlett this morning, and the trends that they had noticed earlier have continued. Both reduced their visits to once a month in both November and December. In January, Barry was there one time, but Cynthia was absent. Barry has been there once, so far, here in February as well – still down dramatically from the four visits per week seen earlier in the summer and fall. In fact, he was there just last week.
Cynthia Bartlett, however, hasn't been seen at Eddie's lair since December. Not once.
His viewings also struck gold on the third floor. In in his viewings he has noticed another face – this time designated as Face 14 from Room 304.
"Two floors," he muses in disappointment, realizing that with floor 4 finished and floor three mostly finished, he still has two floors to go. Still, he can't tear his thoughts away from one Cynthia Bartlett. The mayor's Chief of Staff has been on his mind since the revelation this morning from Jennifer Blackard. Castle likes Sandra Clooney. Sandra needs to know this. If they're right. If they're wrong, then in Castle's mind, whatever Cynthia does in her private time is her business, the legality of prostitution be damned.
Still, in the back of his mind, Castle has doubts about the San Francisco mayor. Not because of anything she has done. So far, she seems genuine. No, Castle is thinking about a certain William Bracken right now.
He and Kate haven't talked about it in the past week or two – which is something of note, since it was a constant point of topic for the first couple of weeks of the year after the bombshell dropped on them by a man who turned out to be Castle's father. The idea that an ex-district attorney-turned United States Senator could murder his way to the top . . . well, Castle hasn't really gotten over this one. Not yet. Bracken's story is the sort of thing you'd only find in the mind of a Castle, a Patterson, a Cook, or a Crichton.
And if this is possible with a U.S. Senator, then the mayor of a major U.S. city being involved in – or at least aware of – kidnappings?
Certainly possible.
He wipes his face dry, then reaches into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. He smiles as he pulls up his old friend's contact. A few seconds later, he hears the familiar voice on the other end.
"Ricky," Mayor Bob Weldon answers, bringing a laugh to his friend on the west coast. "What can I do for you?"
"You're in a good mood," Castle tells him by way of greeting.
"With good reason," Weldon tells him. "Last night I threw my hat in the ring for the 2014 governor's race. Big fundraiser. Your kind of party, you would have loved it," Weldon laughs.
"Bob, that's fantastic," Castle whistles, glowing with both joy and pride for his long-time friend. "I am sorry I missed it."
"You bet you are," Weldon continues, laughing, then corrects himself – still laughing. "I take that back. If memory serves, you are off the market in the most serious way."
"Well said," Castle replies. "And very true."
"So – is there any news I am supposed to hear on that front?" Weldon asks, smiling from ear to ear.
"Does my near future include standing next to my best friend watching this hot ex-detective saunter toward us?"
"Well, let's just say that's a conversation you and I are going to have very soon," Castle smiles, "but that's not the reason for my call right now, Bob."
Weldon's smile leaves his face immediately, as he recognizes the serious tone Castle has taken. A tone that the Castle of New York took fairly infrequently, but the Castle of California seems to wear this face often – and well.
What's on your mind, Rick?"
"Bob," Castle responds, rubbing his hand through his mane of hair, stopping to scratch the back of his neck. "I know you and I have already covered this already . . . but I just need to know for certain, just for myself."
"Okay," his friend replies, waiting.
"How well do you trust Sandra Clooney, Bob?"
"With my life, Rick," is the immediate response, and Castle notes to himself that there was no hesitation or pause from the mayor of New York. That's good. It makes him feel better. He's just not certain who to trust, and Bob is helping a great deal.
"You're certain of this?" Castle asks him, wanting to hear a positive confirmation just one more time.
"What's going on, Rick?" Weldon asks, now plopping down on his sofa and crossing his legs. "What aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing, old friend," Castle replies easily. "I just needed to make sure, that's all. I've learned something, and needed to know whether or not approaching Clooney with this is a smart move, or if it is akin giving the canary to cat."
"I trust her as I trust you, Rick," Weldon tells him. That's enough for Castle.
"Thanks, Bob," he tells him. "This helps a lot. Enjoy your polls, as I'm sure you will be a shoo-in, old friend."
"Oh, I don't know about shoo-in," Weldon replies casually, "but I think I have a decent shot at it, to be honest."
"Make sure your closet is clean," Castle says with a chuckle.
"Ricky. Ricky," Weldon repeats just a little louder, the levity clear in his voice. "Now do you know me to have done anything out of the ordinary?"
"I am stunned you were elected mayor, Bob," Castle laughs.
"You aren't the only one, Rick," Weldon laughs with him. "You aren't the only one."
"I assume I can donate via the normal channels," Castle asks.
"Why Rick, that's damn nice of you. Damn nice of you, man," Weldon replies, uncrossing his legs and now sitting forward. "I appreciate that, my friend."
"Just win," Castle tells him, and clicks off, smiling, promising himself that a trip back to the east coast is in order. One where he will bring Kate with him. There is something important he has to do, and perhaps there – where it all started – is where this should happen. He smiles for a few seconds longer, then brushes the thought away, heading back down the stairs as he dials Sandra Clooney's phone number.
Meanwhile, back in New York, Bob Weldon stares at his phone, thinking for a moment. After a slight hesitation, he pulls up Sandra Clooney's contact information. Something is going on and she's a friend. He needs to give her a heads up – and if the roles were reversed, he would want – he would hope that Sandra Clooney would give him advance warning. That's what friends do for one another.
But Rick is a friend, also. Yes, he's known Sandra longer, but somehow he is far closer to Rick. If he has to trust only one of them, and if he has to trust one of them to do what is right while trying to protect the other – well, Rick wins. That's Rick's nature, not Sandra's. Rick is a writer who looks for a story. Sandra is a politician – like him – and politicians look for cover. He puts the phone down, sending a silent prayer to the heavens, hoping he is doing the right thing.
In the end, he simply trusts Rick to do the right thing, and not at the expense of Sandra Clooney. In the end, he trusts Rick just a bit more than his fellow mayor in the city by the bay.
"Don't make me regret this, Ricky," he says softly to himself, as his eyes catch the news reporter on the large television screen giving yet another re-run of last night's announcement festivities.