Shared Obsession Chapter 87

A man in a fairly good knock-off of a designer suit and carrying a knock-off attaché case walks rapidly toward Beckett and Castle. He extends his card toward Kate. "Bill McGinnis. I represent Luther Whitehead."

"How about his accomplice?" Kate queries.

"His associate," McGinnis corrects. "But he would be included in any deal."

"What deal?" Kate asks as Castle guffaws. "We have them dead to rights on weapons, possession, assault, desecration of a body, and about a dozen things I haven't even begun to think about. What's my incentive to cut a deal?"

"You don't have them on murder," McGinnis offers.

"Give me time," Kate replies.

"You don't need time because they didn't do it," McGinnis insists. "Ten years concurrent on all charges and they'll tell you everything they know."

Kate's lips tighten. "I'll have to clear it with the A.D.A."

"I already spoke to Toni Gonzales," McGinnis asserts. "She's just waiting for your input."

Kate pulls her cell phone out of the pocket of her jacket and starts to wander toward the empty back hallway. "We'll see about that."

While Kate makes her call, McGinnis glances at Castle. "You her partner?"

"We work together," Castle answers.

"Tough cookie?" McGinnis asks.

A knowing smile shapes Castle's lips. "You have no idea."

"Gonzales is onboard," Kate announces, returning to the two men, "assuming that what your clients tell us turns out to be true."

"It will be," McGinnis assures her.

Slapping her black folder on the table, Kate takes a seat opposite Whitehead. Next to her, Castle sits across from McGinnis, who has Luther's buddy, Hank, on his left. "So, Luther, where was John Allen coming to meet with you?" Kate inquires.

"At a flophouse on 9th. He was supposed to be there by seven. But this guy, he's got three-quarters of a mil of our coke in his stomach and he don't show."

"So what did you do?" Kate asks.

"We went to find him. That's when we heard the sirens, lots of them," Hank answers.

"We go downstairs," Luther continues, "and guess what we see?" He waits for a response from Kate, but getting nothing but impatient silence, goes on. "There were a bunch of cops staring at a tree."

"Allen was in a f***ing tree," Hank interjects.

"We couldn't get our stuff with all those cops there," Luther explains. "So we waited for a chance."

"Which you got when Allen's body was in the ME's van with Dr. Parish and me," Castle says, rubbing a still sore spot on his head."

"Hey, Man, we didn't want to hurt you or the lady doctor," Luther asserts. "We just needed our coke."

"So you grabbed the body and cut it out," Kate declares.

"Yeah," Luther responds. "What else could we do? We didn't get it, we're out $750,000. And we've got expenses, you know?"

"I'm sure you do and Ms. Gonzales will want to know about them in detail," Kate responds. "But I need to know about John Allen. Why did he come to you?"

"He said he needed the money, that he was in deep to someone."

"Did he say who?" Kate asks.

Luther shakes his head. "Just that it was a very bad dude."

"And how did Allen know to come to you and why did you trust him with that much coke?" Castle asks.

"One of my other, um, couriers sent him and vouched for him," Luther replies.

Castle allows himself a split second of pride that one of his assumptions panned out. "And who was that?"

"Ron. We never used last names. He works at Goldman."

"Works at Goldman doing what?" Kate presses.

"I don't know. He said something about the floor, but he wasn't no janitor."

From his place next to Kate's desk, Castle studies a printout of Manhattan employees of Goldman Sachs. "Beckett, this has got to be Allen's voucher. It's a floor trader named Ron Bigsby."

Kate grabs her phone. "Then we better get him in here."

In the box, a fidgety Bigsby stares across the table at Kate. "Dead?"

"Yeah," Kate confirms.

Bigsby continues staring. "Wait, dead?"

Kate blows out her impatience. "Mr. Bigsby, no matter how many times you ask, the answer's not going to change."

"Oh, that's a shame, a damn shame," Bigsby laments. "I mean do you know who John Allen is – was? He was the new Willie Loman, an everyman victim of an apathetic world. God, I swear, someone should write a play." His attention shifts to Castle. "You do those Storm novels. Love them, by the way. Do you write plays?"

"Unproduced," Castle responds, recalling an unsuccessful effort to pen a vehicle for his mother when she'd been decrying the lack of worthy roles.

Kate taps her fingertips against her ever-present folder. "Mr. Bigsby, it's come to our attention that you recently obtained employment for Mr. Allen as a drug mule."

A choking noise erupts from Bigsby's throat. "You know about that?"

"Yeah, and bad news, Ron," Castle adds, "you're going to have to find some new dealers."

"Could I get some water?" Bigsby requests.

"After you tell us about sending John Allen to Luther and Hank," Kate responds.

"What did they tell you?" Bigsby asks.

"That you got him an introduction and vouched for him," Kate says.

Bigsby gazes at her with pleading eyes. "Look, you've got to understand. He came to me desperate. I mean he needed me to save his life. I couldn't say no to that, could I? He said he remembered a story I told at the table one night."

"What table?" Kate demands.

"The poker table. We were in one of the floating games around town – small stakes, right? They're just a way to blow off steam. And he was good, too. He was an actuary, you know. Odds are what they do. But when he got laid off, it stopped being a game for him. He started betting to make up his paycheck. But the stakes were too low. So he went to Chinatown."

"The mob-run games?" Castle asks.

"Yeah, the triads. He did fine for a bit. But luck's fickle, even when you know the odds. Anyone on the floor can tell you that. He lost more than he had to the wrong guy – a very wrong guy. That's when he remembered my story about my own fiscal emergency, how I went to Mexico and made 50 grand in one day. And he had a family, kids, you know? When he asked for help, I couldn't turn him down."

"So this very wrong guy he owed, did he give you a description?" Kate probes. "A name?"

"No name, but John thought he was Russian Mafia because of all his tattoos."

"Did he say where the game was?" Kate questions.

"He thought I'd be safer if I didn't know. John was great that way, a solid guy." Bigsby turns to Castle. "Do you know anyone who would write the play?"

"I'll give it some thought," Castle promises.

Castle sinks into his chair at Kate's desk. "A tattooed Russian in New York doesn't narrow things down much."

"If we're going to find him, we need to know where that game is," Kate says.

"How about the Organized Crime Unit? Wouldn't they know?" Castle asks.

"They don't. I checked. With all the drugs the triads are bringing in, and the protection rackets, gambling's not exactly a priority. How about your pal in the Cardano family?"

"He wouldn't have anything to do with triad business. The Cardanos stay on their side of the fence and the triads stay on theirs. Everyone lives longer that way. But you know, Bigsby asked about writers. Right now, I can't think of a playwright who'd want to do the John Allen story, but one of the guys in my writers' poker crew has been digging into the triads for a possible TV series."

"You have a writers' poker crew?"

"Yeah. As Bigsby pointed out, it's a way to blow off steam – and drink very old scotch. We have Connelly, Lehane, and sometimes Patterson. It depends on who's in town. But strangely enough, there's a game tonight and I think my source will be there. He's been around doing some syndication negotiations."

"Who is it, Castle?"

"The brains behind my favorite TV superhero."