139. The hall of fame

Castle contains his annoyance until they are all back in the loft, when, in default of murdering his mother forthwith, he retires to his study and closes the door firmly. Five seconds later he reopens it on a scene of absolute mayhem at full volume between his mother and Alexis.

“Dad told us not to force anything,” Alexis is yelling, “in case Detective Beckett was upset and wouldn’t come here any more. You just waded in.”

Martha flushes, and tosses her head.

“Nonsense, sweetie. I was just making sure that Katherine takes care of herself. After all, she doesn’t have a mother to do it for her.”

“Nor do I,” Alexis points out, still very loudly. “Dad manages for all of us.”

“But you do have your father. Katherine doesn’t. Everyone needs someone to give them advice.”

“Dad told you not to meddle and you are. You insisted that we left the spa early. You were trying to interrupt. That would have been so totally embarrassing if she’d been here but she wasn’t because she only came for dinner.”

“Darling, I only want your father to” –

“I like Detective Beckett and I don’t want her not to come here. If you mess that up I’ll never forgive you,” Alexis screeches, and dashes upstairs.

“Are you quite finished?” Castle asks bitingly.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I ask a perfectly innocent question over brunch and Alexis treats me as if I’m the Inquisition.” Martha radiates offended saintliness.

“You were trying to interfere. Why exactly did you leave the spa earlier than you had told me you would?”

Castle’s tone of delicate enquiry could have cut steel. His mother blushes, and departs without a word more. Castle returns to his study and indulges himself in a fit of temper and shooting of many evil minions until he can trust himself not to make stupid decisions – opening discussions with his mother being high up the list of stupid decisions he could make right now.

On the other hand, at least Alexis is on his side, and the side of common sense. That’s a huge relief. No matter what he had thought, after his mother’s embarrassing revelations in front of her last Sunday, it’s good to see that she’s okay with Beckett and that she understands (as far as is necessary) the difficulties. He shoots a few more evil minions, for good measure, and then picks up the phone.

Beckett finds that she had been wrong. Castle has not called her within the hour. It took him three minutes over an hour. (Not that she was counting, of course. That would be creepy.) On the other hand, she’s done a little more thinking, and mostly what she thinks is that she needs to confirm her thinking with someone who thinks more like a cop than a writer. So she thinks. The solution is obvious. A drink with O’Leary, for at least some of which Castle need not – should not – be present.

It occurs to her that she would once have called Lanie. That’s still not entirely fixed, either. In unvoiced apology, she decides that she should also have a drink with her. But first, O’Leary. She taps out a text, before she can change her mind. Then she follows up with one to Lanie.

She’s just finished when the phone rings.

“Beckett.”

“It’s me.”

“I know,” Beckett says smugly.

“You okay?”

“Yep. You?”

“Surviving,” Castle says dryly, “but can I count on you to bust me out of jail?”

“Why?”

“If I have to deal with my mother any more, one of us will be dead and I don’t intend it to be me.”

“I thought you’d threatened her with eviction?”

“How did you know that? I never told you that! Have you bugged me, Beckett?”

“Detective. It was fairly obvious. No, I have not bugged you. This is not a movie.”

“Oh.” It sounds disappointed.

“If you want, I’ll microchip you. Like a pet dog. Or give you a barcode tattoo.”

Castle snorts indignantly. “I am not a pet. Or a possession.”

“Gotcha,” Beckett says evilly, and changes tack now that Castle’s restored to some equilibrium. “Everything’s fine. We got through. I got through. It was easier.”

She can hear Castle’s relieved noise without difficulty.

“It’s getting easier?”

“Yeah.” She has a thought. “Look, um, don’t make any plans for next Sunday morning, okay?”

“Why not?”

“Just don’t, okay?”

“That’s not fair, Beckett. I wanna know what you’re plotting.”

“I haven’t decided yet. Please?”

Castle stops asking questions. There’s a tinge of tension developing in Beckett’s voice. “Okay.”

“Second up, I’m trying to get O’Leary out for a drink tomorrow. D’you want to come along?”

“Sure. I love O’Leary.” He stops on Beckett’s snicker. “Platonically, Beckett. Take your mind out of the gutter. Straight after work?”

“Um… could you give us an hour or so first?”

“Uh?”

“Um…” She sounds very uncertain. “Um… I need to talk to him. Cop to cop. Privately.”

Castle stops. Beckett talking to O’Leary privately? But… cop to cop. His mind goes from first to sixth in rather less than half a second, which is far better than he’s ever managed in the Ferrari. Ah. Ah yes. Evidence. Facts not emotions.

“Sure. I’ll get a drink with Ryan and Espo. Or with Pete,” he says enthusiastically. “Maybe O’Leary would introduce me to Pete.”

“You can ask him.” She pauses. “Thanks. For not asking.”

“Any time. Till tomorrow.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Till tomorrow,” Castle says again.

He sits back in his study and wonders very intensely what Beckett’s thought had been. Keep Sunday morning free? That could mean nearly anything, but what it clearly isn’t is a family invitation to brunch. His curiosity rages, made worse because he can’t do anything about it.

Beckett’s sort-of-if-she-squints idea is that if this week goes well, by which she really means Friday with her father and the Sorry game going well, she might invite her father out to brunch with Castle. She’ll discuss it with Dr Burke on Tuesday, and see how that goes. She doesn’t feel at all comfortable with the idea, but then she’s been uncomfortable, to put it very, very mildly, since this whole mess began.

She parks the whole business and goes for a very long run, following up with a long and complicated set of asanas which require her total concentration. After all of that, it’s dinner time, and after that, there is a long, hot bath. Then she disciplines her mind to sleep, and finally achieves it, not without considerable contemplation of how much nicer it would be if she could simply be curled into Castle.

But she’s getting there. She really is. And hopefully tomorrow night she’ll see O’Leary and things will be clearer.

There are no results on the prints from Brett Selbright, yet, so Beckett indulges herself in harassing the lab until they tell her to get lost – or something like that, expressed a tad more forcefully – and then muttering darkly to herself over the crime scene reports for the other murders. Today is clearly shaping up to involve vast quantities of extremely slow and tedious data matching.

Today does. Castle rolls in at closer to eleven than ten, fortunately bearing coffee and more fortunately pastries, takes one look at Beckett’s bored and frustrated face and leaves it on her desk to sink in before he essays anything that might annoy her, such as saying Good morning or breathing. He wanders off to talk to the boys about more interesting matters, such as computer games and other like pursuits. Poker begins to feature in the conversation, as does beer, and the desirability of a beer at the end of the day. The boys become enthusiastic.

Beckett’s phone cheeps, being O’Leary agreeing to a drink. At Molloys, naturally.   He’ll turn into a leprechaun if he doesn’t stop with the Irish bars, she thinks mischievously, though he’ll be the biggest damn leprechaun in Fairyland. He’s off shift at six. So’s she. Arrangements are made accordingly: whoever gets there first gets the drinks in.

Mid-afternoon, Beckett is considering whether to harass the lab some more, when prints arrive. Running them through the system produces several names, all of whom have been pulled in for – er – nocturnal activities of the more athletic variety, either participating or organising.

Except for one set. Now, this is very interesting.   These prints do not come from some lowlife pimp or hooker. These prints come from a clean cut cop, one Sergeant Joleon Carter, currently instructing at the Academy. How very odd. At least he’ll be easy to find.

“Castle!”

“Yeah?”

“Field trip. Want to come along?”

“Yes. Right behind you.”

Castle looks forward immensely to seeing the Academy. It’s never figured in the bullpen chit-chat, and Beckett’s barely mentioned it except in the context of her graduation and her mingled relief and hurt that her father didn’t show up. It’s going to be very interesting, he thinks. Hard upon that thought, comes another: that Beckett may not feel the same way. Joining the Academy might have been an escape, but that might as easily mean another trigger for her ridiculously heavy load of guilt.

“What happens at the Academy?”

“You learn to be a cop. Self-defence, rules, regulations, how to investigate, evidence procedure. All that. Fitness. Tactical training.”

“Okay. Will your instructors still be there?”

“Why?” Beckett asks very suspiciously.

“Might be interesting to see how Rookie Beckett did at the Academy.”

Castle is astonished to see colour rising through Beckett’s sharp cheekbones.

“Beckett?”

“Nothing.”

“What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing. Well, actually, lots of things, but right now nothing.”

“Don’t belieeeeeve yooooouuu.”

Beckett lifts one shoulder in a shrug and leaves it turned to him. Castle concludes that she isn’t going to talk. He wonders about the blush. Somehow he doesn’t think that over-driven, over-intense Beckett was bottom of the class. O’Leary and Ryan had each said that she’d made Detective faster than anyone. Surely she’s not embarrassed about her achievements?

Castle’s suspicions harden into certainty when the Academy staff practically stand to attention as Beckett greets them. This does not seem normal. She hustles him past the display cabinets as she enquires about Carter, which also does not seem normal. Carter, it transpires, is giving a class. Beckett is swept up by another Sergeant, and Castle slides off to return to the display cabinets.

All blushes are explained. It might as well be renamed the Beckett trophy cabinet. If he had named the subject, it looks like she’d won it. Graduated top, with a margin that would be ridiculous if it weren’t real. If he’d written that, he’d have been laughed out of the libraries. He does some quick mental arithmetic, and then checks it on his fingers. Ah. Right. Over-compensating. Over-compensating for walking away? No, before that. But even then, still trying to be the best in the hope that her father would realise that she was there, be proud of her, stop drinking. Even after she walked away, she must still have been trying. Oh, Beckett. Oh, Kate. No wonder she never mentions it. No graduation photo on display in her apartment: no record of her achievements, or trophies. Nothing. Nothing in that bare, joyless apartment, with its indeterminate, abstract pictures and clean, sparse décor; nothing on her desk at work; nothing to remind her of that time.

It’s appalling to Castle that Beckett can’t bear to be reminded of her stunning success. He can’t imagine not celebrating Alexis’s achievements, holds his own close to his heart and displays not only his rejection letters but also the acceptance, the first million-seller letter, the awards; all in his office. Not in his living room, but there where, on the occasions he is tired, or upset, or worried, or blocked, he can remind himself that he is a success. He can’t get his head round the idea that she would want to forget her success, though he supposes that she wants to forget all of those five years.

He slithers back to the Sergeant’s office before his absence is noticed. The Sergeant is chatting to Beckett about the Twelfth, which detours into a technical discussion about phone evidence and call tracing, in more detail than Castle is ever likely to need. It’s interesting, but it wouldn’t make good writing. He ponders until Joleon Carter arrives.

Sergeant Carter is a tall mixed-race man with bright, intelligent eyes and an impressive record.

“Sorry, what did you say your name was, Detective?”

“Beckett.”

“You’re that Beckett? The one in the display cabinet? You’re a legend, Detective. The other instructors still hold you out as an example.”

Beckett preserves a completely unmoved face. “Thank you, Sergeant Carter. I have some questions for you, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure. Go right ahead.”

“We got called to a homicide in an SRO: the Comfort Hotel on East 27th Street.”

“Yeah? Been there a bit.”

“How so?”

“We thought we’d change it up a bit for some of the recruits. Give them a more realistic scenario. So we got this guy who needed to do a whole bunch of community service hours for beatin’ up on street-life – not enough evidence to put him away, and we used him. Selbright, he was called…” Sergeant Carter’s voice trails away. “Aw, shit. He’s your corpse, isn’t he?”

“Yes. Sorry, Sergeant. You just lost your training exercise.”

“Guess that explains why you’re here. My prints must’ve been all over that room.”

“Yep. It was a bit of a change from the rest. Lowlives and street people – and you.” Beckett smiles at the Sergeant. “So, when did you last use him?”

“Sunday afternoon, week ago. Boy, did he bitch about that. I don’t know what he thought he was gonna do, seeing as he had no other job and nothing to do. We finished up around about six. The recruits did pretty good, though – all had their gloves, most of ‘em found the evidence – we’d planted some white powder and a training gun – and we took ‘em all back to Gramercy and counted ‘em in. Wouldn’t want to lose one.” He smiles, nastily. “After all, they’d got their homework to do too.”

Beckett smiles equally nastily. “I remember that.” She looks a tad embarrassed. “Sorry to ask you, Sergeant, but can I have your whereabouts Sunday after six through to Monday noon?”

“That when he got dead? Sure. Wouldn’t expect you not to ask. I’d tear my recruits a new one for missing that just because it’s another cop. C’mon to the office and I’ll get you a copy of my schedule. I stayed on site till around nine, back here at six. Went home to Queens in between – I’ll give you my car registration and you can track it through the street cams, if you need to.”

“Pleasure to deal with a professional,” Beckett grins.

“Likewise, Detective.” Sergeant Carter pauses for a second. “Don’t suppose you’d like to come by a time, tell the rookies what it was like for you?”

Castle watches Beckett’s under-table fist clench. Her face and voice are completely unstressed. “I’d need to check with my Captain,” she says. “Let me ask him.”

“Okay. It’d be good if you could. We always need new examples.”

Beckett suddenly snickers. “You know, Sergeant, I’m still in touch with Detective O’Leary” –

“The Mountain?”

“Yeah, him. Seeing him tonight, as a matter of fact. Do you want me to ask him?”

“He was a bit of a one-off too, wasn’t he?” the Sergeant grins. “Yeah. That’d be fun. Please ask him to check with his Captain.”

“Will do.”

“Right. Let’s go get you your evidence. Can’t have a respectable Sergeant Instructor being hauled in.”

Everyone traipses along to the office and collects all the evidence. Castle and Beckett leave on a cloud of contentment, which becomes even more content when they return to the bullpen and find that tox has arrived. Selbright was dosed up on a rather interesting concoction which had included a substantial proportion of Viagra.

Sergeant Carter’s alibi checks out, not that Beckett had ever thought he was a real possibility. While she and Castle have been out, the boys have been working through the various street lives whose prints came up, and have managed to interview quite a number of them. Espo’s commentary on the attributes of some of the women was not required, though she’ll let it pass because it’s reduced the possibilities quite a lot. If only the lab hadn’t been so backed up they’d have got here days ago. Still, they now have some leads. She’ll just follow up the cocktail of chemicals.

By the end of the afternoon the cocktail of chemicals has led her – or rather Ryan, who has the contacts in Narcotics – to one of the lowlives whose prints were in the SRO. How very convenient. A focused hour of interrogation by herself and Ryan later, in which the drug-dealing – ooops, alleged drug-dealing – lowlife is reduced to shivering terror and spills his guts in very satisfying style, they have a new lead. Uniforms are sent out to locate it, but they aren’t having much luck. That might, of course, be because it’s pouring with rain and even lowlives have some standards – not getting drenched seems to be one of them. Still, that’s what uniforms are for.

She makes sure that her phone is fully charged so that when the lead is located she’ll know about it and can come back – not if it’s ten p.m., unfortunately: she’s not allowed to interrogate lowlives late at night – or start early, and then decamps quietly for Molloys. Behind her she can hear Castle distracting the boys with thoughts of beer.

“Beckett,” O’Leary rumbles happily. “How’re you doing?”

“Not bad. Murder doesn’t go slow.”

“Yeah?”

Beckett fills him in on the current case.

“The Academy’s using it for live-action training?”

“Would’ve been better than all that role-play.”

“True.”

“Oh, they asked me about going back to show them what a real cop looks like, so I said I’d have to ask Montgomery” – she smirks, though O’Leary raises an eyebrow – “and then I volunteered you.”

O’Leary spits out his beer. “You did what? Beckett, what have I ever done to you?”

“Arrested me.”

“You’re not still holding a grudge, are you?”

She smirks. “I said I’d tell you they were looking, and then it was up to you to ask your boss.”

O’Leary breathes in a tornado of relief and exhales a hurricane. “You were up at the Academy?”

“Yeah.”

“They still got you plastered all over the trophies?”

“Didn’t look.”   That’s bitten off short, and O’Leary notices.

“Iffen it were me,” he drawls –

“Drop the hayseed. You’ve never been to the Midwest in your life.” –

“Iffen it were me,” he grins, “I’d be down there every week polishin’ them. You tellin’ me you’re still top of the leaderboard?”

“Like I said, I didn’t look.”

O’Leary casts her a glance that it’s fortunate she doesn’t see, and makes a small mental note to mention this to Castle, at a conveniently Beckettless moment. His beer empties, and another takes its place. “Why’d you want to see me? An’ where’s your boyfriend? Don’t you think he’ll be a bit upset that you’re cuddlin’ up to me?”

“Nope. He knows I’m here. He’s coming a bit later – couldn’t resist your charm and wit, or something like that. Personally, I think it’s just that he’s never met a Bigfoot before.”

“Wash yo’ mouth out, butterfly,” O’Leary drawls, slightly ruined by his wide grin.

“Back at you, flower-eater.”

“Now, why’d you wanna see me?”

Beckett looks at her soda. “I needed a drink with a pal.”

O’Leary lets the silence stretch as widely as his shoulders. “You got Castle. An’ that ME of yours, if you’re still talkin’.”

“We are. Seeing her Thursday.”

“You’re not sayin’ why me.”

“Castle’s all about emotions and feelings and leaps of intuition,” Beckett manages to emit. “You do facts and evidence. He’s not a detective and he doesn’t think like us. I need a reality check, and he’s not it.”