"Richard Castle is at her station!" - Beckett couldn't have imagined a greater twist of fate. As she walked to the interrogation room, nervously clutching his business card in her hand, her soul was in turmoil. It had been her longtime dream to see him in person, to talk to him one-on-one, but things had changed so much since those long years that talking to him on extraneous topics was absolutely out of the question. And now she is already sitting opposite him, not much, it seems, and worried about himself, and trying to make a psychological portrait of him. And from how frank the conversation will be, the further events will unfold. It is clear that she has already thought about the prospects of the case, and how and why Castle appeared on the scene, she will certainly find out. True, even a glimpse of his blooming, albeit dusty appearance, it was hard to imagine that the writer Richard Castle could kill someone. Until proven otherwise.
And Kate carefully opened the folder, putting it in front of her: the crime scene photos, the image of the shoe impressions in the hallway, and the fingerprints from the knife were already inside. The only thing missing was the autopsy report, which was now being worked on by expert Lainie Parrish, and the blood test, which Mr. Writer had scandalized, but that would not be the case. In the meantime. for now, she'll be doing her regular job, and Castle won't be able to avoid her questions. No one's ever been able to-
- Yeah, my rights have been explained to me. That was pretty slick of you, - and with his hands cuffed together, aided by his cheerful facial expressions, Castle did a sort of arrest scene. - One, and face down on the floor!
- You could have shot her! - she parried with a flying leap. - Once you're here, where's the body!
- Is that because you have a gun? - Castle rejoiced. - What else do you have that's so great? A way of thinking? Hospitality? The breadth of your soul? And how do you feel about handsome men? And I'm kind of one of them!
And, as far as the bond allowed, Castle bobbed up haughtily, but Beckett only grinned wryly.
- You'll never know that, mister, and you're in no position to joke and grimace! And the sooner we get to the bottom of this, the sooner your case goes to the archives! And you're a murder suspect, by the way. Do you have anything to say for yourself?!
- Justification?! It's a set-up, pure and simple! - Castle nodded affirmatively, palms pressed against his chest. - It's an evil Mertonian ambush! Or there's a Masonic conspiracy around me! Or I've inadvertently interfered with the homeless mafia! I hope you're getting the gist of this.
- What?! - her beautiful forehead is riddled with deep, uneven creases. - You expect the police to believe this nonsense?! What are you talking about?! That man was murdered and you're at the scene of the crime! Don't you at least want to pay your respects?
Castle gave himself a nonchalant look, but he just shrugged.
- Well, I had no motive to kill anyone, and I'm not a necrophiliac or a body snatcher, Detective, and I wasn't going to make a Frankenstein out of the poor guy. That I had nothing to do with it, I'll prove it, and no one can forbid me to put forward theories or theories in my defense! You do realize how scary a world we live in, don't you?
Despite his lively facial expressions and his meaningful, giddy gaze, this guy was kind of out of it, and Beckett reacted accordingly, playing her eyes upward.
- I something, even heard about it, and on cable once upon a time, among other things. Anything substantive to say?
- Yes, but before I get tortured with bagels and coffee, please tell me: who is our untimely deceased?
- Bagels and coffee? Too much honor! - and Beckett's eyes rolled laughingly. - Tom Briskin, 41, unemployed, no fixed abode - Beckett had an answer for everything. - He'd done time for stealing groceries from a cafe, released five years ago. What he was doing before he died is still unclear. Did you ever meet him before, Mr. Castle?
- No, - Rick replied nonchalantly, scratching his shackled wrist, not a muscle in his face quivering. - He didn't have the honor.
- And he didn't ask you to sign your book for him?
- I can't remember all the people I've signed the title to, Detective, but the guy's not a book guy: with those calloused hands and unkempt appearance, I wouldn't even trust him with a Bible. Not to mention his latest novel...
- I think someone's overestimating himself, - Beckett snorted, but Castle interrupted her:
- Whoa, whoa, ma'am! First, I'll give you my view of the situation (and without a lawyer yet, mind you!), and in the meantime, you can check my laptop: it's at about... - Rick called the time, - I got an e-mail describing the place where I had to go. And if it weren't for that email, I'd be at the launch party for my book, Storm Falling.
Shaking her head incredulously, Beckett pressed her lips together stubbornly.
- We'll check it out. I'm told you've got a whole series of Derek Storm adventures out, and I take it this is the final one?
Now she spoke in a tired, colorless voice, but Castle wouldn't be Castle if she didn't try to elaborate a little more. After all, recognizing a fan of her books in the first person she meets is no less exciting than finding a book pyromaniac. Maybe Beckett is one of his admirers...
- Do you actually read books, or do you just read autopsy reports? - probing the ground, foolishly smirked Castle, but the attempt to introduce Beckett repulsed immediately.
- You'll never know about that either, Mr. Castle, but even in dry police documents there's something to read, take my word for it.
- Oddly enough, I do, - and Castle, with his hands clasped around his heart, bowed gracefully. - Otherwise you wouldn't have made detective," it sounded cheeky, and Castle was surprised at his own audacity. - Hence I assume that you came to the police with a solid baggage of knowledge and, most likely - by vocation. So, you like to read, and in the educational institution was a diligent and diligent student. And such are valued everywhere!
Tracing his inimitable, sly facial expression, Beckett bit her lower lip skeptically.
- You don't forget yourself, do you, Mr. Castle? I'm definitely the one trying to work here, and the suspect is the guy sitting across from me. And I'll say it again: is there anything you want to tell me?
- I will, but I demand respect, - and Rick showed Beckett his shackled wrists. - I can and do communicate in confidence, but you don't have to handcuff me. Because handcuffs go with whips in other places. Do you have any idea what we're talking about?
- You're a fan of BDSM, aren't you? - grinned wryly detective, pulling out a key, to which Castle playfully so purred:
- Would you like to join me? I do not bite and can be very obedient! And also in such a company, I'm just adored! And in general, in me a lot of positive features! I am generous, kind, attractive, attractive, imposing, and the suit on me sits better than on a mannequin! Also.
- That's enough, Mr. Castle! - Kate even slammed her hand on the countertop as a warning. - We're not gonna unveil a plaque in your honor! And your proposal doesn't sound like a proposal at all! It's ridiculous! It's one kid's kindergarten! Are you ever serious?!
- Always! - Castle nodded so vigorously that Beckett rolled her eyes skeptically. - And actually, I'm a law-abiding citizen, and my presence here is purely accidental!
- And what do you call stealing a horse one day in the spring? - Beckett rose from her seat, and Castle held out her hands: the locks clicked dryly. - The boy cowboy wanted a thrill?
- More than enough! You don't get to experience anything like that, Detective, - Castle continued to smile goofily, kneading his chafed wrists. - You're stiff as a rock, and you can't even undo a button on your blouse.
Feeling herself boiling over, Beckett squinted unkindly and angrily.
- Ahem: are you trying to get at me, Mr. Castle?
- I'm trying to shake you up! - he rounded his eyes innocently. - You need my revelation, and I need a little inspiration. Since I'm a writer, I need character. I even went to the meeting only because of the intrigue.
- Intrigue, - Kate clasped her hands in front of her. - You've decided the quiet life isn't for you?
- I'm looking for a story, a detective, and it's up to you, since you're here by vocation, to help me create it. All you have to do is want to!
- Don't get your hopes up,- Beckett snorted, not looking away. - This isn't your sandbox, and I'm not buying you molds!
- That's too bad. Then I'm at your service! - Castle stopped smiling and all his appearance expressed participation and readiness. - But you have to promise me that you'll let me out of the station soon, or I'll be searched by the mayor.
- The mayor? - Beckett was already laying out the photos neatly in front of Castle, saving the rest for later. - What does he have to do with this? You two know each other?
- Yeah, we play poker sometimes, and he's my boss and admirer... - Castle moved to the table and began to scrutinize the photos one by one: looked closely, drove his finger over them and silently moved his lips. His playful attitude was blown away.
- You've dug up a lot of content here. It looked like an elephant in a bag had stomped down the hallway: the footprints were smudged, and the foot size was at least 13. Plus, the dude wasn't afraid of anything, and he was very confident with his feet. Especially when he was carrying books. Has Mr. Briskin's time of death been determined yet?
- We're working on it!
- That's great! Bravissimo! As for the murder weapon, whose fingerprints are on it, detective? - Castle stared at the photo of the knife handle. - Don't tell me those are-
- ...your prints, Mr. Castle, yes, - and Kate slid the writer another piece of paper. - Here's the forensics report, by the way. There can't be any mistakes.
Setting his left palm aside, Castle stared at it, wiggling his fingers slightly.
- This hand is only capable of good deeds, - and Rick stared at the other. - And the fingers didn't appear on the scene by themselves... So who's our crime-fighting good samaritan?
More out of incomprehensible excitement than out of necessity, Kate straightened the collar of her blouse - her proximity to the writer made her feel hot for some reason.
- An anonymous 911 call with a rough description of the suspicious person: height, clothing, hair color. It's a match.
- So I'm not wrong, - and Castle took another picture. - I was definitely being stalked!
- Hunted? Hunted for what? How does that help us? - Beckett looked at the suspect with interest, wondering where his logic might lead. Especially since she didn't meet such suspects very often. - Did someone hate you?
- Everyone has their haters. Even people who write while sitting on the toilet. When we figure out who burned my books and why, - Rick took a picture with a piece of burnt cover, - we'll figure out the rest.
- Then let us do our job, Mr. Castle! You're in a bit of a wrong...
At that moment, the door opened, and the head of another one of her partners, Kevin Ryan, poked through.
- Beckett, a moment!
Kate stepped out, but before she left, she looked back at Castle, who, without looking at her, was already shuffling the photos in front of him, scrutinizing them from different angles. Probably working up an alibi for himself...