Chapter 2

"I can't find it."

"What can't you find, darling?"

"My book."

"What book?"

"Casino Royale?"

"I haven't seen it in weeks. Isn't it in your study? Or your bedroom?"

Martha ponders. Castle worries his fingernails, and keeps on frantically searching around the loft. "Where's it gone?"

"Darling, does it really matter? You can get it in any bookstore. It's a classic."

"Yes, it matters."

He doesn't explain further: his mother won't understand. It's his luck. His original inspiration, and when he's blocked it's his go-to book to read and remember why he's a writer at all. It's never failed him. And now it's gone. Ridiculous as it seems, he feels that he can't write without it; without knowing that it's benevolently watching him from the bookshelves.

Not that he can write just now anyway. He's been blocked for weeks. Months. And now he's lost his luck.

He returns to his study, and removes every book from the shelves, every paper from his desk, every drawer from its runners. He shifts every mechanical toy, every chair, the couch. The book is not there. He repeats in his bedroom. The book is not there.

The book is gone. His book is gone.

He flumps down at his desk and mourns. Then he begins to wrack his brains; and when that fails wrings them. He cannot think what he's done with the book: he only knows that he has to get it back.

One positive occurs to him. His name is in it, in his ten-year old handwriting. Richard Alexander Rodgers. Of course, that's also a negative. If his current name were in it, Richard Edgar Castle, then there'd be the possibility that some fan would spot it: announce their prize on social media, and he'd pick it up. He could offer them many things, to give it back. Money, photo-opportunity, signed books: even a date, if he had to. Anything, more or less.

He pours himself a medicinal tot of Scotch, and returns to his frantic wracking and wringing. Finally, a tiny treble bell rings at the very furthest reaches of his hearing. There had been a charity drive, and he'd donated three full boxes of full sets of signed Storm books. It's possible – his heart quails – that he'd accidentally included Casino Royale.

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. He's never going to find that. He can't even remember what the charity was.

"Mother," he calls. "Mother, do you remember that charity fundraiser?"

His mother bustles in. "Which one?"

"About a month ago."

She frowns in concentration. "I can't remember, darling. But I do remember you complaining that Gina and Paula dragooned you into donating to it, so I'm sure one of them will remind you."

"Brilliant, Mother!" He hugs her hard. "I'll call them right now." He's dialling before he's finished his sentence.

"Paula, it's Rick. Can you remember what that charity auction was, about a month ago, that I gave three boxes of books to?"

"Lemme think."

Castle waits at least ten seconds. "Well?"

"Looking it up."

"Yeah?"

"Gimme a chance, okay?" Castle can hear tapping, and with considerable effort controls himself. His fingers tap in counterpoint. "Right. It was a fundraiser for AA."

"Who was the organiser?"

"Jenna Cournat. I'll flick you her number. I guess she'll be happy to talk to you. Don't agree to anything without me okaying it. 'Specially if she's pretty."

Castle babbles indignantly.

"I know you, Rick. Pretty girl bats her lashes and you'll do anything."

"Okay, we're done, Paula."

"Lemme know if you need anything else. Bye."

"Bye."

Ten minutes later his phone chirps with a number. He dials instantly.

"Jenna Cournat." It's an uptown accent, neatly clipped off.

"Ms Cournat," he says suavely. "Rick Castle."

"Hello, Mr Castle. Thank you so much for your recent donation. Very generous. We'll do a lot of good with that money."

"How much did you raise?"

"Over the evening, three hundred thousand dollars."

"Impressive. It was about the auction I wanted to talk to you, actually."

"Yes? Your books sold really well."

"There was a book in there that shouldn't have been. Not one of mine."

"Yes? I don't recall…"

"Casino Royale? A pretty old copy."

Jenna Cournat thinks. Eventually, thinking comes to fruition. "Oh… yes. I remember. No-one bid on it" –

"Great. Can I get it back?"

"– except one woman. She paid fifty dollars for it. I think she was a bit frustrated she couldn't get one of your books, but they all went for far more. Your signature really is a draw. Can I talk to you about the next one?"

"Talk to my agent," Castle says quickly. "I'm sure she'll be able to help. Now, this woman who bought the book, do you remember anything about her: her name, anything?"

"I'd need to check our records. Can I get back to you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Castle says, "that would be great." Secretly, he's seriously disappointed. "Thank you. And talk to Paula about the next time."

"Thank you, Mr Castle. Goodbye."

"Bye."

Now what's he going to do?

Half an hour later he has no more idea about what to do than he'd had when he put the phone down. He's stared at his laptop, and had no more inspiration than he had three months ago. He can't bear to edit the last Storm, though Gina is howling for his final amendments (and probably, by now, for his blood. He's not taking her calls any more).

Bored of his own four walls, and not at all willing to try to explain the unexplainable to his mother or Alexis, if she ever comes out of her homework heaven, he finds a jacket against the cool of the evening, and wanders out.

Wandering takes him up, down and around, but doesn't bring him inspiration. Eventually, he tramps heavily down the stairs of the Old Haunt, which he hasn't been to in – oh. Months. Well, actually, more like years – and buys himself a beer. Bottled. The place is looking a bit grimy, and there aren't exactly a lot of customers.

Castle plonks himself down in the booth he used to like – when it was clean and someone occasionally replaced the burnt out electric bulbs in the lights – back in the day, sips at his beer without much enthusiasm and watches the world, or at least that portion of it which visits this now-dingy bar, go by.

The passing trade is not inspiring either. If he sat here all the time, he'd write nothing but noir, which is really not his scene. Still, it's better than staring at his walls. Marginally better –

That is certainly better than staring at his walls. Oh, yes. That more than makes up for the last two hours of wandering around pathetically miserable and then sitting here with mediocre beer and a bad case of the grumps. That makes it all bearable.

That, he discerns, is a tall, slim woman, currently arranging herself in a very gloomy and probably grubby booth, some way from any other solitary drinker. Of course, there are only solitary drinkers in this bar, widely spaced out. She appears to have a whiskey in front of her, though, abominably, the glass also appears to contain ice. On the other hand, looking along the bar, that drink is a pretty cheap blend.

It dawns on Castle that anyone voluntarily drinking cheap blended Scotch with ice in it is probably not looking for delicate nuances in taste, nor are they seeking to savour the subtle flavour, but for oblivion, as fast as they can manage it. He's intrigued. Oblivion frequently follows hard upon break-ups, and break-ups sometimes look for a rebound one-night-stand. He wouldn't be averse to assisting. Not only has he had no inspiration for writing, he also hasn't been with anyone interesting (anyone, in fact) in some time. Not for want of trying: but he's bored of brainless bimbos (and himbos, but he wouldn't want to sleep with them. He doesn't swing both ways) and that's all he's met. In vaguely paranoid moments, he suspects Gina of ensuring there are no interesting women at the events Black Pawn arranges.

Might as well try it, he thinks. The worst that can happen is that he finds that she's just another boring fangirl. Well, she could knock him back, of course, but that's vanishingly rare. He waits a little longer, to ensure that no-one joins her – that would be embarrassing – drains his beer, saunters to the bar and orders another beer – he is not touching that blended abomination – and then wanders towards her.

"Hey," he says.

She looks up, and his jaw drops. Even in poor light, she's stunning. She's also actively hostile.

"I don't want company," she says flatly, barely looking at him.

"I'll leave you to yourself, then," he says with a touch of irritation. She appears to notice.

"I'm not good company. If you're looking for company, you won't find it here."

"Makes two of us," Castle says. "I'm not good company either." Certainly not if he's going to be snipped at. Hasn't she recognised him? In this light, though, he'd be hard pressed to recognise his agent, so maybe it's not so surprising.

She shrugs. "Whatever."

Castle, whose interest has now been piqued – which matches his pique at going unrecognised and being instantly knocked back – plants his beer on the table and his ass on the seat, a safe distance away from both the woman and her whisky. Unobtrusively, he's watching her. Obtrusively, she's ignoring him: staring into the whisky, watching the ice melt; staring at the smeared wooden table top and the floor. After a full five minutes of silence, she hasn't taken a single sip.

"D'you want something a bit better?"

"Huh?" She looks at him in a way that strongly suggests that she'd entirely forgotten his existence.

"You're not drinking it, so obviously you don't like it. Do you want something better?"

"No. Thank you." It's said in a way which removes the possibility of conversation. Castle returns to sipping his beer and covertly watching. The woman returns to staring into the untouched whisky, long-fingered hands around the glass, careless of the condensation and the chill.

Beckett had come into this bar for several reasons: it is nowhere near the precinct; it wasn't particularly visible from the street; it is extremely unlikely to contain anyone who knows her and, having arrived inside, it is, she decides, extremely unlikely to be busy at any stage. She buys a drink – cheap whisky: there's a single malt in the display but she doesn't want to drink, really, she just needs a reason not to leave – and sits in an unpleasantly grimy booth, staring at the drink without seeing it. It has not been a good day.

It's never a good day when she has to shoot to kill.

All she can see in the amber whisky and melting ice is the dead perpetrator and the blood oozing through his shirt. So now there will be the usual investigation, reports, and three days desk duty, minimum, without her Glock. All because some lowlife dumbass thought that he'd rather point a gun at her and threaten to shoot, than come quietly.

And now some other dumbass is making a move. She doesn't even bother looking up: simply snaps at him. It doesn't work, and then she feels marginally guilty, which she shouldn't because why should she put up with being disturbed when she wants to be left alone, and then he sits down. Hell. She goes back to her bleak thoughts and the whisky which she isn't drinking.

He speaks again. She misses it entirely. She couldn't have told anyone what this man looks like, because she – a trained observer – hasn't even looked at his face. Whether she could have seen it in the dim light is another matter. He offers her a drink, and she declines. The only way the day could have got worse would have been if she were chatted up by a barfly, and she is being. Hell. Now if only he'd just take the hint. The whisky doesn't give her any answers, though; and the dumb male sitting there just keeps sitting. Asshole.

Maybe not quite such an asshole. He's not talking. He's not trying to give her a come-on. He's certainly not trying to feel her up – which is not unknown, at least till she turns round and gives those idiots a good view of her shield and gun, and then both barrels. So maybe not an asshole at all.

She flicks him a glance. Oddly, he looks faintly familiar, but she can't place it in the poor light and honestly she really doesn't care.

"What happened?"

Oh. He's talking. She hunches her shoulders and stays silent.

"Look, it's obvious something happened that's upset you. Lemme buy you a drink you actually want to drink and tell me the story."

She's so surprised by the comment – barflies aren't usually perceptive, and since he hadn't taken the pretty clear hint to get lost she hadn't exactly thought he was either – that she looks straight at him.

Oh, fuck.

No wonder he'd looked faintly familiar. What the freaking hell is Richard Castle doing in a dingy, grimy bar? Can't he afford Nobu, or the Pegu Club, or something?

Hold on. Of course Richard Castle wouldn't be in this downmarket, seedy bar. He'd be in Nobu, or the Pegu Club, with half a dozen pretty women, flashing the cash and making a stir. She's mistaken. She has to be mistaken.

"What's your name?" falls out of her mouth.

She looks utterly shocked that she's spoken. And suddenly Castle doesn't want to reveal who he is. He doesn't want to see the dawning look of avarice and avidity in her face: the draw of the celebrity. So he lies.

"Rick Rodgers," he says, and something shifts in her eyes, to… relief, he thinks. That's weird, but welcome.

"Kate," she says. He doesn't miss the lack of a surname, but doesn't question it. He's not here to listen to a life story, only to find out the immediate story. Life stories are generally boring, and he hates being bored. It won't cure his block, either. Sitting here isn't going to find his book. The terror of losing his luck worries at his gut again. "I don't want a drink." She stops. Not exactly chatty, this woman. He waits, not pushing anything: allowing, in her unexpected enquiry, an atmosphere of comrades-in-adversity to develop. Still she doesn't speak.

"I lost something important today," he offers up, eventually. He doesn't say what. He's not keen on being the butt of ridicule. "I can't find it anywhere. So I came out, to try to get past it."

She nods, almost sympathetically. "Sucks, to lose something important," she says. There's something in her face, her voice… but it's gone too quickly to identify. Sounds as if she knows a little about loss, though.

There is another space, but this time it's definitely warmer: almost, but not quite, friendly. Her hands clench around the glass. Bracing herself, he thinks.

"I shot someone, today."

Castle's mouth falls open.

"He's dead."

"But… how come… why aren't you… Oh! You're a cop. You must be."

She stares at him, astounded. "How did you get that?"

"You're not hiding, running, or in jail. Only one set of people get to shoot and not be arrested. But if you're not a cop, you must be FBI. Or CIA. Or some agency no-one's ever heard of…"

"Cop," she cuts through his persiflage.

"I was right," he bounces.

She regards him sardonically. "Cops aren't exactly uncommon."

Castle recovers himself. Cops may not be uncommon, but cops who look like they patrol the catwalk not the sidewalk certainly are uncommon. "That sucks," he unconsciously repeats. "You okay?"

"Part of the job. If you have to take the shot, you take it."

"But you don't have to like it."

"If you like shooting people, don't be a cop. That's not the job."

"What is the job?"

"Solve the crime. Get justice for the victim."

The note in her voice is unmistakable. Passion. A spark of non-sexual interest arrives in Castle's brain. "So what happened today?"

"We got a tip-off" –

"Who's we?"

"Me, Ryan and Esposito" – Castle doesn't ask for more clarification. He'll get that if he needs it, later. "So we got down to the warehouse and there was our killer" – Killer? Homicide? Spark turns to flame – "but he didn't feel like doing the decent thing." She pauses, and her lips pinch thinly. "It's always a bit of a toss-up whether they surrender. He didn't. He pulled a gun." Another pause. "So I shot him," she says coldly. "Before he shot me."

She shudders in memory of the barrel pointing at her. No matter how often she experiences it, no matter the safety of her vest (which is, at best, partial), it's frightening: in reality and in recent memory. It's not the best bit of the job, by any means. Nor is watching him die at her hand. Eventually, she looks up. A pair of warm blue eyes is watching her, without judgement or condemnation.

"What had he done?"

"Murdered his girlfriend. Since he's dead, I can't ask him why." That comes with an acid edge of bitterness. "It won't be a good reason, though. There's never a good reason."

Castle supposes not. Death is pretty permanent.

"So what happens?"

"They took my gun away, I did my report, now they investigate, and when they're finished they give me it back. But till then I can't do anything but desk duty."

Her hands curl back around her glass, knuckles white, fingers knotted. Castle concludes that desk duty is not her favourite thing.

"How long?"

"It's supposed to be three or four days." She sounds entirely dispirited. He extends a hand towards her, then draws it back. She's not looking for comfort. She's not, in fact, looking for anything. The flame of writer's interest burns hotter. Totally self-contained, totally self-sufficient.

Totally uninterested.

Or maybe not quite, because she's gone from brushing him off to answering questions.

"That sucks, too," he agrees. She nods, once. "I guess you don't like being stuck behind a desk."

"No."

As he's about to ask something more, his stomach grumbles, very audibly. He colours slightly. "I didn't get dinner. D'you think there's something here that isn't going to give me ptomaine poisoning?"

She shrugs.

"What did you eat?"

She shrugs again.

"You didn't eat? Why not?"

Another shrug. Shrugs are becoming tedious.

Castle stands up and goes to talk to the bartender. He returns, even less impressed with the Haunt's current management than he had been an hour ago.

"There is no food here. C'mon. Let's go get a burger somewhere."

"What?"

"Burger," Castle says, impatiently. "Food."

"Why?"

"Because I'm hungry, there is no food here, and I want to know about being a cop."

"What?"

"Come on. I'm not going to kidnap you, I just want some dinner."

"You couldn't. I have a g – oh."

Castle stops. "Look, I promise not to kidnap you, okay? My mother would never let me forget it and my daughter would kill me before you got the chance."

"Mother? Daughter?"

"Yeah, well. We live together, okay?"

"Whatever."

He lives with his mother? That's… weird. And not exactly a recommendation. On the other hand, she's not drinking the whisky, now that he's mentioned hunger she is hungry, and she very much doubts that, even without her gun, he could beat her at sparring.

"Okay," she says. "Dinner. There's a burger place about ten minutes' walk from here. Remy's."

"I was going to suggest there too," Castle enthuses. "I love that place." He only just manages not to say and how have I never noticed you there? Surely he'd have noticed someone who looks like this? He doesn't usually miss a gorgeous woman.

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