Confession Chapter 66
"So, who's next?" Castle wonders as Kate leads the way back to her unit. "Carmella Gonzalez or Clinton White?"
"Whichever one is closest," Kate replies, as her stomach gives an insistent rumble.
"Beckett, this neighborhood is lousy with restaurants," Castle points out, waving up and down the street. "Ooh, perhaps a bad choice of words. But we could do Thai, Sichuan, Cajun, or sushi without leaving the block. Why not grab something? I can do quick searches on Gonzalez and White while we're waiting for our food."
"All right," Kate agrees. "But let's pick the fastest. That's probably sushi."
"Sold," Castle agrees. "While the sushi chef employs his artistry with a knife, my less nimble fingers will input the appropriate keyword phrases."
Kate bumps Castle with her hip. "I haven't noticed anything wrong with the nimbleness of your fingers, Babe.'
Castle darts in for a quick kiss. "My fingers and I thank you. However, you do present a somewhat larger target than my phone's keyboard. Still, I shall endeavor to do my best to capture the essence of our remaining suspects."
"So," Castle reports as Kate artfully uses her chopsticks to pop a sushi roll into her mouth, "neither Gonzalez nor White nor displays of their works, are excessively distant. In fact, they are both featured at galleries in Chelsea. And according to this, White has a studio there as well."
"Mmm, that's probably where we'll find him," Kate figures. "How about Gonzalez? Where does she work?"
"Just a sec, looking. Ah, Ms. Gonzalez is of the turning-society's-refuse-into-art persuasion. According to an article in Avante Garde Redux, she has a workshop up in the Bronx, adjacent to a junkyard. Apparently, she doesn't have to go far to search out her materials."
"All right, let's check out White first," Kate decides. "Then we can go up to the Bronx."
Castle points to a staircase leading below ground level. "Clinton's studio must be down there. It figures. A lot of the old factories they converted to shops and apartments around here had underground storage, with heavy-duty lifts to accommodate it. Clinton works in stone. That arrangement would be the ideal way to get it in and out."
"Let's go," Kate says, heading downward. She can hear the clink of a chisel on rock even before reaching a metal door identified only with a number. "This is the address you found." As she bangs on the door, the sound echoes inside.
"If you have a delivery, leave it. No visitors while I'm working," a voice calls out.
"NYPD, Mr. White," Kate shouts through the door. "I need to ask you some questions."
As Clinton White opens the door, his annoyance is obvious even behind the dust mask that covers much of his face. "Questions about what?"
"I'm Detective Kate Beckett. This is Mr. Castle. We're investigating the murder of Victoria Masterson," Kate explains.
What's visible of the expression on Clinton's dark-skinned face, softens. "Vicky was murdered?"
"It's been all over the news," Castle says.
"I had no idea," Clinton claims. "I never listen to the news or look at my phone when I'm trying to finish a piece. But I don't see how I can help you."
"Where were you the night before last, Mr. White?" Kate questions.
"The McGinnis Gallery, two blocks down from here. Three of my pieces were featured at a showing."
"And how long were you there?" Kate presses.
"From nine to midnight. Plenty of people saw me. No one bought my stuff, but they saw me. I'm probably on video too. McGinnis has security cameras everywhere. Not that they'd require them to guard my work. A thief would need a hoist to move any of it. Look, I know I said some things when Vicky got that Stellus grant. I was going through some hard times and really could have used the money. But things worked out and we made peace years ago. She even showed pictures of my work in the Center's stone carving presentation. I had no reason to hurt her."
"Do you know anyone who did?" Kate asks.
"I can't think of – no, maybe Carmella Gonzalez."
"Because she's also one of the artists Victoria Masterson beat out for the Stellus grant?" Kate inquires.
"No, not that. The grant was no big deal for Carmella. Her pieces have been selling well for years. It could have been nothing, but I saw them talking – more than talking – at a MOMA event a few months ago. I don't know what it was about but Carmella looked pretty upset. Vicky just shook her head and walked away, but I think she was crying."
Kate nods as Castle throws her a look. "All right, Mr. White, thank you for your time." She hands Clinton a card. "If you think of anything else, please call me."
"We need to get up to the Bronx," Kate says as soon as Clinton disappears back into his studio.
"If White was telling us the truth, there may have been something going on between Carmella and Victoria, besides artistic jealousy," Castle muses.
"I'm going to order the security video from the McGinnis Gallery and check out his story," Kate says. "But it sounded like he was being straight with us."
"Uh-huh. And if he was going to leave his mark on Victoria, he'd probably use a stone saw or a chisel, not a carving knife."
The person who answers the door at Carmella Gonzalez's studio is about five feet nine inches tall in hiking boots. Their hair is cut short in a way that would suit either a man or a woman. Under a plaid wool shirt, the figure is carrying what Castle would estimate as about thirty extra pounds around the waistline. Oliver Trask's description of the silhouette he saw at the Center immediately flashes to Castle's mind. A glance at Kate tells him that she shares the thought. "I'm looking for Carmella Gonzalez," Kate says.
"I'm Carmella Gonzalez," the woman answers, "but I'm busy. What do you want?"
"I'm Detective Kate Beckett and this is Mr. Castle. We need to talk to you about Victoria Masterson."
"Then I can't help you. I haven't seen her in months," Carmella insists.
"Do you know she's been murdered?" Castle asks.
"I'm sorry to hear that. But I still can't help you. Like I said, I haven't seen her in months," Carmella reiterates.
"But you did know her," Kate presses. "Have you ever been to the Artisan and Craft Center?"
Muscles pop on the sides of Carmella's jaw. "No, I haven't. My kind of art doesn't fit in down there."
"And why is that?" Castle asks.
"It just doesn't. My sculptures aren't what you would call artisan or crafts."
"So how did you know Victoria Masterson?" Kate asks.
"I am part of the art world. Our paths crossed now and again."
"And did they cross at MOMA a few months ago?" Kate pushes.
"I don't remember," Carmella claims. "And you'll have to excuse me now. I have to deliver a piece in two days and I haven't finished it yet." Carmella closes the door.
"She's hiding something, Beckett," Castle says. "If she had the kind of encounter with Victoria that Clinton White described, she'd remember it."
"And the description Trask gave us of a person behind the Center that he thought was a man could have been Carmella," Kate adds. "We need to find out a lot more about Carmella Gonzalez."
