Finding the Fit Chapter 40
Kate has never been a gamer, except for cards and scrabble. To her, the gaming den, reached by a short flight of narrow wooden steps, looks weirdly anachronistic. The dark walls are styled as if part of an ancient dwelling, yet the sconces are electric. And, of course, iron-age occupants of such an underground retreat would never have dreamed of anything like a computer. The clients of this hideaway, however, are attached to their machines as if by an invisible tether, eyes riveted on screens and hands never leaving their controls.
Rick scans the room for Edmond Georgeson. He locates him at the end of a row, away from the illumination of any of the sconces. "Warlord," he murmurs, approaching Edmond's station.
Without turning away from his machine, Georgeson greets Rick, "Hail Scribe."
"How far are you from reaching the next level?" Rick inquires.
"One last battle until I earn the falchion sword. Almost there. Yes!" As Edmond's triumph flashes on the screen, he hits pause. "We can exchange thoughts in the refreshment chamber."
With Kate at his back, Rick follows Edmond into a small room, also with cave-like walls. Flasks of game-themed beverages are lined up on a rough-hewn table, along with wooden trays of cookies that look suspiciously like oatmeal raisin and chocolate chip. Edmond appreciatively eyes Kate. "Introduce me to your fair companion, Scribe."
"This is Seeker Beckett," Rick replies. "She comes in search of your services."
"You did explain that on your voice-on-air device, Scribe." Edmond's eyes narrow as he regards Kate. "What boon do you offer in return?"
"If you cooperate, I'll do my best to keep you out of prison," Kate replies.
Georgeson shakes his head. "Not enough. I require a signed proclamation under the auspices of the law defender of the district."
"I take it you mean the district attorney's office," Kate responds.
"You interpret my words correctly," Edmond confirms. "Upon receipt of said proclamation, I will endeavor to complete the quest which you propose. Now, I must return to my station and complete my personal quest – this place charges by the hour."
"So, do you think the DA will put the offer in writing?" Rick asks as he and Kate return to her unit.
"I think my documentation of moving a drug and gambling operation from Washington Heights to the mansion in the woods should help. Given that the case originated in New York City, Waterhouse should retain jurisdiction. But I'll need something more concrete than an old architectural treatise. I need the building plans to show the actual construction."
"How long do you think it's going to take to get through the red tape?" Rick asks.
"I was told that my request would be expedited, but I didn't get a promise of any specific time. I could call and poke at the Westchester building department, but I have a feeling that would just piss them off. I'm better off waiting."
Rick's phone chimes. "It was a long shot, but I put a Google alert on any mentions of Petrovich or Elmont Speelman. Double hit! This mentions both of them. Speelman has enlisted Petrovich as a special confidential consultant. Yuri's in Albany at an undisclosed location."
"That's what Speelman was doing at the Harlem house: getting his instructions to protect Petrovich," Kate asserts.
Rick quirks an eyebrow. "At least part of what he was doing at the Harlem house. Any more info on who might come up with the kind of designer drug that Ryan thought would get Speelman high like that?"
"I had Ryan put out some feelers, but not yet. I don't suppose you have some brilliant source that you picked up on one of your book tours."
"Not that I can recall at the moment," Rick says, "but something may come to me. Look, while you're waiting for those plans or your drug info to come in, I need to put a couple of chapters together for Black Pawn. They get antsy when I don't stick to my schedule. I'll check back with you, later, OK?"
"Fine, Castle, good luck with your writing."
"Thanks."
Castle opens the safe hidden behind an Escher painting in his home office and removes a phone. A tone sounds immediately after he presses an icon. As soon as he speaks a code, the connection ends. Taking the phone back to his bedroom, he stretches out on the bed to await a return call. It comes with a ringtone strangely reminiscent of the one used in the Flint movies. Someone has a sense of humor, infrequent at the Company. "Rick, you so rarely call me with any tidbits these days."
"Well, if The Company has any interest in some Russians' – most likely Re-emergence members – facilitation of the drug trade from Afghanistan into the US, I have one now. The Attorney General of New York is protecting Yuri Petrovich, who is probably into it up to his eyeballs."
"We know about Petrovich, Rick. Anything else?"
"How about a drug that a traitor at a high level of government would use to make an official like Attorney General Speelman ecstatically do his bidding?"
"That's something way above your clearance level, Rick. It's barely within mine."
"So such a drug exists and is in use by our government or an enemy of our government?"
"I cannot confirm or deny anything about that Rick."
"Of course, you can't," Rick accepts as the call ends. "But I believe you just did," he says to the empty air.
Rick is swinging the Escher back into place after stowing the secure phone when his ordinary cell phone rings. He stares at the caller ID: M. Rodgers—his mother. "Castle."
"Oh, Richard! I'm so glad you picked up. Look, I know it's sudden, but I'm working on a new play written to get young actors who need to break into the business on stage. One of our possible angels is a huge fan of your books. He's taking a look at what we're doing at the theater tonight, and I was just wondering if you could spare a few moments to say hello. It would do so much for the actors who are surviving – and just barely – by waiting tables. Everyone in the craft needs a leg up some time, Richard."
"Writers do as well, Mother, and I've helped mentor a few. As it happens, I'm just waiting on a couple of things to break right now. Which theater and what time?"
"Eight o'clock at the Experimental on Delancy."
"I'll be there," Rick promises.
The tall, gray-haired man with dark eyebrows scans the outside communications log. A call came in from Richard. He's been out of Company business for years. What could he be mixed up in that would drag him back in? The call went to Turner. Since the unexpected failure of her last mission to Russia, Hunt's had an unsettling feeling about her. He double-checked her record. No red flags. Still, his gut tells him she's not to be trusted – and his gut is rarely wrong. If Richard reached out to her about something, Hunt needs to keep an eye on the situation. It's been a while since he's been to New York and he can always use his monitoring duties of certain diplomatic attaches as an excuse. He might even be able to catch a glimpse or two of Martha or Richard. He still can't make contact. Nothing's changed about that. But with the appropriate equipment, there isn't anyone or anything he can't look in on if he has a mind to do so. And he might have a mind to do just that.