People used to say the garment district of New York was the heart of the city. At one point thousands of workers were based in the square mile bounded by Fifth and Ninth Avenues from 34th to 42nd Street, and it was the centre for fashion and manufacturing for the entire United States. A lot of businesses were still hanging on, even with the recession biting, and everything from lace to buttons to fabric to made-up clothes were available, and street-sellers could supply knock-off anything, but too many of the showrooms were closed and boarded up.

"I wonder what it was like in its heyday," Rick said as Kate pulled the car to a stop, putting it in park and turning off the engine.

"The same. Just more so."

"Don't you ever wonder?" He climbed out of the car and leaned on the top, gazing at her. "Don't you just yearn to see it how it was? Imagine the voices, the noises, the smells ..."

She sniffed, and her nose wrinkled. "I don't have to imagine."

"You have no romance in your soul, Kate."

"Yes, I do, as it happens. But not while I'm working."

"Ah, but all work and no play …"

"Makes Kate a very happy detective."

"As long as you don't come after me with an axe." He slammed his car door.

"Don't think I haven't been tempted."

He grinned and followed her along the street. Just ahead of them, over the intersection, was a fenced off empty lot, while the building at the end of the row had no windows on the side facing them but advertised in yellowing, peeling white paint Kowalski's Fine Lingerie.

"Is that it?" Rick asked. "The parking lot?"

"Mmn." Kate pointed to the far corner where the detritus of many months was collected. "She was found over there. I still remember her face."

"You remember the faces of all the victims, don't you?"

She glanced at him, but he wasn't being facetious. There was an odd look of caring in his eyes. "Yes. I do," she admitted quietly.

"It's what makes you such an amazing policewoman. Person. Policeperson."

"Just Detective."

"Oh, no. Never just Detective."

She had to smile, just a little. "Come on."

They crossed the intersection.

"I guess they don't use it for parking any more," Rick commented, looking at the fencing, odd bits of greenery growing from the base of the posts.

"No. It's not owned by the same agents as the club, so after the police tape got taken down, that was put up. They thought it would deter people."

"Did it work?"

"No. Not unless used condoms can breed." She indicated gaps where the metal had been forced apart. "If people want to get into a place, it takes a lot more than cheap chainlink to keep them out."

"Hey, at least they're practicing safe sex."

"Around here, safe sex is no sex at all."

They'd reached the front of the club. The name of the previous tenants had been obliterated a long time since, and the front window was blacked out, at least on the inside. Someone had taken care, though, to write The House of Polidori in gold cursive lettering on the glass.

"Very appealing," Rick said, following her inside into a small lobby, with a door at the end of a short corridor next to a staircase.

"Up here," Kate said, heading up the stairs.

"Up? Not down?" He hurried after her. "Somehow I imagined dank basements and cellars."

"You'll see."

A man with a bald head, his scalp polished to a high degree, stood outside a studded black leather door, and he held up his hand. "Members only," he said, indicating the sign on the wall.

Kate flashed her badge. "NYPD. I want to talk to the owner."

"Do you have a warrant?"

"Do I need one? Because I'm quite happy to wait for a whole van load of uniformed officers, who'll go through this place with a fine tooth comb."

The man thought for a moment, then stood to one side. "Welcome to Polidori's." He pushed the door open.

"Thanks." Kate led the way inside, and for a moment had to wait for her eyes to adjust to the gloom.

"Ah," she heard Rick say behind her.

"Exactly."

The large room was coloured black, from walls to ceiling to floors, as were the drapes hanging from every vertical surface. The noirish theme was continued in the black swagged sofas along the edges and scattered throughout the space, with the only colour coming from the low tables painted blood red. Hidden lighting threw long shadows, and created ominous corners. All in all it was dark, glowering, and thoroughly depressing.

"Makes you long for a hint of green or yellow, doesn't it?" Rick said in a low aside.

"Orange."

He glanced at her. "Really?"

"Yes."

He made a mental note to add to Nikki Heat's file, and continued to study the deliberately sinister surroundings, observing with just a hint of appreciation that the club might have been above street level, but great care had been taken to make it look otherwise. The windows had been filled in until not a glimmer of daylight could slip through.

"You think they're worried about crumbling to dust?" Rick asked, nodding towards them.

"I thought you never watched Buffy?"

"Maybe one or two episodes." He shuddered slightly. "And they're just creepy."

The denizens were watching them.

Some twenty men and women, although by rights they should be called boys and girls, since most of them looked barely out of their teens, if that. Lots of black again, some purple, and virginal white, it was almost like looking at a monochrome picture, or an old horror film.

There were more young men with flowing locks than he had expected, but that was probably the influence of Twilight rather than anything more rebellious. One or two were bleached blonds wearing long black leather coats, but the rest were traditional, widow's peaks, capes and all.

"Why am I itching for a stake?" Rick murmured.

"Medium or well done?"

He looked at her, impressed. "Kate. You made a funny."

"Purely unintentionally."

"No, now, come on. Admit it. You meant it."

She silenced him with a glare as a young woman with long blonde hair touching her waist approached them. An almost androgynous figure barely disguised by the bias-cut full length white satin dress she wore, she was thin to the point of emaciation, made more so by make-up that took any natural colour away apart from blood red lips. "Can I help you?" she asked, her voice faintly accented.

"I'd like to speak to the owner," Kate said.

"You the cops?"

Kate nodded, showing her badge again. "Detective Beckett, NYPD."

"You want Oslo. I'll find him for you. Wait here." She wafted away, soon lost in the gloom.

"I still want one of those," Rick whispered in a low aside.

"One what?" Kate asked abstractedly, watching the young people staring at her as if she was a piece of meat. She could almost hear them smacking their lips.

"A badge."

"Don't even think about asking."

"Just a small one. Maybe I should ask the Mayor. You know, just so I can prove –" He had to stop on account of wincing with pain.

Kate lifted her heel from his toe as the girl came back.

"Oslo's just coming," she said, having picked up a drink on the way past, the red liquid moving slowly in the glass. "He's finishing a telephone call."

"Is that what I think it is?" Rick asked, hoping the ache would die down so he wasn't hobbling when he tried to walk.

She held it up so the light could glisten from its surface. "What did you think it was?"

"Oh, not sure. Blood, maybe?"

The girl laughed, but it was a hard, brittle sound. "Not blood. Not in public. Just red wine."

He swallowed, hoping it wasn't noticeable. "Looks … thicker than it should be."

"Added vitamins." She sipped it, her tongue darting out to touch her lips, her eyes half-closing with pleasure.

"How old are you?" Kate had to ask.

The young woman lifted her chin, defiance in every line of her face. "Twenty two. Want to see my driver's licence?"

"If it's as fake as the one Keith Neidermann had on him, not particularly. But I suggest you get rid of it before someone else does."

"Keith? Has he been arrested?"

"No."

"Then he is trouble?"

Kate smiled. "Thank you for your help, Miss …?"

"Kazia. Kazimiera Bozena Bazyli." The words rolled off from her mouth, her accent stronger than before.

"Polish?"

The girl looked surprised. "Yes."

"Thanks again."

Kazia backed away, her face puzzled, and went to sit next to a young man on one of the couches, who, from his marked resemblance, was obviously her brother. They spoke, and he looked up sharply.

"How old do you think she really is?" Rick whispered.

Kate shrugged. "In that get-up? She might be as young as fourteen."

Rick shook his head. "I can understand girls wanting to dress up … I mean, when Alexis was eight she went through a whole phase of not wearing anything except pyjamas."

"Even to school?"

"Well, by that time they were designer pyjamas I'd had made specially, and they didn't have rabbits on them, but …"

"Still pyjamas."

"Mmn."

"How long?"

"How long what?"

"Did it take for her to grow out of it?"

"About a month and a half. Until my mother took her shopping in Saks with my credit card. Then it was all costume jewellery and fake furs."

"Not real ones."

"Oh, no. Alexis has always had that part of her feet firmly on the conservationist floor."

"Still, better than pyjamas."

"Oh, way better. And she grew out of that too."

"Except some little girls don't seem to grow out of it at all."

"Or boys," Rick added, watching a young man pass them, his face painted white, black eyeliner expertly applied. "Didn't you have any fads when you were young?"

"I wanted to be a ballerina," Kate admitted, then wished she had thought before she'd spoken.

"Really?" He put his head onto one side and studied her. "You know, I can imagine you in a tutu. Maybe a wand and a tiara. All sparkly. I bet you looked so cute."

"I didn't."

"So you had one?" He grinned delightedly. "Pink?"

"As it happens," she ground out.

"Are there photos?"

She moved enough so they were face to face. "If there are, do you think there's enough money in the world to pay me to let you see them?"

"How about if I just ask nicely?"

"No."

"Pretty please?"

"Should I come back later?" someone asked, laughter bubbling beneath the surface.

Kate and Rick turned. The amused voice belonged to a man in his thirties, black hair brushed straight back from a long, narrow face, accentuated by a dark, neatly trimmed goatee. About Rick's height, he wore black slacks and a v-neck pullover.

"Are you the manager?" Kate asked, thankful her training could slip her back into hard-boiled cop mode with only the barest hint of colour on her cheeks.

"I'm the owner."

Kate raised an eyebrow. "Derek Jackson?"

"Please. It's Oslo. Derek was my former name. I always hated it."

"Really?" Rick looked surprised. "Always sort of like it myself."

"That's because you spell it like an oil rig," Oslo said unexpectedly. "I know who you are, Mr Castle. Your books are very popular among my clientele." He indicated the young people lounging around, watching them. "Something about all the blood, I imagine. Master of the macabre. Quite a number of them were incensed when you killed off Derrick Storm. Not that I minded. He was getting boring." He smiled slightly. "And of course I changed my name. My parents were far less imaginative."

"So you called yourself after a city in Norway?" Rick asked, feeling just a trifle wounded at the description of his character as boring, entirely forgetting, of course, the very reason he'd killed him off in the first place.

"The capital of Norway."

Despite the heat from the glare he knew Kate was giving him, Rick was loathe to let it go. "It still seems an odd choice."

"Why? There's Paris Hilton, Dakota Fanning, Jack London …"

"That last doesn't really count, but I get your point."

"And I'm an adult. I can be who I choose."

"True. You know, I remember a guy I went to school with called Oklahoma Monroe." Rick shook his head. "He hated us."

"You teased him?" Oslo asked.

"Mercilessly." Rick looked slightly ashamed.

"I blame the parents. At least I decided to call myself Oslo, but have you seen some of the names celebrities give their children nowadays? It's surprising more of them aren't in therapy."

"Well," Rick said, leaning forwards, "I could tell you a few things about –"

Kat coughed, rather loudly. "If you don't mind. We are here on official police business."

"Really?" Oslo looked from Rick to Kate and back again. "Are you a police officer now?"

"He's consulting," Kate said quickly. She showed him her badge. "Is there someplace we can go and talk privately?"

"If you wish. My office is just back here." He led the way through the club, past the bar with its suspicious-looking bottles ranged on the wall behind (no mirror, of course – no self-respecting vampire would want to be reminded it didn't have a reflection) and through a black painted door that blended in almost too well with the wall.

Inside the office was the total opposite. Light, airy, sunlight angling through tall windows. And functional, with two desks, cabinets, and a very modern, very expensive thin-screen laptop.

"Please, sit." Oslo walked behind the larger of the desks, lowering himself into a leather swivel chair.

Kate sat in the only other seat, Rick content to lounge against the wall.

"You weren't around last year, when we tried to interview you about that girl who was killed," she said. "Europe, I believe."

Oslo shrugged. "I like to travel. And no, I wasn't. Not that it had anything to do with the club."

"Not directly."

"She was a member. That was all." He leaned back in his chair. "And the man who killed her wasn't."

"I'm surprised you're still open," Kate went on. "I would have thought this sort of club would be popular for a while, but tastes change. Young people grow up."

"Yes, they do. But there are always more young people, and loneliness is contagious." He tapped the filing cabinet behind him. "My membership list has doubled in the last six months, did you know that?"

"No."

"The recession, people feeling pressured … children are often the first victims, and they need somewhere to go."

"To pretend to be vampires," Rick put in.

Oslo smiled. "To be with others like them, who understand." He leaned forwards, resting his forearms on the desk. "Do you know what they see in vampirism? What they honestly want? Immortality. To be young forever, to never decay, to outlive all those petty problems of the now."

"Everyone grows up," Kate pointed out. "It's the human condition."

"And they hate it."

"So you let them pretend for a while," Rick said, understanding all about illusion.

"Yes. They come here, they sit and talk, and for just a little while they're above it all, superhuman, if you will."

"And you charge them for it," Kate said.

Oslo chuckled. "It is a business, Detective." He clasped his hands lightly. "Now, I presume you weren't here for a discussion on the merits of lifestyle choices."

"No." Kate gazed at him. "We've found a body, Mr Jackson. At the moment there's been no formal ID, but –"

"Are you saying he's a member?"

"I didn't say it was a 'he' at all."

"It was 50-50, Detective. But is he?"

Kate nodded slowly. "He had a membership card on him, yes."

Oslo looked almost distressed. "They're like a family. The young people out there. They'll be devastated. Can you … can you tell me who it was?"

"No. As I said, we've had no formal ID yet."

"No. I see." He took a breath. "Then I don't see how I can be of assistance."

"Have you had any trouble in the past week or so? Fights? Anything out of the ordinary?"

Oslo thought for a moment. "No. Not really."

"That doesn't sound like a 'no' to me."

Oslo shrugged again. "There are always troublemakers. Usually on a Saturday night, after the other clubs have thrown them out, they come around here. They like to shout, break things … I've had the front window replaced twice in the last month, but do the police ever do anything? No."

"Anything worse than shouting?"

"You mean threatening behaviour?" He gazed at her, then reached down to open the bottom drawer of the desk. "I've had these arrive, off and on, for the last year or so." He took out a handful of sheets of paper which he laid flat.

Kate didn't touch them, using her pen to move one of them so she could read the printing more clearly. Block capitals, using what looked like a wide blue marker.

HEAVEN WILL HAVE ITS REVENGE ON YOU. BLASPHEMER.

The others were along the same lines, some more obscene, but all in the same stark capitals.

"Why did you keep them?" Rick asked, reading over Kate's shoulder.

"Amusement value, more than anything." He smiled at the expressions on their faces. "Whoever wrote these … if it makes them happy, why not? Who am I to stand in their way? So far we haven't all suddenly dropped into the nether reaches of hell, and I don't think we're likely to."

"I need to take them," Kate said, getting an evidence bag out of her pocket. She slid them expertly inside, doing up the seal.

"Please, go ahead. I'm sure there'll be more." He looked up at Rick. "You noticed, of course, the correct grammar."

Rick nodded. "The proper use of 'its'." He half-smiled. "And they spelled 'blasphemer' right, too. Someone educated."

"To say the least."

"You're not worried about them?" Kate asked. "The writers, not the grammar."

"Not in the slightest." Oslo sat back again, making the leather creak slightly. "Detective, I go to church every Sunday. I'm down on my knees like the good little Catholic I am, praying for my eternal soul. But business is business."

"Hmmn." Kate watched him, seeing if the silence would make him say something to fill it, something he shouldn't. But he just sat quietly, elbows on the arms of his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his chin, and reminding her of a picture of an aesthetic monk she'd seen once. "Is there anything else you'd like to tell us about?" she asked finally.

"Not unless you'd like to enlighten me as to the nature of the crime. I'm presuming there is a crime. Whoever has died, I doubt very much it was under natural conditions, not from the way you're here."

Kate didn't want to give anything away. "Let's just say it was … bizarre."

"Did blood come into it?"

Now she sat up. "Mr Jackson –"

"Please. Oslo."

"Why would you say that?"

He smiled. "A death. And you come here, to a club for neovampires. I'd say blood had to be a part of it. So either he was staked through the heart, or … perhaps he was bitten, and his blood sucked dry."

There was silence in the room for a moment, then Kate asked, "Mr Jackson, where were you last night?" It couldn't really be as easy as this.

"Well, up until midnight I was here. Then I went home."

"Is there anyone who can corroborate that?"

"Here, yes. I was outside, with my clientele. They like to see me. I'm something of a father confessor to them. Then afterwards … you can always ask my partner."

"Who's she?"

Oslo smiled. "He, actually. He was waiting for me when I got home, with a hot bath and a cold scotch. You can understand I'd rather not give you his name, unless I have to. He's rather well known."

"I do understand, but I'm afraid you have to." Kate slid her notepad across.

Oslo sighed. "Very well." He picked up an ink pen and wrote for a moment before handing it back.

Kate glanced at the name, and her eyebrows lifted just a millimetre. Oslo was right. He was well known. "Thank you."

"No problem." He looked at her. "And since you're obviously not going to tell me anything more, I shall merely ask if there's anything else you need, before you go."

"Just one thing. I'd like a copy of your membership list."

"Checking us out for mass murderers and serial killers?"

"Something like that."

"Then produce your warrant, and you shall have it."

Kate stood up. "Someone will be around later today."

"Fine." He got to his feet, holding out a hand. "You know, you should stay, find out exactly what we do here. We have a lot of people who've lost someone close."

She didn't move, didn't ask how he knew that, but instead said, "Yes. Perhaps we should. Have a word with some of your regulars."

"Except I won't allow you to interview them. Not on my premises."

Kate smiled, but it was cool enough to form ice crystals in the air. "Then another time."

"Of course." He added quickly, seeing Rick about to open the door, "And I'd rather you went out the other way. I don't want you disturbing the members." He crossed to the other corner of the room, opening a second door. It led directly to stairs going down. "If you don't mind."

"Of course." Kate nodded. "Mr Jackson."

"Detective."

She started down the stairs, hearing Rick behind her. The light was cut off as the door closed, but there was a faint glimmer at the bottom.

"Is he trying to get us to break our necks?" Rick complained.

"I wouldn't worry, if I were you," Kate said, reaching the outer door. "You signed your life away, remember?"

"About that. My lawyer had a few things to say."

She stepped out into the daylight. "I bet he did," she said, smirking a little. Checking the street, she could see they'd come out a little way along the block, and had to pass Polidori's to get back to the car. She started to walk.

"Did you know he's threatening to stop representing me?"

"No."

"Yes. Said I'm too reckless."

"Where did he get that idea from?"

"That I don't think before I do things."

She tutted. "That's terrible."

"And the truth is, I do think."

"And then you do them anyway."

"Well, yes …" He stopped outside the club and stared up at the dark windows, blank and yet hooded. "You know, I'm not sure if Oslo's crazy or if it's me."

"You, definitely," Kate called, reaching the intersection.

Rick hurried to catch up. "So who's he shacking up with?" Kate held her notepad over her shoulder so he could read. He whistled. "Really? I had no idea he was gay."

"I'm surprised. You seem to know everyone else in this city."

"Not everyone." They reached the car, and he paused, looked back. "I feel sorry for the kids who go there."

She walked around to the driver's side. "Me too."

"To feel like that's the only place you belong." He shook his head. "What must their homes be like?"

"Honestly, Castle? I think we'll be finding out." She got in.

"But what, exactly, did we get out of going there?" Rick asked, sliding into the passenger seat. "Apart from the need to shower."

"These, for a start," Kate said, putting the evidence bag with the anonymous letters in on the back seat.

"You really think someone killed Keith Neidermann because of the club?" He wasn't scoffing. Not quite.

"No. But I feel it, in here." She touched her chest. "The club's involved somehow."

"How much of that is because of the death of the girl?"

She didn't answer, just turned the key to start the engine. And switched it off again immediately as her cellphone buzzed, tugging it from her pocket.

"Beckett."

"Boss." It was Ryan.

She flicked it onto speaker. "What is it?"

"Message from the Captain. He wants you to meet him over on East 79th."

"The Neidermann house?" Kate glanced up at Rick.

"He's on his way there now."

"Why is he –"

"He saw the photos I was putting up on the murder wall," Ryan said quickly. "He stood staring at them for five minutes, then left. He told me to call you."

"Damn."

"What is it?" Rick asked.

"I'd forgotten," Kate said.

"What? Kate, what is it?" Rick prompted.

"I knew the name Neidermann rang a bell," she said quietly, almost to herself, then louder, into the phone, "Is it the same?"

Ryan was probably nodding. "Yes, boss. I did some checking. The girl who was killed last year, outside Polidori's, Keith Neidermann was interviewed several times during the investigation. She was his girlfriend."

Her mind ran back through the last couple of hours, to the young man on the gurney, so thin, so pale. "But her boyfriend was … bigger. More muscular. That's why we liked him for the murder."

"I know. I didn't recognise him either. But it's him all right."

"I thought you said you caught the guy," Rick put in.

"We did," Kate confirmed. "He confessed, too."

"Then why did you think Keith did it?"

"The girl …" She reached for the name, stared out of the car in case she could read it etched into the air, but it eluded her.

"Elizabeth Rossi," Ryan supplied.

Kate nodded, annoyed with herself for forgetting. "Yes. Thanks." She glanced at Rick. "Liz Rossi was a member of Polidori's but her boyfriend wasn't. At the time we thought he was trying to get her away from there, and maybe it went too far, she struggled …"

"You said she was raped."

"Yes. That's what we kept coming up against too. Everyone said they were a close couple, that he never tried to stop her going to the club, was supportive, all of that. So we kept digging, came up with a teacher who …" She stopped, marshalled her thoughts a moment. "It took a while, but we built a solid case against him." She shook her head. "Perhaps Liz's death hit Keith more than anyone understood."

"So he joined Polidori's to remember her?" Rick didn't look convinced.

"Maybe." Kate looked at him. "But that's not the point."

"What is?"

"The Captain," Kate said softly. "He and Keith Neidermann's father were … are friends."

"You're kidding."

"I'm sorry to say I'm not."

Ryan broke in. "He's gone to tell Neidermann himself."

She handed the phone to Rick, switching the car's engine on and immediately pulling away from the sidewalk. "Do you think he'll wait for us?" she asked.

"No." Ryan sounded unhappy. "I don't think so."

"No," Kate repeated. "Me neither." She put her foot down on the accelerator.