Papa Jack Chapter 28
"We need to find that van and the driver," Kate declares, picking up a marker at the whiteboard. "He's our connection to Long Island and WH Enterprises."
"Too bad Marcus wasn't paying enough attention to give you a plate number," Richard says.
"I don't think he wanted to pay that kind of attention," Kate muses. "But he was able to give us the make and the color. We have a time period for when it was in the parking lot at Freedom Plaza. We should be able to pick it up from there." Kate writes "cameras" on the board. The van could have appeared on one of the red-light cameras in the area. And with the United Nations so close to the plaza, there have to be security cameras all over the place. He's got to pop up somewhere. We're going to need some help looking at all that security footage, though. I'll have to ask Montgomery to pull in some people. That's going to eat into his budget."
"How about volunteers?" Richard inquires. "I keep seeing retired cops hanging around in the lobby downstairs pumping the desk sergeant for NYPD news and gossip. I bet they'd get a kick out of working on a real case again – especially if they can do it from the comfort of a chair."
"I don't know how comfortable any chairs we'll have for them will be, Castle," Kate considers. "But it's not a bad idea. I'll call downstairs and see who the sergeant can round up."
"Detective Beckett, I think I've got the driver," retired officer Hervey calls from an improvised viewing station. "He fits the description. The security camera in a coffee shop in Freedom Plaza caught him."
Kate studies the image on Hervey's screen. "He does match the description, and the timestamp would put this just before his meeting with Marcus. It looks like he's wearing a ring, but this footage is too fuzzy to make out much detail. Still, capture the image. We can show it around the plaza and see if anyone recognizes him."
Retired Officer Jamison beckons Kate. "Looks like the jerk you're looking for could have been stupid enough to try to run a red light on the way to the LIE. This van has a slight dent in the front bumper, like the description."
"The dent is just like the description," Kate agrees, "and the color and make are right, too. That's a clear photo of the plate. The DMV will already have generated a summons for running the light. I'll see where and to whom they sent it."
Richard strolls into the bullpen and up to Kate's desk with an armload of pizza boxes. "So, have you identified the mystery driver yet?"
Kate shakes her head. "No such luck. Turns out the van was stolen. It belonged to a Mildred Romney, who died last year at age 72. She used the van to deliver Amway products. It had been in storage ever since she died, and her family didn't even know it was stolen. It's no wonder our guy wasn't afraid to run a light. He knew he wouldn't get caught. But we can still use the plate to track it if he runs another light or tries to beat a toll. And I put out a BOLO on the van and the driver to the NYPD and the cops on Long Island. Our volunteers are still looking at surveillance videos from all the businesses around Freedom Plaza and near the entrance to the LIE. If there's a place he goes regularly, we might be able to catch him there."
"In which case, I should hurry to feed those who valiantly risk eyestrain for nothing more than the satisfaction of pursuing justice."
Kate eyes the pizza boxes. "What kind did you get?"
"The usual, mostly, pepperoni, sausage. But Hervey wanted Hawaiian pizza."
Kate wrinkles her nose. "With ham and pineapple?"
Richard shrugs as well as he can without dropping the pizza. "Different strokes." He looks down at a bag hanging from his arm. "I got something special for you: a Petrelli's meatball sandwich."
"That's my favorite sub! How did you know?" Kate wonders.
"Your father might have dropped that little tidbit when we were working together."
Kate's eyes narrow. "What else did my dad tell you?"
"I'm sure he didn't break any confidences, but," Richard's eyebrows do an eerie Tom Selleck, "wouldn't you like to know?"
Kate stares after the writer as he waves a greeting to the hard-working and hungry volunteers. Except for whatever her father might say at meetings, he rarely confides in anyone, not even her. She has no idea how Castle, seemingly without effort, draws out all kinds of information, even from reserved individuals like her father. As a detective, she hopes she can learn the trick.
Kate slumps at her desk. It's been hours since she put out her BOLOs and received the preliminary information on the van and driver. After a hard and much-appreciated day's work, she dismissed the volunteers. The last time she saw Castle, he was headed for the men's room, but she should tell him to go home as well. She should go home herself, but she hates to let the search go for the day. While wearily pulling her tote out of her drawer, she sees the bag from her meatball sandwich in her wastebasket. The sub was just what she needed to get her through the day's long slog. She wishes she had something to get her through a long night. Maybe Castle would like to go for a drink somewhere. It's more than her turn to buy.
At the sound of a dart hitting its mark, Richard gazes toward the corner of an Irish pub where a game is in full swing. Laughter and conversation buzz through the air as patrons enjoy pints and traditional pub snacks. He digs into a basket of tayto crisps. "I've never heard of this place, Beckett. How did you find it?"
"I didn't," Kate confides. "Mike Royce brought me here. Every month or so, it has a storytelling contest - free drinks for the biggest whoppers. You've talked to Mike. You know how he is. He won three months running. He enlisted me to cheer him on, and I fell in love with the place."
"With these crisps, I can understand why," Richard says. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in a game of darts when the present players recess for a fresh round of drinks."
"Castle, I have one of the highest scores on the force at the gun range. It wouldn't be much of a competition," Kate warns.
"It doesn't have to be a competition, just a friendly game. Winner buys the next round of snacks. What do you say?"
"OK. If you want, Castle, I'll put our names in to be up next," Kate offers.
"Sounds good," Richard agrees.
As the last dart pierces the board, Kate shakes her head. "Castle, I think you hustled me. How did you learn to play like that?"
Memories of his father teaching him how to handle sharp-pointed objects flit through Richard's brain, but he has a better story to tell. "You remember in Storm Rising when Storm had to hide out with the circus for a while?"
"When he fell for the trapeze artist who turned out to be a spy who tried to kill him?"
"Right. But there were other circus characters I researched. I met one knife thrower who taught me a few things about aim. He actually had me fill in for him for a couple of days when he had the flu."
"Castle, I've always pictured writers sitting alone in a room pounding away. But your life's been a lot more interesting than that, hasn't it?"
"If it wasn't before, it certainly is now."