Papa Jack Chapter 15

Jim Beckett's craggy face lights up at the sight of his daughter on his threshold. "Two visits in one week, Katie. Crime in New York slowing down?"

Kate steps into the small apartment where her father moved after her mother's death. Except for the heavily loaded bookcases, the furnishings are minimal. Still, the place is clean and she doesn't detect any signs her father is backsliding into the bottle. "I wish crime was slowing down, Dad, but I'll have a better chance of fighting it as a detective. And that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

Jim waves Kate to a chair at a wooden table and settles into a second chair himself. "Katie, I can always tell when you have something serious on your mind. You get a line on your forehead just like your mother did. So, what's going on?"

"It's about my badging ceremony, Dad. I know you said you'd come, but it could be rough."

"What could be rough about seeing my daughter showered with honors she richly deserves?"

"I don't know about that, Dad. It was Castle who suspected bombs at the Garden. All I did was pass on his suspicions."

"But you did pass them on, Katie, in time to keep anyone from getting killed. You're a good cop, and you'll make a great detective. But what's the problem with the ceremony?"

"Dad, do you remember Detective Raglan?"

"How could I forget him? For weeks, maybe months after he told me your mother was dead, I could barely hear anything else."

"He may have had more to do with Mom's death than being the investigator. I – Castle and I – turned up some evidence that he was involved in a crime that led to her murder."

Jim forces words through a tightening throat. "Katie, are you sure?"

"Dad, I'm not sure of anything. That's why I need to talk to him when he won't feel threatened. I want to ask that he attend the ceremony." Face cradled in his hands, Jim is silent. "Dad?"

The older man slowly raises his head. "If that's what you need to do, Katie, do it."

"Will you be able to handle being there with him?"

Jim straightens in his chair. "If it will help you to find out who killed your mother, I can handle it just fine. But be careful, Katie. You're all I have left."

"I'll be careful, Dad. I promise."

Sardi's maître D' leads diva Martha Rodgers and her young escort to a table in the back room, away from the tourists. A waiter rapidly follows. "Your usual, Ms. Rodgers, the salmon?"

Martha honors the eager server with a smile. "Indeed, omega threes to nourish mind and spirit."

"And you, Sir?" the waiter inquires.

Richard studies the supper menu. "The filet mignon medallions, and I'd like to see the wine list."

"Of course, Sir. Right away."

"The rosé they serve here would go well with both our meals," Martha suggests as the server hurries away.

"Good to know," Richard responds, gazing across the table at his mother. "I've only started learning about wines in the past few years. Before my first bestseller, an occasional beer was a celebration."

"I remember days like that well, although I preferred wine to beer," Martha says. "A group of starving actors would chip in together to come up with the dollar that would buy a bottle of Boone's Farm Apple Wine."

"That stuff was still around when I was in college," Richard recalls, "although it went up a little from a buck. It may still be gracing dormitory rooms and student hovels."

"Still, if we're going to work on your project together, we should aim at providing more than cheap wine for a new generation of creatives. You can't fuel the imagination without a little protein."

"You're interested in nutrition," Richard observes.

"I spent enough time trying to live on almost nothing not to know what it can do to mind and body. At first, I was almost grateful for poverty," Martha confides. "I lived through the Twiggy era when young women thought it was impossible to be too thin. But when, as a young and literally starving actress, I realized I didn't have the energy to make it through one act, I knew I couldn't let my body fail me. I needed food, real food. And then there was… well, never mind that."

Martha notes a strange look from the writer but goes ahead with her story. "Anyway, I started concentrating on getting enough nutrition any way I could, even if it was from peanuts at a bar. But I don't want to see the new generation of actors have to struggle through that. Mr. Castle, are you still with me?"

"Oh, yes, of course, Ms. Rodgers. What you said just reminded me of something. The creative juices don't flow as well for undernourished writers, either. We clearly have a common cause. So, unless you have someone else you'd prefer to do the work, I could outline a plan for our project, raising seed money, finding a venue, etc. It's not exactly my area of expertise, but I know some people who can help get me over the bumps in the road. Then, I can bring what I have to you, and we can go from there."

"If you want to do all the work, I'm not about to look a gift writer in the mouth – although you do have very nice teeth. They remind me a little of – never mind. So, order us a lovely rosé, and let's toast to well-nourished artists."

Richard grins. "Sounds like a plan."

Slumping in his favorite chair in his loft, thoughts whirl through Richard's head. His mother had mentioned "the other thing." Could she have meant getting pregnant with him? Was she honestly afraid she couldn't afford to feed a baby properly? If that was really her reason, then deciding to give him up wasn't selfish. If anything, it was the reverse. And yes, his teeth do look a little like his father's, but it isn't entirely genetics. After various missions, some of his father's teeth had to be replaced. Richard had two knocked out during an unfortunate and unsuccessful attempt to play hockey. Replacing them created a certain convergence. Still, Martha might eventually catch on. Or Richard might tell her the truth. Right now, he's far from deciding.

"Hey, Raglan," Captain Mayfield calls across the bullpen at the 23rd. "Got a thing for you.""Captain, I've already got five cases on my desk," Raglan protests, "and McCallister is out with the flu."

"Relax, Raglan," Mayfield advises, "I'm not giving you another case. The department is using the famous Officer Beckett for PR. They're having some kind of ceremony to give her a gold shield. Since you're the one who investigated her mother's death, she wants you to show up. I guess she thinks you comforted her or something."

"I always try to be respectful of victims' families, Captain," Raglan claims, feeling sweat trickle down his neck. "But with my caseload, isn't attending a ceremony like that a waste of time?"

"Probably," Mayfield agrees, "but the Chief put out the word that to present the department in the most press-friendly light, what Beckett wants for this, Beckett gets. So your ass is going to be at that ceremony. And for God's sake, wear a decent suit. Your ugly face could end up in the paper, and at least your clothes should look good."

"Yes, Sir," Raglan grudgingly agrees, "I'll take care of it."