Confession Chapter 6
"So, how was study group?" Castle asks, portioning spaghetti and meatballs into bowls on the counter.
Alexis gulps tap water from a tumbler. "Pretty much the same. We're a couple of chapters ahead of our American History class so we have more time to study for the Regents."
"You study for the Regents?" Castle inquires. "I just took them."
"I know, but you weren't concentrating on getting into a top college. And if we ace the Regents in a subject, we automatically ace the course."
"Which you will anyway."
"Only if I work at it. I don't just suck stuff in the way you do, Dad. Beckett and I were talking about it and…."
"Wait a minute, you and Beckett were talking about me?"
"Only about how good you are at remembering all kinds of obscure facts. She said that it's been useful sometimes for breaking a case. I think she's a little jealous. Sometimes I am."
Castle leans over to kiss his daughter on the head. "Oh, Pumpkin. The way your gram dragged me around and sent me off for a lot of my childhood, I never had the chance to settle in with a study group – or much of any group. I had to pick things up on the fly when I could. If I hadn't developed this trashcan brain of mine, I don't know how I would have survived. If there's anyone who's jealous of something resembling a normal mode of growing up, it's me."
"I never thought about it that way, Dad," Alexis admits. "So, I know you're caught up with Black Pawn because Gina isn't calling to yell at you. Are you working on something else?"
"I have a project, but I'm just getting into it. I don't know where it's going to lead yet."
"But you're excited about it. I can tell because you get those little crinkles around your eyes. It's sweet."
"Do you think Beckett will notice?"
"She's a detective, Dad. I don't know how she'll miss it."
Grateful for a sunny morning, Castle slides in to a chair at an outdoor table at Sal's Café and Ristorante. An ebullient man, obviously fond of the cuisine, settles into the chair opposite him and signals to a server. "What's your pleasure, Ricky?"
"Espresso and some of your biscotti – the chocolate with the almonds along the edges."
"Make it two," Castle's companion tells the server who immediately scurries off. "I know you can get biscotti in that fancy neighborhood of yours. So, what brings my favorite best-selling author to my doorstep? Working on a new story?"
"The biscotti in Soho isn't as good as yours," Castle insists. "And the story is more like an old one. Do you remember what the street cops in the NYPD were up to about 19 years ago?"
"I was just starting out as a soldier then" Sal Cardano recalls, "but yeah, I remember those cops good – my memory, not the cops. They had all kinds of grift going on then, worse than some of what the families were doing. At least we had rules. Some of those guys rode around doing whatever the hell they wanted."
Castle nods. "I've had a hint of that. Did you ever hear of something called incarceration?"
"Hear of it? Those asshole cops grabbed my cousin, Carmine, messed him up pretty good, and then demanded the family come up with 20 Gs 'bail' to get him back. My cousin Vinny thought the old man was going to bust a gut."
"Did the family pay?" Castle asks.
"Yeah, we paid. But so did the cops. They were making a nice bundle from protection. We took it over and guaranteed the businesses more safety than the cops ever could. Unless you piss us off, this territory," Sal waves an arm through the air, "is still the safest place you can be. Even the tourists know it. They come here. They eat. They drink. They shop. They don't worry."
"Aside from losing out on any protection money, what happened to the cops running the incarceration racket?" Castle asks.
Sal grabs a pastry from a platter a server sets on the table. "I just heard rumors."
"What rumors?" Castle questions.
"A politician, this guy Bracken, horned in on the cops. He was the D.A. back then and already making out by cutting deals. The old man had him on a stipend to make sure our guys were kicked loose. But then, Bracken started taking a huge slice of the bail money, controlled the operation. Story goes, he used the funds to run for Congress. I think the cops were glad to be rid of him, but the old man was pissed. He couldn't get the new D.A. to play ball. The hard ass was determined to clean up the streets or something. Unfortunately for the poor man, he had a terrible accident with a waste disposal truck. Barely enough left to bury. Very sad."
"Right. An accident. And the cops?"
"Most of the older guy's grift dried up and the younger ones couldn't get into it. Between Bracken moving on and the pressure from the families, it didn't pay anymore."
"Do you know if a couple of cops named Raglan and McCallister were part of the incarceration racket?"
"I don't know for sure. But their names came up. They weren't among the NYPD's most upright if you know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know. Sal, I really appreciate the info."
"Hey, Ricky, anything for a pal who keeps the autographed first editions for my mother coming. And how's that cop you work with, Beckett? I heard she got shot pretty bad. You and the cops gonna get the asshole who did it?"
"You heard right. But she's coming along a lot faster than the doctors thought she would. I think she'll be OK. And damn right we're going to get the asshole who did it – if Beckett doesn't get him first."
On the short walk to the lot where he parked his car, Castle pulls out his cell phone. "Hey, Ryan, can you do me a favor and pull anything you can find on two cops, Raglan and McCallister?"
"Oh, Castle, normally I would, but Montgomery's got us buried. Wait, isn't Raglan the cop who investigated Johanna Beckett's murder?"
"Right. And he worked with McCallister."
"Castle, do those two have something to do with Beckett getting shot?"
"I believe they might," Castle confirms.
"All right. I'll get Javi into it with me, but we'll have to fly under Montgomery's radar. That may take some time."
"Kevin, whatever you can do, thanks."
"Hey, don't sweat it, Man. Beckett's family."
Carrying a large box, Castle unlocks his small office and gazes at the stacks of cartons and bins full of files still to be read. If they were digitized, he could use Bracken as a keyword and conduct a search in no time. But he'll have to do it the hard way. Sighing, he pulls the parts of a gooseneck floor lamp out of the box, assembles it, and screws in the highest wattage bulb it will take. Fortunately, the cord is long enough to reach the one outlet still visible in the maze. Settling into his desk chair, he reaches up to direct the beam where he needs it. That should help. He picks up a file, slicing his thumb on the sharp cardboard folder. Sucking on the cut, he hopes it's not a bad omen. As the text "D.A. William Bracken" screams from the page, he decides the file is worth a little bloodshed.