Kate returned to the station alone: Castle had left halfway home. She wanted to complain to him about unfinished business, but her partner looked so tired and sickly, so sad and emotionless, that she didn't even have to ask him why he'd left. Nevertheless, a hard day, without actual marks on the white board, was considered clearly not finished...
...The office was empty, too, and the hands on the clock converged on the number twelve. Beckett was dragging her feet, but no one would do her job for her. And right now, at this very moment, she would change herself slightly and non-publicly. She's gonna be a little different because she's free to make her own decisions without Castle seeing her. So smarmy and polite, enamored with the attention of society and big money, he will undoubtedly try to get close, but she is closed, uncompromisingly closed to him, and her inner world will remain only hers, personal and immutable. And there is nothing wrong or shameful in this, because if a woman is herself, there is no need to change anything...
And so Kate, with a thieving look back, sneaking steps approaching the chrome-plated, for a considerable cost miracle-technique (yes, about its price, she already knows!) New, from the warehouse, the machine shines polished sides, and bright LEDs on the front panel - waiting for commands from the electronic brain. If Castle only knew what it cost her a day of abstinence, and shaking hands Kate picks up an empty mug and, dancing with impatience, waiting for it to be filled to the brim.
The mechanism rumbles smoothly, fragrant vapor smokes, appetizing foam bubbles, and here it is - the first desired sip. Hot liquid slightly scorches the tongue and immediately, invigorating trickle, runs down inside, invigorating the exhausted body. And Kate leisurely empties mug after mug, and such a calm, such a blissful smile lights up the once anxious face: the general tone rises to the peak, the heaviness in the back and legs disappears, the headache passes. And, with a crisp, confident stride, Kate heads for the white board, because a drink is a drink, and work is always work.
...When Castle, yawning audibly in all thirty-two teeth, piled home and after a couple of burgers, with a laptop in his feet, was getting ready to lie down, again came an anonymous letter. Rick opened the link, and immediately, literally from the first frames of the video, the writer's sleepiness was blown away. And everything seemed to be the same at first: the splash screen with faces and dashes, but on a blood-red background, and bright orange ominous sparks were hitting the screen. And again someone was marching to the fire in the hearth of an ancient fireplace, with broken tiles and crumbled stucco, and somewhere in the background a woman was sobbing: she was shrieking hoarsely and at the top of her voice, then she was sobbing in a low and pitiful way, then she was mumbling something inaudible. And someone's distorted, malicious whisper in his, Castle, address uttered undoubtedly prophetic words:
- You did good, Mr. Castle: you got out of the police embrace, and you got yourself a cop as a partner. And a very good one at that. And in another time, Mr. Castle, I would applaud you, but now the bonfire of your books (and not only!) is waiting for its time. See you later...
And then there was a scream so exhausting, so soul-crushing, that Castle almost threw his laptop away. And a sharp pain entered his heart, and the writer's palms rushed to his face, pressing into it to the whitened cheekbones. And Rick froze, swaying back and forth slightly, and intermittently chirped with helplessness through tightly clenched teeth. Because not only could he not do anything, he wouldn't have time to do anything about it. And there was no way to call for help, but in peace and war, more than anywhere else, the sense of elbow and mutual assistance have the deepest meaning. After all, now he, Castle, was actually dragged into an undeclared war, without rules and with an uncertain outcome, and from which he must, simply must come out victorious. And, God knows, there's gonna be revelations. Though he was unlikely to wait for Beckett's revelations in return, but who the hell would predict such a thing nowadays...?
Half the day was spent on publishing and medical matters, and Castle showed up at the station after one o'clock. He greeted everyone discreetly, glancing at the white board and fumbling for the flash drive in his pocket. The video clip was met with optimism and was reviewed back and forth, and after a short but succinct discussion, the two cops plus the writer went to the car - the investigation again took them to some slums. Especially since the video managed to squeeze out a few clues, and while Beckett's car was sneaking down some street, Castle modeled himself a dozen options to penetrate the scene of the crime. The screams of the victim hooked him more tightly than ever, and, in addition, triggered the professional interest of the investigator. Yes, the file had self-deleted again, but now there was a screen recording program on the laptop, and that's why they had a lead...
They turned the corner and drove past a dumpster, from which a pair of feet in shabby sneakers were lazily scratching: the address they were looking for was not far away...
And now, again, a deserted street, stinking, stacked piles of garbage and a small yard behind a peeling fence, where the rusty gate leaf was frozen forever chained. From somewhere comes the noise of a subway, pigeons chirping on the rooftops, and the whole world around is serene. That is if you don't think about the purpose of arrival...
...they got out of the car almost synchronously, and at another time, Castle would have complained about the spartan conditions in Kate's car: tight ass, clicking in the left kneecap, and a hip with a long-standing wound bluntly reminded of itself ...
All this was fundamentally unpleasant, but Castle was glad, unspeakably glad to at least just stretch. And when he with a joyful cry was rushed to the ladder at the entrance to the desired house, he was immediately mercilessly intercepted by the pants belt and dragged back, and Beckett, shifting the weapon from the left hand to the right, snorted unhappily:
- Castle! I told you to stay down! Or have you not yet realized who is the thread and who is the needle?
With a movement of the head Kate signaled Esposito, and he ran up the stairs, nestled shoulder against the right jamb. And then something happened that Castle could never forget: extremely cold-blooded and calculating Beckett, holding the gun with the barrel up and shouted the standard warning, lightning-fast sharp swing, kicked as hard as she could the flimsy, shabby siding. There was a creaking sound, unpleasant for the author's hearing, and the shrivelled sash flew off its top hinge, tumbling inwards and to the right. A cloud of white dust kicked up, but Kate, shielding herself from it with the palm of her hand, bravely scrambled inside. Esposito rushed after her, ducking his head. Castle, however, involuntarily delayed: first, in the nose is wildly itching, and secondly, his precious writer's body did not have such, as the cops, armor. Rick hadn't thought about that at the beginning of the operation, but then he involuntarily realized that it would be a good idea to order a bulletproof vest and decorate it with a distinctive symbol. Then Beckett wouldn't treat him as harshly and dismissively as a puppy. And shrinking back, as if drenched, Castle carefully climbed the entrance ledge. Now he will penetrate into the place where the semi-darkness lurks, and soft, but confident steps move his new buddies ...
- Oh, the creatures of heaven! - Castle swore, involuntarily bowing his head and clamping his nose tightly - the smell of cinders in his face, and this terrible stench could not be confused with anything else: so wild, disgusting and terrible stench of baked human flesh.
Bubbled, blistered skin, burnt hair, charred eye sockets: the essence of man in the nauseating soot of battle that had eaten into his mucous membranes, poisoned his lungs, and eaten away his eyes. And at once bad thoughts came to him, his memory flickered, and his body shuddered slightly. But it was not a fit of cowardice, just a spontaneous nervous attack that happened to him sometimes, and that only his family, therapist and shrink knew about ...
- Castle, are you okay? - she came out of nowhere and even gave him a hand. - Are you okay?
- Y-yeah,- Castle hissed, accepting the goodwill gesture and hoping Beckett hadn't thought anything bad about him. - Is this how ... greet big-name writers? I've smelled a lot of smoking pipes, and I can assure you, Beckett, this one is the most... unflavored and disgusting. I wonder who just- took it for himself?
- Hades, figuratively speaking. And in case you haven't figured it out yet, partner, it's the smell of death. The real smell.
- Beckett! - Espo called out to them from somewhere in the back of the room, and broken glass rang out. - There's no one here, but you should see this!
There was a slight draft, and they stood at the entrance for a moment, trying to get used to the acrid, receptor-irritating haze, and Castle followed Kate out.
...The guest room, soaked in the stinking, nauseating, smoky air, was a rectangular hall with a row of windows on the left hand, a high ceiling, and a huge antique fireplace directly opposite the entrance. The elegant moldings on the ceiling and walls were still preserved somewhere, the wallpaper was not, and someone's hands had done a good job on the blackened parquet, savagely stripping it from its glued base. And, of course, his books were piled up near the fireplace and inside it, burnt, but the contents of the covers were still somewhere recognizable. However, the worst discovery after the fire was the corpse, covered with author's folios from the sides and charred from head to toe. Only the shoes had somehow survived...
- Oh, my God! What kind of atrocity is this? - Castle once gloomy and indignant at what he saw could not resist an exclamation: illuminating himself, he crouched near the charred body, trying to make a coherent picture of what had happened. - It's a woman. Who is she and who suddenly needed her life to confuse, frighten and disarm me?! I'm betting it's a global conspiracy!
- Well, that's commendable, Castle, but it seems simple. She's the victim, and she was doused head-to-toe with fuel and set on fire. And the books were placed to keep the fire going," Beckett, already wearing gloves, crouched behind the corpse, across from Castle and at an oblique angle. - If the fireplace chimney was working and the killer knew to break the glass, the fire would have been much bigger.
- Yeah, it's gonna be a lot of work for the experts,- Esposito remarked as he walked away. - Shall we split up into sectors?
Castle straightened up, realizing the direction of search, and while Beckett professionally examined the victim, the narrow beam of Castle's flashlight slid across the tarnished, shingle-strewn floor, penetrating even the farthest corners of the room, in which no one had lived for a long time. And there was nothing else in it but a sofa, a round table, and a sturdy-looking stool.
And, shining his light under his feet, Castle at once walked in that direction...
He went around the couch and the table, shining the light under the table top and carefully rearranging the cushions - there was no result.
Snorting from the cloud of dust, picked up the stool, turned it upside down and, with the support of the table top, began to tap on each leg with the cap of the flashlight...
- Castle? - Kate, down on her knee, was still examining the victim, but she was keeping an eye on her fidgety partner, too. - You got something?
- No!
- Then what are you hoping to find in the old furniture specifically?
- Well, of course, Beckett, - Castle was diligently picking at one leg and another with a latexed finger, - it's a classic of hiding evidence. Imagine our victim imprisoned, no chance of escape. But she had to be thinking about revenge, right? So she had to leave a trail, a breadcrumb, to expose the perpetrator. That's exactly the kind of breadcrumb I'm looking for...
Castle lifted the stool closer to his eyes, taking a closer look, and then lowered it to the floor and took hold of the chosen leg, wiggling it slightly.
- ...There's got to be something here... Shit! Damn it!
A dry crack of stale wood, part of the leg remained in Castle's hand, and a slightly stronger splinter pierced the latex and sank into the author's hand...
- ... what bad luck! Mother of God! - writhing from the painful sensation, Castle for some time stared dumbly at the uneven wood scrap, in which a priori nothing could be ...
- What: an insidious attack of the antique chair? - Kate grinned imperceptibly, scrutinizing the sole of the victim's shoe. - Forgot to ask permission to inspect it?
- Essp... no, - Castle nervously drew in air: he threw the splinter away and pulled off his gloves, trying to pick up a tiny splinter with his fingernail. - It's just that something and somewhere went wrong in probability theory... Would have to be clarified.
- ... There is something, - Espo muttered as he scrutinized the far corners of the hall. - 'There's hardly any dust on this item.
... They converged on the fireplace, and while Beckett summoned the group, Rick almost sniffed at the find that, lifted by two fingers by a scrap of string, swung in front of Esposito's nose.
- A woman's reticule, they don't make those now,- Beckett joined in the inspection. - Does it remind you of anything, Castle?
- Only that its owner burned to death with my books in her arms-
- Hanna! - and they breathed it out at the same time.
... to gently shake out the contents of the reticule, all three of them crouched down: a broken mirror in a plastic frame, a crumpled packet of cheap cigarettes, a cloud of matches, a clump of crumpled handkerchiefs, a comb without half its tines, some receipts or receipts bound with a tattered rubber band, and the obligatory attribute of any woman, even the most fallen, a set of cosmetics and lipstick with a black plastic cap whitened by time. The worn-out box with incomprehensible logos could still bring joy to the owner and somehow transform, though not for long, her appearance: powder, blush and gloss were scarce inside, the cosmetics had partially lost their properties over time. Oxidized, decomposed, and odorless, Beckett sniffed habitually and wrinkled her nose.
- I don't know how this stuff will help us...
For his part, Castle picked up a huge tube of lipstick with a cracked cap and raised his eyebrows in amazement when he unscrewed it.
- Beckett, look!
Kate looked closely inside the tube - there was almost no lipstick, but a small crumpled paper - there was. And Castle readily shook it out into Beckett's palm.
The detective carefully, trying not to tear, unfolded the message, on which, in simple pencil, but realistically enough, was scrawled some kind of emblem, and just below her mistress of lipstick carelessly scribbled: "Tom" ...
Outside, a car honked and silenced: the experts had arrived. They stomped loudly on the floor, not at all lurking, and, coughing, talked softly among themselves. They dusted past Castle in a businesslike manner; they placed their suitcases on the floor and began to do their business.
Beckett immediately started a conversation with some swarthy brunette (apparently - with her friend), Esposito left the hall to look around the neighborhood, and Castle suddenly felt no one needed. His sniff had already gotten used to the smell of burning, his memories had faded into the background, and only bits and pieces of his labor, his intellectual property, were attracting close attention.
Yes, the criminal had treated this part of the stolen books a little differently, more inventively: he had dragged Hannah's body, covered it with books, doused it with gasoline and set it on fire, but luckily not everything had burned.
Castle crouched down, picking through the pile at random. All the covers were his personal design finds, but this one, one of his very first books, with only the corners burned, meant so much more to him than the others. Because it was both his happiness and his pain...
Carefully picking up the volume, Castle carefully shook off the ash and dust. Opened at random in the middle of the spread, then flipped to the end, for some reason checking the graduation data, and returned to the title. When he felt someone's breath near him, he turned his head: it was Kate, frozen beside him, looking over his shoulder at the bookplate. He didn't know what she wanted to see there, but under the author's name and the title of the book, Beckett saw a framed photo of a very beautiful dark-haired girl. A lively look, charateristic dimples on her cheeks, and a bright pink blush like the barrel of a peach. And Castle straightened up, not just looking at the photo: as if forgetting about Beckett, he stroked and smoothed the portrait with the pad of his finger, stopping now on the lips, then on the cheek, then on the line of the eyebrows. And he frowned, chewing his lips without reason, his cheekbones flaring. And quite imagining how Castle could smile and be the soul of the company, Beckett was struck by the color of his face: earthy, tired, with blue under-eye and a network of wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. So recently blooming and playful, Rick had suddenly aged a dozen or two years, and Kate didn't dare ask him anything. She only realized that he was hurting, and the pain had not faded over the years.
- Five years...- Castle sighed or whispered. - It's been five years... Beckett.
- What?- and her hands balled into fists. - What are you talking about right now?
- The book...- Rick spoke clearly through force, and it was as if he was choking on dry tears. - I dedicated it to her. Kira... The one on the title page... Five years ago, we broke up.
- Uh... I'm sorry, Castle. I know what it's like to break up with someone who meant a lot to you.
- Breaking up is always hard. Especially if you can't forgive.
Castle abruptly slammed the book shut and shoved it behind his back.
- Don't call me today. Even if the Martians attack the station - do not call ...
And with a quick, quickening step hurried away.