Finding the Fit Chapter 50

"Castle, I'm going to drop you off at your loft," Kate says, as she drives into lower Manhattan. "I need to go secure Bracken's journals."

"You're going alone?" Rick questions. "What if, God forbid, something should happen to you, and no one else knows where they are? I should go with you."

"Castle, we haven't made it a secret that you've been, um, observing me. Everyone who was at the raid knows you were involved. If something happens to me, someone could just as easily come after you. I have to put the notebooks in a place no one would ever think to look. But I'll put a letter in my safety deposit box at the bank telling where they are."

"Beckett, are you sure? That's one hell of a secret to carry by yourself."

"It won't be a secret when the notebooks are used as evidence in Bracken's murder trial – and Coonan's. But until then, they'll have to be where I know Bracken's people – including any of his moles – can't get their hands on them."

"All right, Beckett," Rick says reluctantly. "I hope you pick the safest of hidey holes."

"Yeah, me too, Castle."

Hunt's dark brows jump to his silvery hairline as he goes over the latest local intelligence. He notes a raid in Westchester's woods. It was orchestrated by Detective Kate Beckett, apparently with assistance from Richard Castle. Richard brought in Miranda Beller to provide air support to take out a Russia-connected gambling, drug, and money laundering operation. Clearly, Hunt's son is bringing his Company training to bear, even though the NYPD, including Detective Beckett, seem thoroughly unaware that's what the boy is doing. Boy, hell! His son is definitely a man and, for better or worse, a chip off the old block. The Martha in him is definitely perceptible as well. Hunt has seen it when Richard appeared on late-night TV, particularly with Kimmel. The mobile face that communicates every emotion in his stories, particularly the amusing ones, comes straight from whatever genes go to make an actor. The creativity, at least a large part of it, comes from Martha as well. But Hunt would love to think that Richard's talent for plotting and executing a scenario comes from his contribution to his son's genetics. He fervently hopes that his talent for survival also hitched a ride.

Still, going after a man wielding as much power as William Bracken does, will put as much of a target on Richard's back as it will on Detective Beckett's. Men like Bracken don't like to leave any loose ends, and Richard could be a whole skein. However, one of Bracken's Russian connections is about to be snipped. The operation should be captured by satellite, and Hunt looks forward to viewing the video.

Bracken's connections with the Russians give Hunt a solid excuse to keep an eye on Richard along with his assigned attachés. As of late, they've been spending most of their time indulging in some of the city's quirkier pleasures. Hunt knows that similar services are offered in their mother country. Unfortunately for the patrons, the locations where they're provided are also thoroughly bugged. That's a badly kept secret. The young men Hunt is surveilling are interested in purloining others' secrets, not revealing their own. Dungeon Alley offers a welcome playground.

Kate pulls into an alley beside a building labeled with nothing other than the street number required by building codes. She goes around to the back. A roll-up metal door, wide enough for a car to enter, is closed. Kate tries a metal door beside it that is intended for non-vehicular access and finds it firmly locked. She knocks three times, counts to three, then knocks twice. The sound of boots against a concrete floor comes from inside, and a peephole slides open. "Becks!" the man inside exclaims, pulling the door wide. A husky bearded figure with heavy eyebrows beneath a flydanna grabs her in a bear hug. "Haven't seen you in ages! Come to work on your bike?"

Kate shakes her head regretfully. "I wish I had time for that, Sparks. I have some very important evidence I need to hide from the man responsible for killing my mother."

"You finally found out who that is? That's great, Becks!"

"Yeah. And the reason it's taken so long is the guy has a lot of power, I mean a lot, Sparks, like a Kawasaki Ninja H2 R. And he may have eyes anywhere. This place is one thing about me that doesn't appear in any of my records or bios. Can I stash the stuff here until I can use it to nail him?"

"Of course you can, Becks. I'd love to see the balls ripped off that sonofabitch."

"So would I," Kate admits. "But what I've got will buy him several life sentences at Attica. What happens to him there, happens."

Sparks grins. "Right. So is the stuff in your car? I can help you put it in the rare parts locker. No one gets in there but me."

Kate returns his smile. "Thanks, Sparks. That will be perfect."

Petrovich settles back on the bed in his cabin on the yacht. The time he'd been "consulting" with Elmont Speelman in Albany had hardly been comfortable. According to Speelman, the accommodations had been the best his office could handle, but they were hardly up to the standards to which Petrovich had become accustomed, either in Russia or his home in Forest Hills. The river cruise that brought him to New York Harbor hadn't been bad, but hardly luxurious. Worse, the boat to the yacht had offered no comforts at all, just a hard seat where he was bombarded by engine noise.

The yacht is a lot more to his liking. The cabin is well-appointed, and the bed has high quality linens. An electric hot water kettle suited for making chai sits on a counter, and a cabinet holds his favorite vodka. According to the captain, the yacht came a little closer to shore than he would have liked. Its rendezvous with the boat had been just short of international waters. But it will soon be underway again and out of the reach of American authorities.

A loud horn vibrates the wall of the cabin, and a speaker blasts from outside the yacht. "This is the U.S. Coast Guard. You are carrying a passenger wanted for questioning by U.S. authorities. Prepare to be boarded."

Petrovich springs upright, trying to formulate a plan. If he goes up on deck, he could be seized immediately. He scans his cabin for possible hiding places. He considers the small head, but figures he'd be found there immediately. The cabin boasts a locker for clothing storage, and Yuri has yet to unpack. It should be empty. If he holds in a gut swelled by too much American food, he might just fit inside. Right now, it's his only option. Working desperately to jam his body into the unforgiving space, he's almost managed to close the door behind him when he hears footsteps.

The locker door is jerked open, and Petrovich stares straight into the face of a Coast Guard officer. Large and black, he looks like one of the toughs that American movies often show indulging in a gang war. However, his crisp uniform is far from gang colors, and his sidearm appears very much regulation. "Yuri Petrovich," a surprisingly mild voice addresses the Russian, "you need to come with me."

A/N The Coast Guard officer is based on a former classmate of mine who became, among many other things, a Coast Guard intelligence officer. Despite being a very scary-looking guy, he can be very helpful. From time to time, I've used things (non-classified) that I've learned from him in my stories. He always has interesting views of what's happening in the world.