Chapter 8: You're Still Here
Disclaimer: The characters of Castle belong to Mr. Marlowe and ABC Studios. I'm merely borrowing them.
The days following Alex's revelatory letter passed in a hazy succession of burnt coffees, fleeting naps in the break room, and tentative thrust-and-parry exchanges with one Will Sorenson. All unruffled composure and aloof professionalism, he unnerved her with his distant, gray gaze, and she had the impression that he catalogued her every word and reaction, silently taking her measure as they worked the case. They had set up shop in a conference room Montgomery designated for their use—Sorenson bringing armfuls of files and nondescript banker boxes, Kate contributing a sizable rolling whiteboard. "Timeline," she snapped at his smirk of bemusement, and from the flicker of his eyebrows she thought she'd startled the feeb with her vehemence. It's not that she disliked Sorenson, he hadn't given her just cause thus far, but as a woman—and a conspicuously attractive one at that—she'd found subtle shows of authoritativeness, of brusque intimidation to be helpful. Yeah, she was showboating, warning Sorenson away from the misogynistic treatment and patronization she'd fought from the moment she'd donned her regulation blues. Like a dog raising its hackles, she was all bristle at the moment. But that didn't mean she wouldn't bite if pushed.
Side by side in passive silence, they'd sorted through hefty sheaves of paper, occasionally breaking their absorptive stride to ask a question, flag relevant material, compare notes, tape a picture or scribble down information on what Kate had mentally dubbed the "murder board"—reminiscent of the collaged materials she had on her mother's case at home. It helped, scrutinizing their collective notes as a whole, seeing a half-formed picture emerge. And Will, inscrutable and mildly abrasive though he might be, had a categorically perceptive grasp on the details of Deacon's murder. Which she could grudgingly, discreetly appreciate from a personal perspective, but more significantly, was a requirement in what was already a rapidly devolving clusterfuck of a case.
"Back at Quantico, we had several behavioral specialists hone in on the Deacon abduction right after it happened. They spit out a pretty solid profile, which may propel an investigation in real danger of stagnation. Or at the very least, provide us with something substantive to go on," he muttered, stonily observing the collection of photos wreathed in Kate's concise script.
At her wordless response, he turned those singular eyes on her and hummed. "Not a fan of profiling, I see."
"It's just…it's a specious science. Educated guesswork at best."
"And at worst?" He prompted flatly.
"At worst, it's misleading, taking us down a road that's opposite where we should be. And profiling also increases the likelihood of investigators discounting evidence because it doesn't align with the psychological outline they were fed. It can engender preexisting expectations," she groused, crossing her arms defensively.
"Good. Knowing the potential risks, you should have no problems factoring that in during the investigation—maintaining objectivity. But we're running on fumes, detective," he justified coolly, "we have no eyewitnesses, no motive, limited physical evidence, and no ID's as of yet for the four skeletal remains found near Deacon's body. This is…it's something. Concede that, and ease up. We need to try this, see if something pops." He wasn't asking forher concurrence, he was demanding capitulation, she noted, miffed at his high-handedness. Despite his jibe, she gave him a terse nod of acceptance. She could gracefully bear up under his diatribes, could be tolerant and lenient. For now, at least. For Montgomery and the 12th, if not herself. Could invest in this rather unpalatable partnership of inconvenience in the hopes this case might prove less of a nuisance, less of a turf war than she'd initially anticipated.
"Based on the little collected evidence, the nature of the abduction, and the newly attributed details of the gravesite, they're saying we're looking for a white male, mid- to late-forties, quiet, loner type, wouldn't be surprising if he was still camped out in his mother's basement. Likely has a profession that allows him a great deal of anonymity and isolation—so, IT or online journalism or editing. Something along those lines. The way the bodies were found—carefully staged, preserved with quick lime, wrapped tidily in tarps, buried deep enough to deter predators—suggests someone who felt some form of remorse at his actions. But the big question is—"
"Is his motive sexual or other." Beckett finished blandly, and Sorenson sighed his acknowledgement. "The problem with your pat profile is that it's exactly that—simplistic. You just described roughly two million of New York City's fine inhabitants, and that's not even accounting for outlying areas."
"I agree. Which is why we need more evidence," the patronizing edge to his tone nettled her, but again, she banked her frustration and opted for professionalism. Silence in the face of derision. "Any idea when that ME of yours is slated to finish the autopsy?" He inquired after a beat.
"Dr. Parish has already performed it," she responded, subdued and stiffly formal, "we're just waiting on lab results. As soon as she hears back, she'll call me."
It wasn't twenty minutes later that Lanie rang, and they silently hustled down to the morgue, maintaining an awkward distance from one another in the confined space of the elevator. Peripherally, she could see Sorenson surreptitiously observing her, could feel the weight of his gaze on her before he spoke stiltedly. "Are you…familiar with child cases?"
"My first," she responded tersely, not meeting his eyes.
"Rough," he grunted plainly, "they're always rough. Make sure you talk about it with someone."
Alex, her mind supplied involuntarily, and then she bristled at the intrusiveness of the moment—at Sorenson's well-meaning, though probing conversation, and at the remembrance of raw betrayal—before sucking in a calming breath and providing a simple, "Thanks."
"Out of sheer curiosity," he asked as the elevator shuddered to its destination, as the doors skidded back and the grey light spilled into the carriage, "why isn't SVU on this? Territorially speaking, I assumed this was more their thing."
"Departmental restructuring and an overload of high-profile cases meant they didn't have the space, and the reason their department requires restructuring in the first place—misappropriation of government funds and a hellishly protracted lawsuit—means they lack the finances to hire on much needed additions to their team. So…its ours. By dint of sheer necessity."
"Despite the nature of it, you may think of this as an unexpected windfall. Though you should tread lightly. Cases like this, they…make or break careers," he supplied warningly, and she rolled her eyes at his barbed comment, tactfully opting for silence. Again. She had no interest in capitalizing on Deacon's case, in reaping the benefits of death, regardless of the professional payoff. This was strictly about justice for her, about preventing another tragedy.
What a supposition. What an absolute dick.
Lanie was positioned at an industrial sink, diagrams, photos, and meticulous notes methodically arranged on the stainless counter beside her, and the way she swept her dark eyes over Sorenson when they pushed through the doors was laden with sin. Warranted a searing blush. From Kate. Jesus, for someone so preoccupied with clinical standards of cleanliness she could give the filthiest looks. The feeb had enough propriety to huff an embarrassed laugh, shuffle his feet apprehensively, and Lanie shifted her attention with predatory aim, pinned Kate with a knowing gaze. "Who's the suit, girl?"
"Dr. Lanie Parish, this is Agent Will Sorenson with the FBI. He and the agency are graciously assisting with the Deacon investigation," she gritted out, struggling to maintain her composure in the face of Lanie's leering.
"Oh, I can imagine he's assisting," Lanie muttered as an aside, and flush intensifying, Kate contemplated the repercussions of simply striding out the door and catching the train home. She was too tired, too brittle, emotions too tender to bear up under the ME's well-meaning banter. After a beat of mortifying silence, Lanie sighed weakly and, without further digression, deconstructed her findings.
Odd how she could turn it on and off, be bubbling with racy entendres and suggestive brazenness one minute, and all hyper-rationalized clinicalism the next. But then again…not abnormal. Not really. Coping came in a variety of offbeat forms and flavors—gallows humor, excessive exercise, physical pain, over-compartmentalization, sleeplessness, hypersomnia, loquaciousness, lewd behavior or speech, and…drinking. So, then again, not odd at all. There were far more detrimental ways of fraying the stresses and strains of the job. If her racy quips were a denotation of coping, Kate could appreciate that objectively. Though, admittedly, not subjectively.
In summation, Lanie found no evidence of sexual assault, no weight loss, no signs of maltreatment beyond the bruising from strangulation, and even reported that his teeth were clean—meaning maintenance of hygiene had been prioritized, for whatever reason. The lack of abrasions around his wrists and ankles supported the theory that he hadn't been restrained, but the tox screen did raise a red flag. Ketamine.
"Whoever took Deacon didn't need to tie him up," Sorenson growled, looking pained, smudged a thumb across a photo focused on the injection site—a collection of delicate puncture marks concealed in the grubby, tender fold of a diminutive elbow. "He just tossed him down a fucking K-hole."
"Dissociative state, hallucinations, and depersonalization aren't uncommon symptoms in recreational use," Lanie supplied, slumping against the countertop, the affected flirtation of before replaced by a hollow weariness Kate recognized all too well. It was the calm before the storm of grief. Of stifled rage followed by agonized processing, grappling with numerous and indecipherable emotions. Sorenson's intrusive approach had struck a sour note, but damn if he wasn't right—she needed to talk. Lanie needed to talk. Or prognostically they would all but implode. Especially as the case progressed further. And with this case, no one had the luxury of falling to pieces.
In an effort to gain some advantage over their unknown perp, Montgomery had obtained a preventative media injunction and phlegmatically informed everyone at the 12th that the divulgence of any information to the press would result in immediate suspension pending termination. Keeping the details of the case under wraps would allow their team to gather evidence unhampered by nettlesome reporters, and it would keep the killer in the proverbial dark, keep him complacent. Buy them some time to slog through the details of the case. She understood the rationale behind Montgomery's pronouncement, respected it even, but it severely limited their scope of interpersonal support—whittled it down to those with prior knowledge.
Resultantly, she and the ME needed to grab drinks. Soon.
"Which might explain why Deacon was killed so soon following his abduction," Sorenson reasoned, snapping her back to the moment, "if he experienced a break with reality, it's hard to predict how he might've responded—the dissociations from K use are often likened to schizophrenic episodes. Sufferers of a Ketamine OD can become violent, intractable, almost feral. It's just…it's an aberration. Such a hasty killing. Varying from the timeline this wildly—if it's who we think it is…"
Who we think it is?
"And who do you think it is, agent?" Kate enjoined lowly, indignation flaring, piqued that he hadn't led with whatever suspicions he harbored.
Sorenson paused, flicked his eyes to Kate. "There's been talk he might be The Fox."
What the hell? Kate blinked once, opened her mouth to request clarification, and was a little dismayed when no words emerged. "The guy who abducts kids from rural areas?" She managed on her second pass, and Sorenson nodded, his mouth a grim crease that deepened the grooves bracketing his mouth. From beside her, Lanie issued a little grunt of surprise, perceptibly taken aback.
"The Fox—a cunning predator who steals only boys from rural regions, from farmhouses or isolated trailers more often than not, and all under the cover of darkness. And after our forensic anthropologist has an opportunity to examine the bones of the additional remains left in that excuse for a goddamn grave we'll have either confirmation or repudiation of our speculation."
"Your speculation," she corrected sharply, the edges of her anger peeking through, "when were you going to loop me in, Sorenson?"
"I'm telling you now," he rationalized, his stance, the set of his jaw, the cast of his gaze goadingly impenitent.
"Maybe you're not in the habit of sharing relevant information with outside law enforcement agencies at Quantico, but I don't care. We're in this thing as quasi-partners, and you should have told me—from the outset, not post facto—that we could potentially have a serial killer on our hands," she upbraided intently, somehow managing to keep her tone from growing in volume and stridence. He merely bobbed his head in reply, transparently indifferent to her request, which whetted her temper, magnified her frustration.
"So that's it? No apologies or explanations? You knowingly sat on pertinent information and you think acceptable restitution is nodding your fucking head at me?"
Okay, well…now she was loud. And he was placidly regarding her as though her response was disproportionate. As though hers was the illogical response in this unnecessary dissimulation.
"It's nothing personal, detective," his tone was gratingly pandering, mollifying, "I just…don't know you. And it's all speculative anyhow. You made that perfectly clear when we discussed the details of the profile. Regardless of your feelings on the matter, it's done. And now you know."
"Moving forward," she managed to grit out levelly, "I demand full disclosure from you. This is non-negotiable. I don't accept your rationalizations as valid or logical. I don't care if you know me or not, but we're in this collectively so either you be my fucking partner or you content yourself with the knowledge that this case will fall apart around our ears due to your professional failings," she made fists of her trembling fingers, pressed them against her thighs to diffuse her ire, "I'm not what you were wanting in a partner, I recognize that, but I'm what you got—I'm a woman, I'm green, and yes, this is my first child case as you so tactfully spotlighted, but I won't apologize. Because I'm good at what I do. Outstanding, actually, which isn't egotism, I assure you. Rather, it's truth—factually founded and fully substantiated by my close rate. And if you would give me half a goddamn chance, I would prove it to you explicitly."
Flaring emotion spent, temper cooling, her fury swiftly tarnished to a sort of trembling lethargy—like a supernova, there one moment and gone the next. She turned her head, met Lanie's sphinxlike gaze, "Sorry, Lane. I can't…we'll continue this later? Finish discussing case details in a bit? I'm gonna…"
"Go, do your thing, girl," Lanie kindly provided, the corners of her mouth pulling up in the hint of a smile, which Kate fleetingly returned before pivoting on her heel, breezing past a mute, rigid Sorenson, and slipping through the double doors. Trying in vain to outrun the specters of anger, of mortification, of dejection that had colonized the shadows and corners of this case. Or more to point, within her fractured self.
Some hours later, Kate grudgingly returned to their outfitted conference room, toting a scalding Red Eye and a scanty collection of printouts on The Fox. Sorenson sat in a folding chair, bent over a stack of files, hastily straightening at her arrival and meeting her gaze charily. "I…was out of line," he admitted tightly, if not sincerely. "Trite as it may sound, it's not you. It's…I lost my partner on a case a few months back. Bore marked similarities to this one. And…I just can't seem to stop—I keep thinking of him and that case and drawing parallels. So you're right. I don't want you as a partner because I haven't moved on yet. Not ready to let go of that pain. Because once I do, even that part of Mike is going to be gone. It'll be another, small, collective death. More erasure from memory. And I hate it." From the pulsing vein at his temple, the convulsive swallow, the taut clench of his jaw, she knew the words had costed him, and quietly acknowledged them with a hum.
"Well, I know what it is to lose someone," she said by way of acceptance, an empathic condolence, "so, let's just…put this behind us. Press on with the case," she held up the papers in her hand indicatively, "especially in light of our timetable."
"His cooling off period has diminished, the cycle time decreasing—by our best estimations, we have roughly eight weeks before he strikes again," Sorenson informed, raking a hand through his cropped hair.
Eight weeks, she thought dismally, and an unpromising dearth of leads. In combination, factors that meant they might as well be sitting on their hands for what she anticipated would be a vacuous duration. A glorified waiting game with lives at stake. Where even victory might still mean loss.
Amidst the frenetic pace of the investigation, the daily arrival of Alex's letters acted as a sort of intermission—a reminder to breathe, to rest her racing thoughts if not her body, to drink another cup of caustic break-room coffee. But she didn't open them, couldn't bring herself to break the seals, to read what she knew to be articulate, moving apologies. Words that would effectively wring from her every remnant of bitterness. And much like Sorenson, she wasn't prepared to let go of the memory of his duplicity just yet. Even if his intentions had been innocent. Which—initial anger sufficiently cooled—she felt fairly certain was an accurate assessment. Really, though, with a little distance, it didn't read like anger so much as fear and unease and reactive self-defense—against what amounted to a benign deception. A white lie. Admittedly, her reaction had been hyperbolic, but did she want to maintain a relationship built on untruths? Even if they were superficial? And really, how did continuing this friendship improve upon her life? Was it worth the investment, the pursuit?
Everything seemed a bit abstracted and bewildering at the moment, and she was chalking up her vacillations to too little sleep and even less food. Trying to sift through her feelings on Alex while so off-course presented itself as an ill-advised choice, one that would only result in additional confusion. So, rather than rip into the envelopes and allow the hurt to breathe, to fully abate, she kept his letters neatly stacked on her bedside table, would trace his tight, blunt scrawl, illuminated by the bronze glow of the streetlights, before sleep swamped her. Later, she promised herself, when she wasn't so beset with fatigue and debilitating unease, she would read them.
At the advent of his fourth letter, however, needing objective counsel, she took Alex's advice and called up Lanie who warmly proposed they share a cab from the precinct to Midtown West, and from there, a bottle of Retsina from Molyvos. Over spanakopita, meatballs, and a peppery red, Kate gradually felt herself unspool, the story spilling free unedited and utterly candid as Lanie looked on pensively from the seat opposite.
"I need to talk about Alex," she led quietly, taking a generous sip of her wine, "and I need an objective outside party to weigh in because…I'm a little—a lot uncertain."
"About Alex?" She clarified, brow knitting at Kate's nod, "I thought you guys had this seamlessly magical thing built on words and serendipity and depth?"
"You're not alone in that assumption. Until reading his last letter, I thought…he—well, he lied. About who he was. About his name. It's not Alex, but to me he still is. Alex, I mean. I just…Lanie, I don't even know what to call him, because apparently the appellation he fed me—Alex Rodgers—is no longer his legal name."
"Wait, so…help me out here. You discovered this how?"
"In his last letter. He came clean, told me he'd used an alias due to the recognition his actual identity garners. Said he wanted to be seen, wanted to be known as who he was as opposed to how others painted him. Which I can appreciate objectively, to an extent, but…I don't know. I guess I feel…conned," the admission stung, and Kate began indiscriminately denuding a spanakopita triangle, digging away at the pastry until her fingers brushed pulpy spinach and piping cheese, "I was operating under the—clearly misguided—perception that we were reciprocally sharing these deep, semi-intimate truths, peeling back layers of ourselves for remote inspection and anonymous exploration and—and the whole time he's—he wasn't even forthright with me concerning his name."
Carding a hand through her choppy locks, Lanie huffed out a contemplative sigh, hummed reflectively. "And all of this has left you a bit nonplussed, right? Confounded over the authenticity of your friendship, relationship, whatever, because if the man can't even level with you about his name, how can you assume any of his other claims to be…unaffected?"
"Exactly," Kate affirmed, feeling vindicated in her rationalization, reassured that distancing herself was an apt response, but then Lanie hung her head and laughed.
Oh. Well, then…
"Girl, I just…" her fingers drifted over her wineglass, mindlessly tripped up the length of the stem and back down again as she quietly deliberated, internally weighing her options before meeting Kate's befuddled gaze. "What's in a name?"
"Did you—did you really just play the Bard Card?" Kate sputtered, left off-balance by the allusion, by Lanie's perceived defection.
"I did," she retorted emphatically, "and I call bullshit. What integral role does his name play—a name, which amounts to little more than a necessary social convention, a glorified specifier or personal designation—when that proverbial rose by any other name would smell as sweet? Isn't he the same man, regardless of his name? The sum total of all his his…collective revelations and experiences, his idiosyncrasies and memories, and not solely a trivial composition of letters? Isn't that an oversimplification? A superficial reduction?"
"It—it's not—you're deemphasizing the implications of this, Lanie. It's not the fact that his name isn't Alex. That's not it…I mean, his name could be fucking Rorschach for all I care. it's the principle. Behind the lie. That he knowingly concealed it from me," she stiltedly explained, willing the ME to understand, to empathize.
"Okay," Lanie drawled slowly, "but he must have given some sort of explanation—a rationalization for why he chose to go by an alias?"
"Yeah, he—he said he was…well-known. Prominent. His name recognizable, his complementary reputation less than admirable, and that he wanted—wanted to begin on equal footing. To approach the relationship with…with openness. Blank slates, the both of us, I suppose. And he wanted to capitalize on the letters, use the anonymity to…remake himself. Leave infamy behind and start fresh."
"And you—you're seeing that as a negative," Lanie stated blandly, a single eyebrow climbing toward her hairline.
"I am tired of saving everyone," Kate shot back heatedly, mortified to feel the sting of tears pressing behind her eyes, "I'm not a redemptive tool, not a savior, I'm just a messed up, floundering, exhausted, wreck, and I feel like…like he manipulated me. Like he used me and used the letters to whitewash whatever havoc he wreaked in his own life, and I just…if that's why he's doing this—so he can feel better about the type of man he is, then i don't want it and I certainly don't need it."
"You—" Lanie started, face contracting, her exasperation bleeding through, and then stopped abruptly as a server descended. Replenishing their wine, the fresh-faced girl genially asked for their orders. Subduedly, they indiscriminately selected entrees, still focused on the conversation, on their distinct rebuttals. And sensing the near palpable tension, the girl rapidly breezed off with a tight smile and reassurances that their selections would be right out.
After a brief collective pause, Lanie began again. "You—and I mean this with all due respect—are full of it, girl. Despite all your claims to the contrary, despite your frustration toward him, you do want this, and I think it's scaring the hell out of you because you've come to care for him in your own way. You're not saving him, you're starting to grow attached. And that's—that's atypical for you. Kate Beckett doesn't depend on people. You try not to need anyone because there's always the possibility you'll lose them, but that's not the way life works. You've gotta invest anyway, regardless of the potential for pain. But you showed him a part of what makes you the messed up wreck that you are and he didn't go running. Rather, he embraced it. Doesn't that…I mean, doesn't that count for something?" The ME folded her hands, canted her body forward, regarded Kate pleadingly.
Struck dumb by Lanie's rambling soliloquy, Kate could only blink owlishly at the woman. In the face of her wordlessness, Lanie sighed patiently and tilted her head, allowed them a moment of silence, and then continued in soothing, equable tones.
"Here's what I see—he's good for you. He didn't have to tell you, but he did. Consequences aside, he bared his sins to you even knowing you'd likely cut him off at the knees. Those—they aren't the actions of a manipulator, Kate. They're the choices of a man who knows he screwed up and who desperately wants to make things right. He's human. He failed. He gets it. Now you have to decide your response. And strictly speaking, if the nature of his real identity was truly such a pivotal facet of your relationship, couldn't you have…oh, I don't know, run his name and address through the DMV or NCIC databases?" She challenged good-naturedly, her eyes too kind, too knowing.
In one smooth motion, Kate swallowed what remained of her wine, grimacing as it seared its way to her stomach, perversely appreciative for the painful diversion. Somewhere along the way, their discussion had taken an unanticipated turn, forcing a confrontation with her own inner demons rather than acting as the cathartic bashing session she'd foreseen. Granted, her experience with Lanie was far from expansive, but in their past exchanges she'd struck Kate as supportive, a source of solidarity with a wealth of sass. In short, a commendable choice for venting relational frustrations. But this was…surprisingly insightful. Authentic. And uncomfortable. She'd pigeonholed the ME, underestimated her perceptiveness. And for all she loathed admitting it, Lanie's claims weren't unsubstantiated. Alex was good for her, and she was pushing him away. Meeting Lanie's soft gaze, she nodded tersely.
God, she needed more wine.
"You're scared of being hurt, sweetie, I get that," Lanie allowed, laying her warm hand over the one Kate had splayed on the tabletop, "I do. And he lied. He was an idiot. I get that, too. But don't use his lie as an excuse to deceive yourself. There's a…tragic, defeatist irony in that. Instead of defaulting to your MO, instead of running from the fear, feel it. Confront it. Conquer it."
"And how do I manage that, exactly?" Kate inquired fractiously, desperate to keep the quiet and her intruding thoughts at bay, not really requiring a response but receiving one all the same.
"I may offer advice, but I don't enforce it. That bit is up to you," she insisted with a wry smile—part apology, part wariness, part affection—that elicited a grudging curve of Kate's own mouth. Forceful or not, she liked Lanie, and she could learn to appreciate fondness that manifested as bossiness. Not that she'd ever admit it to the ME, but it could even be beneficial, Lanie's prickly honesty, her benevolent pushiness. In some ways, she even bore similarities to Alex.
Yeah, Lanie was good for her, too.
"Now that we've slogged through the heavy stuff," Dr. Parish broke through her introspections, voice rueful, "I think we deserve another drink, don't you?"
"You're buying," Kate groused pointedly, and Lanie, regarding her smugly, smirked in response, leaned across the table eagerly.
"So, tell me all about the asshat agent."
Nearly two bottles of wine later, they closed down Molyvos, swaying out to waiting cabs, issuing mellowed farewells. Fatigue had settled heavy on Kate, pulling at her eyelids, slowing her breathing, and the ride home passed in a technicolor blur of streetlights and road signs. Finally, she was stumbling her way up to the fourth floor, mail in hand. After stiffly fumbling with the keys she managed to thank god open her door and push her way in, head hammering, body achy, ready to press herself into the familiar insulation of her duvet. A fifth letter had arrived, and she placed it with his other missives, currently too impaired, thoughts too muddled. Not tonight, she decided, blinking blearily, and moments later drifted off.
She overslept the next morning, rushed through her ablutions and fumbled her way into clean work clothes. Hair summarily swept into a bun, dark circles rimming her eyes, no time for makeup, she made it in to the precinct ten minutes later than intended and loped to the break room, wanted nothing more than an acrid cup of coffee and the stability of her desk.
Shit, she pulled up abruptly. Montgomery. Positioned in front of the coffee maker. Raising his steaming mug to take a swig, he caught sight of her before she could beat a hasty retreat and smiled, either inattentive to her unkempt state or tactfully withholding pointed remarks. Regardless, she was appreciative, and returned his smile with a watery one of her own.
"Beckett," he greeted, "glad to see you. I actually had something I wanted to ask you."
"Sir?" She warily responded, potential inquiries filtering through her mind.
Why are you late, detective? Why do you resemble that junkie kid we've got in holding? How's the illegal investigation into your mother's cold case coming along?
"I've got something of a predicament on my hands," he began apologetically, "and…well, I'd appreciate it if you'd do this for me. As a favor. Although I understand if you have other plans or reservations concerning the nature of my request."
Interest piqued, she took a step forward, tilted her head. "I promise to do what I'm able", she offered, and he nodded, seemingly content with her response.
"Tonight is the NYC Police Foundation's annual fundraising gala. Evelyn was supposed to accompany me, of course, but she and the girls came down with some nasty stomach bug late last night and she's in no shape to leave her bed, much less attend a black tie affair," he fixed her with a meaningful look, "so with an extra ticket on hand, I was wondering if you would consider attending in Evelyn's stead. You can anticipate a surfeit of influential players, both politically and legally, to be in attendance. And your being there will allow for visibility, for networking. Give other significant members of law enforcement the chance to meet you, learn your name, assign a face to all of your commendable accomplishments." Montgomery wrapped up his proposal with a weary smile over the lip of his mug, and she had to swallow back the rush of gratitude and affection that clogged her throat.
He was clever, disguising the invitation as a personal courtesy Kate would be performing, when in truth, it was entirely the reverse. Placing her in the path of state and local officials, of prominent men and women from alternative precincts, was benevolent in the extreme. It spoke of Montgomery's regard for her current professional abilities, but it also insinuated…more. Bore heavier implications. Hinted that Roy saw her progressing quickly through the ranks, and more than that, denoted his tacit support. To have his endorsement felt…hopeful. And she needed that. Needed hope.
"Of course, sir," she managed evenly, voice suspiciously soft, "I would be honored."
"Good, good," he remarked, his expression pleased, "Waldorf Astoria, tonight at eight. We'll swing by and pick you up around…7:30?"
Wait, she stiffened, a bit thrown. We?
Procuring an appropriate gown had proven a nightmarish undertaking, a process starting with strategic phone calls to her depressingly limited network of friends and acquaintances. Admittedly, she needed to get out more. Being such a prolific shut in really took a toll on one's social resources. But thank god for Lanie and her resourceful brain. She'd scoffed when Kate asked if she had any formalwear tucked away.
"Girl, you'd have to gain thirty pounds and shrink a good four inches before anything I had would fit your scrawny body. But I do have a friend that did a little modeling throughout med school—fair money, helped pay the bills, and she got some stellar clothes out of it," Lanie mused, then proceeded to rattle off Delilah's number. Despite her notoriously unreliable namesake, Delilah proved herself generously accommodating and eager to assist Kate in selecting the perfect dress. Rifling through her palatial closet, they culled out an armful of garments that seemed suitable and Kate hurriedly slipped in and out of stiff taffetas, slippery silks, glossy satins, and ethereal chiffons, relying wholly on Delilah's voguish judgment.
Five dresses later, five resounding no's dampening her excitement, she shimmied into a wine red silk, so paper thin as to feel nonexistent. And when she rounded the doorway, Delilah's perfect mouth rounded in pleasure, her tilted eyes glowed. This one. This was it. Decision made.
Impromptu fashion show concluded, Kate left Delilah's loft in a flurry of vivid fabric and effusive thanks, rushing back to her place to cobble together…something. Honestly, everything beyond the dress seemed nebulous—hair, makeup, accessories. Trivial details that were, as a rule, far removed from her everyday focus. Kate's uniform daily look was comprised of minimal makeup, her mother's ring, and her hair gathered in a utilitarian ponytail. For an event of this nature, she was at a loss, frankly. But trying not to overthink it, because this wasn't supposed to be stressful, right?
Standing there indecisively, weighing the potential detriments of settling for a serviceable bun and pearl studs, her doorbell rang. And—seriously, thank god for this clairvoyant woman—there stood Lanie, clutching a nondescript tote bulging with brushes and powder palettes and bobby pins, and of course, an obligatory bottle of white wine. "Bippity, boppety, boo, girl," she muttered wryly, and sashayed into the apartment. In what seemed to Kate a preternaturally brief amount of time, warmed through by the alcohol and their soothing chatter, Lanie wrought a transformation—sweeping her hair into an elegant twist, brushing and blotting and smudging her face to porcelain luminosity, selecting a pair of classically low profile gold drops to complement the severe simplicity of her gown.
With minutes to spare, after donning nude stilettos and smoothing the wrinkles from the bodice, she pirouetted to face her full length mirror and simply stared. Rivetedbecause…the sultry, sylphlike creature who gazed back couldn't possibly be her, all sensuality, all tempered heat. It was such a far cry—a dim refrain, really—from the pallid, gaunt faced, pantsuit to which she'd defaulted in the wake of her mother's death. Inanely, she wondered what Alex would think of this version of Kate, if the reality of her in any way resembled the woman he'd constructed in his mind. Alex, whose letters kept arriving, who kept coming back, who unaccountably knew her despite never having met her.
Alex, who wasn't really Alex at all.
Wrapping Kate in a tight, farewell embrace—which was novel, though not unpleasant—Lanie beat a timely retreat, throwing a wink Kate's way, goading her to "get it" tonight. And now it was 7:25 and she distractedly busied herself to stave off a bewildering spate of nerves, using those last frivolous minutes to assemble a serviceable clutch—stowing lipstick, tissues, a powder compact, a miniature vial of perfume. Jarringly, her phone buzzed, and she gathered up her keys and beaded purse before slipping out the door, down the stairs to the streamlined sedan. Montgomery held the door, took her hand as she gingerly sidled into a seat, and then joined her in the interior, settling beside Sorenson, who looked unexpectedly…dapper. If she was surprised by Will's crisp appearance, flawlessly feted in an elegant tux, then he was undeniably dumbstruck.
"You—" he swallowed reflexively, taking her in with a gratifying measure of stupefaction, "—you look…stunning, detective." Tempting as it was to respond indifferently to his compliment, to provide a well-needed set down, she instead gave him a placating smile and then turned away, freed her attention to wander out the window. Fixedly, she traced the smudged silhouette of buildings thrown into relief by the waning light. Resolutely not wishing her mother could see her as she was now, resplendent in sumptuous silk. Not thinking of the distinctive rise and fall of her mother's voice as she wistfully compared her to Grace Kelly. Refusing to dwell on all of the "should have beens", rebelling against the intruding "could have beens",and utterly failing on every count.
Just as Montgomery had promised, a profusion of silver-haired big wigs milled about the room, the majority of whom laughed too raucously, were accompanied by disproportionately youthful women, and discriminatingly drifted from one politico-legal cabal to the next. It was strange participating in an event of this magnitude. A constituent, but a nonessential—a wallflower among hothouse roses. But it allowed her to observe the noisy throng uninterruptedly, to accompany Roy as he soft-soaped commissioners, police chiefs, state and city reps, and the occasional judge.
Considerate man that he was, Montgomery always secured her an introduction, casually dropped key professional facts like they were baseball scores—"oh, yeah, but then we knew in bringing Kate on, as the youngest woman to make NYC detective, that she'd be an asset." Artlessly littering his exchanges with similar comments, provoking looks of surprise, admiration as he did so. It was flattering and sobering both. To feel the collective weight of assessing eyes on her, to know the unspoken expectations that were assigned to her career, her potential.
Will hovered at her elbow for much of the night—but whether it was poorly executed flirtation or simply offhanded efforts to settle their differences, she couldn't distinguish. Apparently he was a victim of the political nature of these dandified affairs, had received an invitation tendered by the mayor himself as a gesture of civic hospitality and gratitude toward the bureau, and to refuse would have been insensitive. Obtuse as he was, Kate was surprised he'd had the good grace to accept. And from the way his gaze lingered on her, it was safe to assume he no longer considered this event an imposition. His intentions aside, be they reparative or instigative, she could appreciate the continual supply of drinks and appetizers.
But despite all of it—the glitter and the glamour of the evening, the intoxicating flurry of guests and music and conversation, the novelty of the event—her mind persisted in drifting beyond the events at hand. To her mother. To Alex. Diluting her enjoyment, thinning it out with melancholic thoughts.
She had to respond to him. More than that, she wanted to respond to him. Unshared words and thoughts sat heavy in her mouth, and with her initial anger abated, all she felt was a sense of…loss. Was that right? Had she ever had him? She felt as though something was missing, felt as though she'd lost something. A notion which sounded objectively ludicrous even in her mind. Yeah, she had been irrational and a little impetuous and in an ill-advised move had struck up a correspondence with an absolute stranger, she acknowledged that. She did. But, what gave her pause was…it didn't feel like a mistake. And Kate Beckett had learned long ago to trust her instincts implicitly. As a beat cop she depended on its infallibility for survival, as a detective it guided her investigations unerringly. It hadn't failed her yet, that quiet little voice, and all week she'd been smothering the one sentiment it had issued on repeat—talk to Alex.
As Will brought her yet another flute of spumante, touching her elbow with unnerving familiarity, she felt something settle in her chest, a sudden release as she acknowledged the voice. As she deferred to it. Tonight, she resolved with an involuntary smile, feeling as light, as effervescent as the shimmering champagne that slipped down her throat
Tonight.
They left the gala minutes after eleven, and Will chivalrously walked her to the door, face alight with fresh interest and poorly concealed admiration. With a perfunctory goodbye, she darted into her apartment, tactfully suspending the words that threatened to spill free of him—would you have dinner with me? The conversation would be unavoidable, she realized, but tonight she lacked the good grace to let him down easy. To decline on pretext—it's a bad time for me right now. Instead, she wended her way through the apartment, skirts hissing pleasantly as they skated across the floor, and proceeded to splay across her bed. Reaching for the letters, a wave of anticipation coursing through her, she hungrily began to read.
Five letters and some minutes later, pages scattered on the crimson expanse of her skirts, she resurfaced from the hypnotic snare of his words. This was…oh, this was willing vulnerability, she swallowed. Him baring the throat of his emotions to her for scrutiny, for inspection. And it kind of bowled her over, the nature of his apology. He knew full well that sorry was a hollow formality for her, issuing reparation instead through a quirky variation on show me yours I'll show you mine.
He had…surprised her. But then, he always did—rocked her convictions, shattered her presuppositions. And she found that she wanted to return the favor. Longed to set him back on his heels, to affect in him the same dazed wonderment her dress had inspired in Will. So before she could think better of it, she reached for her phone and breathlessly punched in his number with trembling fingers, each purr of the ringtone ratcheting her anticipation higher, higher, higher.
"Talk to me," came a disembodied baritone, lower than she'd expected, gruffer.
And really, she didn't know what she had anticipated—hadn't been cognizant there'd been an expectation—in regards to the cadence and tone of his voice. But somehow, it was nothing like she'd imagined. It was better. For such an eloquent, articulate, almost flowery wordsmith, his tone was surprisingly rough. Sandpaper rasped over hot steel, the coarse weave of a woolen blanket, settling, wrapping around her thickly. But not familiar, she thought with a twinge of disappointment. Nothing that hinted at his identity.
"It's me. It's…Kate," she replied, marginally appalled by how winded she sounded.
A beat, a sharp intake of breath, and then he stutteringly broke the staticky silence. "Kate," he repeated dumbly, obviously shocked, and she felt a mild pang of remorse for her frigid distance.
"Yeah," she continued, her voice warm if not unsteady, nervous, "I…read your letters. Just now, in fact. I've been hoarding them more or less for the past few days."
"While you worked through your rightful frustration?" He surmised ruefully, and she smiled against the receiver.
"Dubious might be a better descriptor, but…you're not wrong," she murmured, quickly warming to this new, rapid exchange of thoughts, no post to slow their pace. "It took a few well-placed words from an concerned an…rather invested third party, but I got there.
"Oh, so you do talk about me," he murmured, just this side of exultant, "I'd wondered if you mentioned the letters to anyone. Or if you'd opted to keep it a dirty little secret."
"If you openly discuss our communications with your mother, I hardly think this qualifies as a a dirty anything, Alex," she scoffed laughingly, and then abruptly sobered at the shape of his name in her mouth, a reminder of why she'd imposed distance in the first place. From the silence on the other line, he was ostensibly tending toward a similar line of reasoning, and they both stewed in a stiff beat of shared awkwardness.
"I know you don't care for the word, so I'll refrain from wielding it, but I hope you know that i am. I really, really am, Kate," he provided, sounding so damn woebegone, so endearingly sincere.
"It's—you're apologizing for something I don't even—" she broke off, reaching for fitting words, failing to find anything sufficiently eloquent. So she opted for simplicity instead. "You lied. And I can't stand lies. They're—they're toxic. But I can…I can also understand why you might have chosen to maintain your anonymity, and I can't necessarily fault you for that. For wanting to be unfettered and fresh, a proverbial blank page. I—believe me, I get it."
"Thank you. For that," he rejoined gently, "and…I don't mind, you know. Telling you. If you want to know, I'll make the formal, albeit long overdue, introduction. Probably shock the ever living hell out of you, but…yeah, if you want to know my name just say the word."
Yes, her mind supplied, tell me. The mystery, the intrigue —she'd be lying if she said a resolution didn't beckon sweetly. But Lanie's philosophical musings drowned out her affirmation tauntingly—what's in a name, Kate?
"What's in a name?" Alex parroted, barking out a laugh, "those are…overtly Shakespearean ponderings for a late night conversation. Not to mention our first, give-and-take conversation."
Jesus Christ, she cursed inwardly, knocking her head against the wall in mute exasperation. How had that slipped out? "I…well, I didn't mean to say that. Aloud. But now that it's been verbalized I'll just…"
"Elaborate?" He surmised after a moment, and she hummed in response, scavenging for concise statements, for the eloquence that had summarily deserted her mere sentences before.
"Alex. Is the name you provided me," she began haltingly, picking up speed as she found a rhythm, "R. Alex Rodgers in full—the conspicuous R an enigma even now. And in the course of the…surfeit of letters we've exchanged, you've readily revealed so much more than a hierarchical collection of letters. Anyone can know a name, can refer to an individual by their given or legal title, but those are just designators. And…" how to express this sentiment without coming across as maudlin, she hadn't a clue. So she just set it free. "I feel like I know you. Not because I know your full name, or your legal name, or information a simple web search would reveal, but…because I've seen the struts and foundations of your mind and character. At least…some of them."
"Many of them," he amended, the rough scrape of his voice a little hushed.
"And that's who you are," she asserted, clutching the phone a little too tight, not sure what exactly she was trying to express but verbally feeling her way, "all these abstruse pieces and memories, your experiences and consequent responses—that's who you are. So…I'm okay with this. With the not knowing. With maintaining the…mystique."
"You are?" He asked, sounding taken aback, a little wary.
"For now," she qualified finally, "though at some point it'd be nice to know which prominent b-lister has been on the receiving end of my various and sundry crises."
"Oh, Kate," he groaned teasingly, "so critical! Self-recrimination hangs poorly on you."
"But you wouldn't know," she shot back, tone verging on coquetry, "would you? How anything…hangs on me."
A strangled sound issued from the other line, and Kate stiffened because that had come out far more overtly sexual in nature than intended.
"And on that unwittingly inappropriate note," she hastily continued, warm cheeks now a match for her vibrant dress, "no search engines."
"No search—" he started to inquire, seemingly lost, so she rushed to clarify.
"No scouring the web for information on one another. If—" and when, she mentally contributed, startling herself, "—we choose to divulge more about our identities, it will be exactly that. A personal revelation. Not an accident precipitated by Yahoo."
"Duly noted," he murmured, and she could hear the contentment, the smile in his voice.
"Good," Kate responded primly and they lapsed into companionate silence, the late hour washing over her, dragging at her eyelids, slackening her mouth.
"Late," he remarked and she huffed. Another pause, and then, "Why'd you read the letters, make the call, Kate? Why tonight?"
"Tonight I was…missing them," the words quiet and candid, her standard reticence softened by drowsiness, by his sonorous voice, by the hazy lamplight. "I was missing them, and…missing you. And your words." She went quiet for a moment, lulled by the rhythmic waft of his breath, "and I can never talk to them again—other than in my head. But you're…still here."
"I'm still here," and the way he said the words made it sound like a vow, like he always would be.
"Yeah," she accepted breathily, unaccountably close to tears and growing drowsier with ever moment.
"Kate?" He finally murmured, punctuating the lacunal still.
"Yeah?"
"Sleep well," he rumbled in her ear, and her mouth curved in reaction.
"You too, Alex."
A/N:
Yikes, this was a epically proportioned post. And I'm not sure what I think of it, though I'm tending toward dissatisfaction—we covered a huge swath of territory in this installment, and they finally got their long-awaited phone conversation, but...I really struggled with it. For whatever reason. If it's not what you guys had in mind, rest assured it's not what I was envisioning either! Regardless, I'm interested to hear your thoughts.
And sorry the update was so delayed! In addition to my quasi-writers's block, I rescued a stray dog last Monday and have been busy treating her for mange and anxiously searching for a home, which I found! Hallelujah for my fuzzy friend! So all's well that ends well. :)
Up Next...Rick loops Martha in, writes Kate another letter, and initiates a phone conversation.