Papa Jack Chapter 7

"Are you sure you want to move out, Son?" Jack asks. "Rent on a New York apartment is going to take a big chunk out of even the money you're making from your books. At least here, all we're doing is splitting it. And the place is rent-stabilized. There isn't as much to split."

"Dad, I can afford a place," Richard assures his father. "Actually, I'm not planning to rent. I want to buy one of those industrial lofts from the abandoned businesses in Soho and convert it into a living space. The cost per square foot is much lower than for an apartment, and I've talked to a couple of business majors I know from Columbia. They say it will be an excellent investment. In a few years, it could be worth millions."

"An investment," Jack repeats. "When I was your age, I never thought about investments. I wasn't sure I'd live to reap the profits. But I'm glad you have the opportunity to think ahead. So what comes next?"

"I can put my down payment on a loft and work with a contractor on plans for the conversion. After that, Black Pawn wants me to do a tour for Eye of the Storm. I'm hoping that by the time I come back, the construction will be well enough along for me to move in."

Jack grasps Richard's shoulder. "I hope it all works out for you, Son."

2005

Mail in hand, Richard unlocks the door of his loft. The sheer space of the place still impresses him, a welcome balm for the unease he continues to suffer when surrounded by the crowds gathered at his book signings. By now, he's used to the routine. He likes interacting with his readers, but he'd much rather do it one-on-one or even by mail. He's struck up several interesting correspondences with Castle fans. "Castle," he mutters to himself. More people know him by his nom de plume than had ever known him as Richard Hunt. The legal dept at Black Pawn suggested that he change it legally, to avoid confusion in contracts. He didn't have to give that much thought. Jackson Hunt raised him, and privately, Richard Hunt he is, legally and otherwise. He has his lawyer look over any contracts anyway. Black Pawn is always aiming for maximum control of his work. Having his own legal help ensures he gets a fair deal.

As Richard starts going through the mail, one envelope catches his eye. It's cheaper and less flashy than the usual barrage of ads, offers, and pleas for donations. The back address says, M. Rodgers. Why would he be getting mail at home from Martha Rodgers? Letters from his readers go to Black Pawn for forwarding. He opens it carefully.

Dear Mr. Castle,

You've impressed me with your interest in Support for Starving Actors as well as with your books. I hope that your compassion for those in need extends to victims of Hurricane Katrina. Over eighteen hundred souls were lost, and many more were driven from their homes. They desperately need food, clothing, and shelter. That's where I am hoping you can help.

The Katrina Victims' Fund will be holding a massive rally and fundraiser in Madison Square Garden. It will be televised, allowing not only the attendees but the viewers to contribute to the cause. Many stars of stage and screen will be joining us. As a writer who has captured the imagination of so many, I hope that you can add your voice to our pleas for help for the victims.

Sincerely,

Martha Rodgers

A card enclosed with the letter gives Richard a phone number to call. He wonders how many letters went out with just the name and a few words changed. A computer or even a word processor could whip those out now with very little problem. He doubts his mother typed them herself. Still, she lent her name to the project. He's also aware of the toll the floods have taken on the victims. He recalls reading that the damage was estimated at billions of dollars, but the human toll is incalculable. He reaches for his phone. If he can help, he will.

With only three hours being televised, Richard hadn't expected the fundraiser to run all night. Still, apparently, the performances and speeches are being preserved in a documentary that will be distributed to any TV station or theater willing to show it. The coffee available to the guests and attendees necessitates Richard's visit to the men's room. As he is leaving, he feels a knife against his side and instantly recognizes the voice hissing in his ear. It's one of the same voices he heard when Anna Volkov and her cell kidnapped him. At least one member must have eluded what his father had referred to as "The Good Guys."

Fortunately, since the kidnapping, Richard didn't have to urge his father too hard to get the accomplished spy to teach him a few tricks. After years of practice and reps, he has his attacker on the ground before his brain even registers what he's doing. Yelling loudly, he attracts the attention of a young cop on security duty. She handcuffs the man Richard forced to the ground and secures the knife as evidence. Still, when Richard tries to explain that this is a rogue foreign agent who abducted him years before, the sympathy in her eyes turns to suspicion. She tells him that he'll have to be taken to the 12th Precinct, along with his alleged attacker, to give a statement to a detective. Richard sighs as he nods. Damn! It was a mistake to open his mouth to the NYPD about his kidnapping. But if one cell member is still at large, there may be more. Hell, they might have been planning to bomb the fundraiser. "Officer, um…."

"Beckett," she replies.

"Officer Beckett, it's obvious that you don't believe me. In your place, I probably wouldn't believe me either. Some rich celebrity, who knows what he's on, right? Just for the record, I'm perfectly willing to take a drug test, breathe in an intoxilyzer, or do anything else the NYPD likes. And on the off-chance that I might actually be telling you the truth about who this guy is, wouldn't it be a good idea to get the bomb squad in here? Who knows what he might have planted? This place holds almost 20,000 people. Are you really willing to risk that many lives?"

Kate stares at the writer, searching his face before thumbing a button on her radio. "Officer Beckett reporting a possible bomb threat at Madison Square Garden."

Richard offers a crooked smile. "Thanks."

"If your story is BS, you won't be thanking me, Mr. Castle," Beckett retorts. "You won't be thanking anyone except maybe your lawyer. And you still have to talk to the detectives at the precinct."

"Are you going to come along?" Richard asks.

"No. I'm on security duty, which, if you are telling the truth, will be doubly important. We'll have to get everyone out of here. I'll check in at the 12th at the end of my shift. If you're still there, I'll check in on you too."

"That's very good of you, Officer Beckett."

"That's me doing my job, Mr. Castle. Here come the officers to transport you and your alleged attacker, now."

As he leaves with two other cops, Richard looks back over his shoulder. Damn, Officer Beckett is beautiful. Too bad she thinks he's a nut case. Hopefully, he'll see her again when she finds out he isn't.