Chapter 11

Ryan and Esposito had, of course, noticed Rick's arrival – and his rapid departure, followed by a short absence of Beckett, who returned with a perfectly calm face. From all of this, they deduce without a pause that there had been a fight. A very quiet fight, to be sure, but a fight. They also deduce without further delay that enquiring will be materially injurious to their continued good health, and therefore don't go within six feet of Beckett's desk without having a very good reason.

However, when they do go, to discuss the evidence (or lack of evidence), she's exactly as focused and cool as she ever was. Conversation remains strictly connected to the job. Neither man asks anything that isn't related to cameras, or CSU results. So passes the entire day, in which time Beckett behaves utterly normally and doesn't twitch an eyelash out of turn.

Naturally, Ryan and Espo conclude that there is more to this than they know, but being unaware of Rick's surname they are unable to try to assist – also known as prying, and then, no doubt, known as intimidating. They're not keen on people upsetting their team, and when Beckett's upset, the team is upset. Unfortunately, they have nowhere to start. They can hardly run every Rick in Manhattan, after all.

Until Ryan has an idea.

"Espo?"

"Yeah?"

"What if Beckett's Rick really was that author? What's his name?"

"Dunno…um…."

"There can't be that many authors called Rick" –

"Or Richard" –

"– in Manhattan. We could have a look…" he entices. Esposito makes a thoughtful face.

"We could. Just to rule him out."

"I got it!" Ryan says. "Castle. Richard Castle."

"Okay. Soon as Beckett's out of the way, we'll have a look."

But Beckett isn't out of the way. Beckett, in fact, appears to be set in for the night. The boys leave, and she stays on.

"That's not good, Espo."

"Nope."

"We need some time tomorrow."

"Yep." He pauses. "But right now I need a beer. Want one?"

"Sure."

Beckett trudges home, as late as she can manage: that is, when she's cleared her desk and really cannot pretend that she has anything more to do.

She looks around the kitchen, unhappily. She should eat, but she's not hungry. Misery sits, an indigestible lump, in her gut. She should have known. If it looks too good to be true, it is. Nothing is ever that good. She'll get over it.

She'll have to.

Next time, she's going to run the guy straight away. None of this courtesy, or trust, or ramming down her curiosity. She wishes she'd run Rick Rodgers aka Asshole Castle straight away. She wouldn't have been in this mess if she had. Her taste in men is atrocious. Will cared more about his career than about her (though he could, quite truthfully, have said the same in reverse). And Richard Castle was a celebrity playboy slumming it in dubious bars and cheap burger joints, picking up inspiration – and her – for free. Money for nothing and your chicks for free, in the words of the song.

She pours herself a drink, looks bleakly at the amber liquid, and throws it back; pours another, and sips, very slowly and deliberately. She wants to keep throwing it back until she can't see straight: when she wouldn't be able to think, or focus, or remember. But she won't do that. She knows where that road leads, and so she sips.

Eventually, the whiskey is finished, the soft burn in her throat fading. It's well past midnight: only a small side light puddling on the floor; the sulky glow of streetlamps skulking through the windows. Time to try to sleep.

As soon as she trails into her bedroom, she realises her mistake. Even now, there's a trace of his aroma. She bites down on the surge of emotion, crushing it, opens her windows wide to the cold night air and whining wind, strips her bed and remakes it. It had had clean linens in any event, but she doesn't want the slightest hint or reminder. No memories here.

Shame about the dreams.

She forces herself to rest: at least, her body. Her mind roils, her shamed fury that she had been so deceived, so easily; and indeed that she had deceived herself; leaves her thoughts scrabbling inside her head like a cageful of lab rats. When sleep does overtake her, her dreams are pinpoint sharp. Dreams. Yeah. Well. Nightmares. Rick Rodgers, insisting she goes to celebrity haunts, laughing at how out of place she is, flirting with the hostesses and scribbling in a little black book.

She wakes heavy-eyed and thick-headed, which her shower doesn't cure but her make-up conceals, and arrives in the bullpen at her normal time. Nothing has appeared in the scant hours since she left, and so there is nothing for her to do except drink her coffee and shine up her badge.

Fortunately, before she polishes the top from her desk, information arrives and she can put her head down and work. The boys arrive, take due note of her fierce concentration, and don't disturb her.

In his loft, Castle wakes, miserable, hides it through breakfast, retires to his study and mopes. He can't believe just how wrong this has gone. Worse, her final words are gnawing at him. It was my mother. He's never heard such pain. He's ruined the one thing – he knows this: she told him – that made her feel close to her mother, and he has no idea how to fix it.

In the midst of his misery, his phone rings.

"Rick?"

"Gina," he says heavily. He doesn't want to speak to Gina.

"Your new book."

"Yeah?" He doesn't want to talk about that either.

"It's good."

A day ago, he'd have been dancing on the ceiling at that. Gina never praises. Ever. Today, he doesn't care.

"As part of the Storm PR, we're going to start trailing it. Build up anticipation. By the time it's out, everyone will want it. It's going to be huge. So you need to get on with it. I'll send through the first edits next week. I want them back by the end of the following week. I've set up a preliminary meeting with the cover designer for tomorrow, and with Paula straight after that to start planning the best timing and PR to fit with the Storm schedule."

"Yeah."

"Rick, are you paying any attention? You were totally enthusiastic about this new book and now you sound like you don't give a shit. What's wrong with you?"

Answer comes there none.

"What's her name?" Gina snaps. "You're only ever like this when you don't get what or who you want. Find her, either grovel or screw her, and snap out of it. I'll e-mail you the meetings. Clearly you aren't listening now."

She cuts the call, irritation evident. Castle ignores her tone, her subsequent e-mail, and her commentary. He has no idea what to do. He doesn't care about anything: Storm, Heat, Gina, Paula or anything else that isn't a sure fire way of getting his Kate back. He returns to slump-backed misery.

In the bullpen, Ryan has managed to find a point in time where Beckett is not present – she's gone to the morgue to harass Lanie. He and Espo get started in quick time.

"Okay," Ryan says, fingers flickering rapidly over his keyboard. "Richard Castle, author." He presses enter.

They regard each other, dumbfounded. There are screeds of information. Stacks of it. There are also photos, which resemble Beckett's boyfriend Rick to an extraordinary degree. When they dig back a little, there is another name. Rick Rodgers. They obtain an address: not difficult, and a rap sheet, which makes them snigger.

"Naked police horse riding?"

"You gotta feel sorry for the horse. Probably it's got PTSD."

"Or an inferiority complex." The picture doesn't leave a lot to the imagination, it is true.

"So what're we gonna do?"

But there they stop. They don't know what to do. They don't have a single good reason to go and knock on Richard Castle's door: they can hardly try "are you Rick Rodgers?" and he hasn't – yet – committed or witnessed a crime. Merely – ha! – upsetting Beckett is not a crime, though it may result in one. They finish reading through the information, take a note of the address, and clear both the screen and the search history. By the time Beckett returns, they're peacefully reviewing bank records and camera footage.

Beckett had hoped for some useful information, and so had visited the morgue to see if she could obtain some.

"Hey, girl," Lanie greets her. "How's it going?"

"Fine," Beckett says, attempting cheer. It rapidly becomes obvious that her attempt hasn't succeeded.

"What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Liar," Lanie contradicts. "Man trouble?"

"Guess so."

"Mm?"

"We broke up."

And Beckett, astonishingly and embarrassingly, breaks down. Lanie shuts the door, ushers her friend into the small office, and shuts that door too.

"C'mon, girl. Blow your nose. He's not worth it."

Beckett snuffles and dabs her eyes dry. Lanie looks at her, amazed.

"Where do you get that mascara? It really is waterproof. Come on, you gotta share that!"

Beckett manages a very waterlogged snicker. "Estee Lauder," she admits. "But I" – sniff – "pay a freaking fortune for it."

"Worth it," Lanie decides, "when it sticks like that." She refocuses on the main issue. "So you broke up."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Wasn't who I thought he was."

"Mm? That doesn't tell me much. How am I supposed to tell you what a sonofabitch he is and sympathise properly if you don't give me any information? Come on, you gotta help me out here."

Beckett stares, liquid-eyed, at an innocent patch of wall. Lanie waits, very patiently and very quietly, and makes sure the box of Kleenex is close by. Just as Lanie considers shaking the information out of her friend, she speaks.

"He lied to me."

"Mm?"

"He said he was Rick Rodgers."

"Yeah?" Lanie says carefully, somewhat confused. "And?"

"And he wasn't."

"What? How do you mean he wasn't?"

Beckett sniffs loudly. "It wasn't his name." She sniffs again.

"Oh?"

She gulps. "He lied about his name."

"Yes, but who was he?" Lanie says exasperatedly.

"Richard Castle." She dissolves into tears again.

"What? That author you're so fond of? What's the problem?"

"I met Richard Castle. He was an arrogant asshole who hit on me and he was nothing like Rick. Nothing at all. I blew him off and then he kept calling me but Rick was different and…" she trails off.

"I think you'd better start at the beginning, Kate. I'm totally confused. It's worse than your weirdest cases." Lanie grins evilly. "But if you need me to hide the body, or dismember it, I can sharpen my scalpels."

Beckett explains, shorn of detail, and with the addition of several more Kleenex. Lanie makes a whole series of appropriate noises, and occasionally adds some bloodthirsty suggestions with which Beckett appears to agree.

"So, this Rick Rodgers picked you up in a bar, and instead of hitting on you, you went to Remy's and he said he wanted to try to write a book, and then you got it on. And somewhere in between Richard Castle found out you'd bought some crappy childhood book of his, bought it back" –

"I didn't sell it. I told him to donate to AA," Beckett snips.

"Okay, okay, for a donation. Hope it was big. He sells more books than anyone but God."

"Didn't ask. Don't care."

"Whatever. Lemme finish. Richard Castle hit on you, you blew him off – and I bet you weren't nice about it," Lanie smirks."

"Nope."

"– and then he kept phoning you. All the time, you were getting it on with Rick Rodgers. And then you found out they were the same. Yeah?"

"Yeah." The recitation doesn't seem to make Beckett any happier.

"So how did you not notice they were the same? You're observant."

"I wasn't looking for it, okay! And they dressed and behaved totally differently." She shrugs, bitterly. "He deliberately pretended to be someone else."

"Okay, he's a lying, ratfaced, double-dealing bastard, but why haven't you just shot him and moved on?"

"He spoilt it."

"Uh?" Lanie says very inelegantly. "Spoilt what?"

"You know why I read his books. 'Cause Mom loved them. And when I read them I remembered how she was…" tears start to trickle again. "And he's nothing but a rich, arrogant asshole hitting on any pretty woman he sees and it spoilt them and now I've nothing to remember Mom with at all."

She dissolves again. Lanie, completely unsure what to do with her friend, who never cries, and usually shoots targets or hits things when upset, pats her and keeps passing the tissues. Eventually, fortunately before the Kleenex runs out, Beckett pulls herself together, makes a disgusted face, and stands up.

"Thanks, Lanie."

"Any time."

"Now. You got any results for me?"

"Nope. Takes more than a day. Stop hassling me. You'll get them as soon as I got them."

Beckett grumps at her. Lanie grumps right back.

"Okay. Better get back to the bullpen."

"Seeya. And don't forget, I got sharp scalpels, a saw and a bathful of acid, if you need it."

"Thanks," Beckett says again.

Sitting in Black Pawn's offices the following day, as ordered by Gina, Castle clings to his coffee as the only bearable matter in an unbearable world. He'd barely slept the previous night, again, and he's logy and slow.

"What the hell happened to you?" Gina asks, shocked. "You look like you've been on a three-day bender with the Canal Street panhandlers. You're not ill, are you?" Sympathy is not a notable component of her question.

"No. Can we just get on with this?" Can we just get this over with? I don't wanna be here.

"Okay. First up, cover design." A collection of designs are produced. "These are all fairly stock, but if you pick one or two you think go with the story, we can work from that to produce something original."

He looks at the designs spread across the table, and winces. There's one which is perfect as a base, but all he can see when he looks at it is his lovely Kate all spread out in bed with him: naked as a jaybird and perfectly at ease.

He has to choose. "That one," he decides, and taps the perfect beginning.

"Okay. That was easier than usual. Let's get Paula in and start thinking about the PR."

Castle doesn't want to do that either. He wants to go home and cry. Of course, men don't cry. But he wants to. He has a point-perfect picture of happy, sated Kate in his head – and a matching point-perfect picture of her face as she told him to go. He relapses into black gloom, and doesn't look at anything further than the dregs of his black coffee until Paula sashays in.

"So we got a new series already?" she twangs. "That's unusual."

"Series?" Castle bites out. "That's premature."

"Don't be dumb, Rick. I read it too. Of course it's gonna be a series."

It's not going to be a series, because Kate's ditched him and he has no chance whatsoever of doing the research that he'd need to do to write any further books up to his own standards.

"Let's get this one on the way before we get into the future," Gina points out, which is about the first helpful thing she's done this week. Contrary to Castle's usual view of her, she appears to have picked up on his tension.

She had. As soon as Paula is out the door, Gina is on to him.

"What's up, Rick? Normally you'd be telling us this is a series and the best book you've ever written, yada yada. You've barely opened your mouth all morning. This ought to be a series, so what's your problem?"

"It won't be a series."

Gina's mouth drops open. "What? Why not? It reads like it should be."

"Well, it won't be. So you'd better treat it like a one-off."

"Oh, no. You don't get to send me a book that's the start of a new series and then tell me it isn't without a better explanation than that." Her expression changes to enlightenment. "Oh, for God's sake, Rick. I should have seen it right away. It's the main character, isn't it? You've fallen for her and she won't play. Well, fix it. You're rich, handsome when you try, and apparently charming though you never waste it on me. Surely you can fix it?"

"I can't. She loathes Richard Castle. I need access to her and her precinct and I'm not going to get it."

"That's a problem," Gina says thoughtfully.

Tell me something I don't know, Castle thinks.

"Let me think about it. There's got to be an angle. You're the biggest selling author in New York right now. There'll be a way."

Gina relapses into thought. Castle relapses into more gloom.

"Rick! Rick!"

"Uh? What?"

"Who's that NYPD Captain you play poker with – when you're not fleecing your writing buddies?"

"Uh?"

Gina speaks very slowly, as if she's dealing with the hard of thinking. "You play poker with the Mayor, a judge, and an NYPD Captain. Who is he?"

He stares at her, dumbfounded. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Rick, wake up! Use your pals, for once. Surely an NYPD Captain can get you into an NYPD precinct?"

"I don't know."

"Well, get off your miserable ass and ask him. Who is he?"

"Roy Montgomery."

"Precinct?"

"Don't know. Never asked."

Gina tuts and taps. "Found him. This him?" She turns her laptop round to show a smiling, mid-height African-American.

"Yeah, that's him."

"Okay. What's it say here…. Captain Montgomery, Twelfth Precinct."

"What the hell?" Castle is shocked into life. "Twelfth? But that's Kate's" –

"Oh, so she's called Kate?"

"– precinct," he finishes. Knife-edge? He'd been on the blade of a razor. If Roy had seen him, the jig would have been up in no time at all.

Gina is tapping, and muttering. Suddenly she looks up. "Detective Kate Beckett? She's your inspiration? Christ, Rick, you've really done it now. She must be the star of the precinct. Did you look anything up about her? She's way out of your league. You idiot."

"Uh?"

Gina reads off a list of commendations, with each of which Castle sinks further into his chair. She doesn't need him at all. She didn't care about his fame or fortune because she's absolutely the best there is at her own job. He has nothing to offer her.

"How did you upset her anyway?"

Castle has no intention of discussing that. None at all.

"You crossed paths with her and you hit on her, didn't you?"

As an explanation, it'll do. It's not entirely untrue. He nods.

"Grovel, Rick. Whatever you have to do to get her to forgive you, do it."

"Why do you care?" he sulks.

"Because this series is going to be good, and I want my share of the income," she says matter-of-factly.

That's telling him, he supposes. His heart is shattered, and Gina only cares about him making money. Typical.

"Anyways," Gina continues, "you better call up your pal Roy, and try to fix this."

Thank you to all readers and reviewers.

Guest: this is 15 chapters because it's all written and that's the finished length. I didn't think you wanted me to limit it, I just wasn't clear.