Finding the Fit Chapter 35
"Dessert?" Rick asks as Kate savors the last bite of her entrée.
Picturing the alluring sweets she'd seen go by on the dessert tray, Kate sighs. "Castle, Molava Whittington should be getting home any minute now. We really should go interview her."
"You're right," Rick concedes, signaling for the check. He quickly hands over his titanium card, and the server moves off.
"Castle, you didn't even look at the bill," Kate observes. "Just how rich are you?"
"I looked long enough to decide how much I should tip," Rick responds. "And I'm not James Patterson rich, but I do OK. Actually, he and some of the other occupants of the financial stratosphere usually scrutinize every penny of a check. It can be downright embarrassing sometimes if you're at a table with them. Pinching every penny may be how they built up their hoards. But after the way I grew up, I'm very aware that I have everything I need – and then some. I still love my toys, but I don't require three spirits to teach me there's no point in being a Scrooge. Still, that doesn't mean I like being ripped off, either. When people think you have money, you become an instant target for all kinds of scams."
"Yeah, I've talked to guys in fraud. They have plenty to keep them busy," Kate offers.
The server returns with a folder holding Rick's card and his receipt. He adds a generous tip, tucks his card back in his wallet, and stands up. "Shall we depart, Detective?"
"Let's go."
In her more paranoid moments, Molava had imagined an insistent rap on her door. She had visualized it as coming from federal agents, most likely the FBI, rather than an NYPD detective. Still, she'd worked out a plan: admit to nothing other than being a housecleaner. She saw the chances as very slim they could prove anything else, or even have sufficient cause for a warrant. The feds have been known to embroider a little when talking to a FISA judge, but she wouldn't give them anything to work with. That her communications are encrypted proves nothing. Lots of people use encryption for privacy's sake. There's no law against it. Certainly, the NYPD has no personnel with either the skills or the equipment to break her encryption. She very much doubts that even the NSA or any of the other spy agencies do, or the roof would have fallen in on the big boss's operation a long time ago.
Molava waves Detective Beckett and her civilian observer into her apartment. "I can't imagine how I can help you, Detective. All I do is clean."
"You clean for Yuri Petrovich, do you not?" Kate queries.
"Yes," Molava confirms. "He demands a spotless home. That's my specialty."
"And cleaning is all you do?" Kate asks. "The cost of an apartment like this must be considerable."
Molava brings a flash of anger to her eyes. "I inherited the apartment from my uncle, and I'm not sure I like what you're implying, Detective."
"I'm sorry if you got the wrong impression, Ms. Whittington," Kate replies gently. "I wasn't suggesting that you are doing anything illegal. I was just wondering if you might also run errands for Mr. Petrovich, perhaps be acquainted with his suppliers or business associates."
"I just clean," Molava insists, emphatically shaking her head.
"And I'm sure you do a terrific job," Rick inserts. "Guaranteed Spotless must be quite successful since you aren't taking on new clients. The service must have quite a lot of them since you identify them by number."
Molava blanches. "I don't know anything about that."
"Really?" Rick questions, "when I called to try to sign up, I was asked for one. So I'm sure Mr. Petrovich must have one."
Molava's eyes involuntarily dart between Rick and Kate. "I suppose he might, but as I said, I don't know anything about that."
"Don't you use his number on your timesheet?" Rick presses.
"He's my only assignment right now, so I don't need any numbers," Molava claims. "I just clean. I don't know anything about numbers or anything else. What's Mr. Petrovich supposed to have done, anyway?"
"I can't comment on an ongoing investigation, Ms. Whittington." Kate hands Molava her card. "But if anything occurs to you about Mr. Petrovich that might be of interest to the NYPD, please let me know."
With Rick close behind, Kate quickly exits the apartment. "She's lying through her teeth," Rick declares, "which are also way too nice for someone trying to make a living by scrubbing up. A professional whitening job like that would cost at least a week's wages."
"More research, Castle?" Kate asks. "I don't remember any of your books being about a dentist."
"None of them were," Rick confirms, "but I played with the idea of a dentist spy eliciting information from enemy agents while they were under anesthesia. I just couldn't figure out how to induce that many toothaches with the timing required for the plot to work out. So, I had to toss the idea. Still, I don't think Ms. Whittington was prepared to answer questions about customer numbers."
"You shook her," Kate agrees. "She could be calling whoever she passes information to right now."
"Can you get a warrant for her phone records?" Rick asks.
"The only justification we have is her connection to Petrovich, and that's thin. But if I can catch Judge Markway in a good mood, I might get lucky."
"Judge Markway," Rick repeats. "I met him at a charity golf tournament last year. Nice guy, bad slice."
"You play golf, Castle?"
"No, I was just sponsoring an up-and-coming author who was playing. The game moves too slowly for my taste, although, at one point, I considered having one of my villains use exploding golf balls as weapons. But the physics was all wrong. When you change the weight of a golf ball, you change how it behaves. And if you break up the dimple pattern by putting something inside of it, it won't fly right."
"You really do work at it when you write your stories, don't you, Castle?"
"I do my best. But back to Markway. It was handy having a judge around. He settled a couple of scoring disputes, and seemed quite reasonable."
Kate blows out a breath. "We'll find out."
Kate and Rick catch up to the judge in the hall of the courthouse. "Let me get this straight. You think that Molava Whittington is passing information from this guy Yuri Petrovich up the ladder to a drug and/or gambling ring?" Markway asks.
"We think the gambling is for money laundering," Castle clarifies. "It's mostly about drugs. And Detective Beckett's already established Petrovich's connection to gambling and drug money. Molava Whittington is in contact with Petrovich every day and lives way too well to be doing what she says she's doing."
"You've got the evidence about the drug money?" Markway queries.
"The lab report is attached to my affidavit," Kate confirms.
"All right," Markway agrees, signing his name. "You can check Ms. Whittington's phone records. I hope this works out the way you think it will. And Rick, can we expect you to sponsor a player at the tournament again this year?"
Rick grins. "You can expect me to sponsor two."
"So," Kate says as she and Rick return to her unit. "If you can't kill someone with an exploding golf ball, what do you plan to get out of the tournament next time?"
"Other than contributing to a worthy cause? The tournament is to support literacy, something dear to every writer's heart."
"Other than that."
"Even if golf balls are out, golf clubs offer all manner of possibilities. And the ones with titanium heads would stand up to all sorts of efforts to dispose of the murder weapon."
Kate rolls her eyes. "Of course."