175. Always in command

“Your mother. We’re going to have to involve her. You saw how they reacted.”

“Yeah. Very deflating.”

“You’ll survive,” Beckett flips back, more like herself than any time in the last hour and more.

“So what about my mother?”

“I’m going to have to deal with her. I… don’t want to.”

It is not at all surprising, given the last few weeks, that Beckett doesn’t want to deal with his mother. Castle doesn’t really want to deal with his mother, and if he were to be totally truthful, he would admit that he’d been a little disconcerted (to put it mildly) and jealous that suddenly he’d been secondary to her. That hasn’t been the case in thirteen years.

“That’s what was wrong,” she says, miserable and embarrassed. “I wanted a way out. And you gave me one so I stuck to it even though you backtracked.” Self-contempt leaks into her voice. “I’d have told myself I was doing the right thing because I was a coward. I didn’t even realise it wasn’t what I thought it was.”

“Hey, stop it. We’re not going there. You only worked it out a second ago. And” – he cringes – “I’m not exactly happy about it myself.”

Beckett softens into him, and links her hands behind his back. “We can suffer together,” she says, and nuzzles his neck comfortingly.

“Okay,” Castle says. “I’ll hold you to that.”

There is a not-entirely-comfortable pause, which gradually morphs into serenity.

“Are we good?” she says tentatively, into his shoulder.

“We’re good. I think,” Castle says even more tentatively, into her hair. “ ‘M sorry. You wouldn’t screw up the job by asking me to lie.”

“ ‘M sorry too. Shoulda known you wouldn’t mean that.”

There is a further quiet space while they both recover themselves, the end of which is signalled when Castle hugs her hard, incidentally lifting her off her feet. “Hug it out?”

“Do I have a choice?” Beckett smirks. “You already did it.”

“So I did,” Castle drawls. “And here you are.” He puts her back on her feet but doesn’t loosen his grip. “And here I am.”

Beckett wiggles. “So you are,” she agrees, and peeps upward through her lashes at him. Castle doesn’t bother trying to resist both her invitation and his desire and leans down to take her lips with his own.

“Friends?” Beckett says when he lifts off.

“Partners?” Castle replies.

“Lovers,” Beckett says definitively, and squeaks as Castle tightens his grip until she can barely breathe. “Air!” she struggles to emit. He rapidly loosens his arms – just enough for Beckett to draw a breath.

The loosening also gives him just enough play to untuck her shirt and sneak his hands under it, on to the smooth lines of her back. She’s still oddly chilled when he touches her, but she curves into the warmth of his palms and leans into his bulk and slides her own hands under his shirt. He squawks indignantly.

“Your hands are cold. Ugh!”

“Warm me up, then.” She wriggles closer. “You’re always warm.”

“I thought I was hot,” Castle says provocatively.

“I’d need to do some research,” Beckett murmurs, even more provocatively. “Find some evidence.” She undulates her hips. “Mm. Yes. That feels like some very firm evidence.”

“I think you should examine the evidence,” Castle purrs in a furry, seductive baritone which itself becomes part of the investigative narrative.

“Do you? What about you?”

He kisses her hard, and moves them to her bedroom and her bed, unhooking her bra under her shirt before sitting her on the edge.

“I thought I was examining evidence?” she queries.

“I need some more evidence too. You’re always telling me that we need facts and evidence.” His busy hands undo her top and pants and leave her in brief panties. “See, evidence,” he says, as he examines her erect nipples.

“Should you be – ohhhh – handling the evidence without gloves?”

“Not into rubber,” Castle smirks. “You lose so much delicacy of handling.” He smiles lazily. “And this evidence deserves very careful handling.” He plays a little more, cupping each small breast in turn to lift it to his mouth. Beckett mews softly and reaches out to uncover her own evidence.

Fairly shortly the evidence has been completely uncovered and carefully examined, and both of them are in total agreement that it’s time to put it to the test to make sure that it satisfactorily proves their case.

Castle, completely and unashamedly naked, leans up on an elbow and slowly surveys an equally naked and unashamed Beckett. He runs a leisurely hand over her, and stops on her stomach, fingers splayed from sternum to almost where she wants them. She arches into the touch, and extends her own span to take him in hand and slide daintily up and down, fingers light and teasing. Castle growls deep in his throat, and retaliates with tantalising, dipping touch that ripples through her nerves and soaks her core: desire potent between them. Movement becomes more intense, more frantic: heat builds and scorches until Castle drops on to his back, pulling Beckett over him and sliding home as she opens around him and then there’s proof positive that she’s his and he’s hers and everything is theirs in one explosive moment.

“I’ll be there at eight,” Castle murmurs softly as he kisses Beckett before he leaves, as she whispers I love you into his mouth. “Wait for me.”

“ ‘Kay.”

Castle is in the bullpen promptly at quarter to eight, and finds Beckett surrounded by Ryan and Esposito and consequently appearing rather harassed.

“Ryan, you get all the videos together and start looking through them so we have an idea where everyone claims to have been. Espo, you get on to Lanie and see if she’s got any results yet. ToD would be a really good start.”

“She said less than an hour last night,” Espo points out.

“See if she’ll confirm. We need a timeline. Have we got address, next of kin, anything like that? You look that up. Ryan, you take her phone and strip it. What about cameras?”

“Already on it. It was dark, so we didn’t see it Sunday. It’s black, small, over the door. Caretaker told me first thing.”

“Okay.” She looks up. “Hey, Castle.”

“Yo,” Ryan and Espo say in tandem. “You’re early.”

“No inspiration,” Castle says easily. “Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t write, thought I’d come by and prove I exist before ten.”

Twin disgusted noises arrive. So, Castle notices, does Montgomery, and from the tiny tension rising around Beckett’s shoulders, she has noticed too.

“Let’s do this,” she says.

“What’re you gonna do?”

“I’m going to tell Montgomery that it’s a bunch of actors and that we might need some” – she pauses and manufactures a smirk – “civilian assistance.”

“We got civilian assistance. Why’d you need to tell the Captain about Castle?”

“Not Castle. Castle’s mom. Didn’t you see them looking at him?”

“Thought that was just the dress sense.”

“No. So I get to go and try and explain that we might need another part of Castle’s family to get involved.”

“Rather you than me, Beckett,” Espo says with emphasis. She makes a noise of definite assent, and stands.

A moment later Beckett, with Castle looming large behind her, is tapping on Montgomery’s open door.

“Sir, may I have a moment?” she asks stiffly.

“Sure, Beckett. C’mon in. Castle too?”

“Yessir.” She stands in front of his desk in formal stance. Castle leans on the door which he’s just closed.

“Well?” asks Montgomery. “What’s this about?” He glances sharply between them, and doesn’t notice any signs of conflict.

“We got a body last night. Down at the La Mama Experimental Theatre Club. One of the actors.”

Montgomery quirks an eyebrow at her. “And? Sounds right up your alley.”

Beckett swallows. “One of the suspects is a sixty-something alcoholic. Your orders are that I recuse myself from any case involving alcoholics.”

Montgomery waits a beat. Beckett appears to have run out of words. “Mm?”

“I wanna work this case, sir. I know you said I wasn’t to, but I have a proposal.”

“Lay it out, then.”

Montgomery had forgotten that particular order until Beckett reminded him. He’s relieved that she’s taken it so seriously. On the other hand, this is a case where Beckett and her team are ideally placed, not least because of Castle’s theatrical connections.

“If I worked it, Castle would tell you as soon as he thought that I wasn’t dealing with the alcoholic properly, and you could remove me,” she spills out in one unbroken stream.

Montgomery gapes at them both. That was the last thing he’d expected. Castle tattling on Beckett? “How do I know that Castle would do that?” he says forcefully. “He’s your partner. Most times, partners back their partner, not tattle on them.”

“This is backing me, sir. I’ve asked him to do it.”

Montgomery fixes Castle with a very straight, hard stare. “Castle?”

“It’s the only way for Beckett to work the case. And” – Beckett is going to kill him for this, but it’ll be worth it – “it seems like the actors respect my mother. So if Beckett and I are working the case, I can get my mother to co-operate much more easily.”

“That sounds to me like it might just be a threat,” Montgomery says coldly, noting that Beckett’s expression has shifted to appalled fury and making a small gesture to her to order her to stay silent.

“Not at all,” Castle says suavely. “I’m sure my mother would co-operate with the NYPD, whoever asked her. However, I know how to manage her idiosyncracies, so most likely it would be much more efficient.”

Beckett looks as if she’s about to explode. Montgomery admires Castle’s nerve, if not his intelligence or respect for Montgomery himself, and produces a blackly vicious scowl.

“Sounds like Castle here has it all worked out,” he says. Beckett’s equally black expression, firmly directed at Castle, is some consolation. “Detective Beckett.”

“Sir.”

“I will allow you to work this case.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But.” She flinches. Montgomery smiles very nastily, straight past Beckett at Castle. “But Castle will provide me with a written report on each encounter you have with the alcoholic, at the end of that day.” Montgomery alters his smile to seraphic as Castle’s face falls and Beckett just about manages to smother a snigger. “If he misses one, you’ll both be off the case. Mother or not.”

“I won’t,” Castle says, crestfallen. Beckett is still trying not to laugh.

“Beckett, dismissed. Castle, you stay here a moment.” It’s an order, and both of them take it as such. Beckett departs, snickering under her breath.

Montgomery looks at Castle, without any of his usual good humour. “I don’t care how good you are for Beckett or my solve stats, Castle, the next time you try to pull a trick like that you’re gone. Just because you’re not one of my detectives doesn’t mean you get to undermine my authority like you just tried to. You might say that wasn’t a threat but we both know it was, and so does Beckett. I don’t tolerate that in my precinct.”

Castle winces. Montgomery doesn’t back off a jot.

“I’m in command here. I can kick you to the kerb if I decide to. Now, git. And I’ll have your first report by five, since Beckett saw this drunk last night.”

Castle retires before he is summarily removed from the Twelfth, and contemplates the spanking he’s just received with considerable wincing. He’d definitely pushed that too far.

“Still alive?” Beckett asks with some sympathy.

“Probably,” Castle replies.

“There’s a reason he’s the Captain.”

“Yeah. Ow.”

“Let’s go solve this case. Take your mind off your pain.”

“Can’t I have a kiss better?” Castle whines.

“Not in the precinct. Or in view of the precinct. Or when we’re out investigating.”

“That’s not fair,” he whimpers pathetically, as he follows Beckett to the elevator. “I’ve been hurt and you won’t kiss me better.”

“I’m not the one who tried sandbagging the Captain. Not a good move, Castle. Not if you want to stay here.”

“I do.”

Beckett unlocks her car and gets in. “I want you to stick around too,” she mutters, and then very quickly adds, “at least till we’ve intimidated all these actors with your mother.”

“Awww,” Castle drawls, “you like me.”

Colour tints Beckett’s cheeks. She starts the car with an entirely unnecessary growl from the engine. Castle smirks. It’s the first time he’s felt almost comfortable since he left Montgomery’s office, though on that thought he winces again. He had been very thoroughly raked down.

“Tim Derren, Castle. Focus.”

“Why are we going to his apartment anyway? Why didn’t you bring him in?”

“I want him as easy as possible. And” – she hitches – “I want to see him on home ground. If he’s as much a drunk as I think he might be, then I want to see what he’s like first thing.   If he’s that drunk, he probably wasn’t capable of stabbing anyone without leaving evidence everywhere.” She huffs. “I want the lab results.”

Before Castle can get himself into more trouble – more trouble before ten in the morning, which even for him is starting early (if he wasn’t still enjoying the night before, which he doesn’t do any more) – they are pulling up at the block.

Beckett knocks on the door. Not precisely to her surprise, there is no answer. She knocks much harder. They wait. There is a sound of shuffling through the thin, grimy walls, the click of a lock. There is no drawing back of bolts, or clink of chain. Nor is there a peephole. Beckett rapidly assesses Derren as not so much down on his luck as some miles below it. Castle is likewise exuding an air of extreme unimpressed-ness, coupled with a feeling of extreme discomfort. A quick peek at his face tells Beckett that this is a sight which has tripped a whole library of unpleasant memories. She slips fast fingers across his hand: a small acknowledgement and a slight reassurance. His fingers tip-tap on her palm in return as the door creaks open, and are swiftly removed.

Castle thinks bleakly that this down-at-heel walk up is unpleasantly similar to a considerable number with which he’d become acquainted in many down-at-heel areas of American cities and larger towns, right down to the faint but pungent scent of boiled cabbage and a hint of blocked drains and sewerage. The sight of Tim Derren, blinking, bleary and red-eyed, hunched and shamble-shuffling, yet attempting to carry off the moment in dapper blazer and dress pants; reminds him horribly of so many similar other scenes from his youth.

“Mr Derren,” Beckett says clearly, and Castle sees the same tightness in her shoulders that he senses in his own: a different take on muscle memory, “you agreed to be interviewed this morning.” His face slackens, and it’s clear he’s scrabbling for some mental hook to hang this event upon. “Callista Corday aka Betty Warren.” He pales at the recollection.

“Oh, yes, um, come in, Miss?”

“Detective Beckett, and my associate, Mr Castle. Martha Rodgers’ son,” she adds. She will use it, and she will not be fazed by it.

“Martha Rodgers,” Derren says reminiscently, as he leads them into a sparse, dingy room; only moderately tidy: script on the table, glasses left dirty by the sink, a plate, a bottle. “I remember watching her, twenty years ago. She was amazing. I don’t know why she sticks to such unpopular plays.” He gestures to them to sit down. The chairs do not appear to be filthy, nor is there obvious animal or plant life on them. “You don’t know how lucky you are.”

“Oh, I think I do,” Beckett says. Castle coughs. The double meaning is entirely lost on Derren, who sits down in an absent – or pickled – minded fashion.

“Mr Derren, could you tell me about Callista Corday?”

He does, with many wavering pauses for thought and repetitions. Summarised, it comes down to the victim being foisted upon the director as a condition of funding.

“And why they chose him as director I don’t know,” Derren spits. “He’s hopeless. All about his vision and not one of us understands it. Authenticity is one thing but this is ridiculous. Still, ” he adds viciously, “it was worth it to see him try to deal with Cali. She wasn’t having any of his folderol.”

“Oh?” Beckett asks.

“He was always sniping. She’d do what he asked and then he’d tell her it was wrong. I think he wanted her out. No surprise there. Everyone knew he wanted her out, but nobody would fight for her.”

“Including you?” Castle queries.

“I didn’t care. I’m washed up, and I know it. Too much gin and too few parts.” Beckett winces, remembering her father’s low points. “Whatever Carl did I didn’t care.” Derren’s whole posture suggests a man with no remaining self-respect or dignity. “Kept me in booze and beans.” He staggers to his feet. “Nothing I can tell you.”

“Yes, there is,” Beckett says crisply. “I want to know where you were when Cali missed her cue.”

Derren slumps back down. “Backstage,” he mumbles.

“Why?”

“I had a bottle. Keeps me on track. Just a little nip.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

“Kane.”

“Kane?”

“Kane Travers. Plays Bottom. He covered for me. Carl didn’t know.”

“Okay.” Beckett makes a note. “We’ll talk to him. Thank you, Mr Derren. We might need to talk to you again.”

“Thank you.” He hesitates, and gazes blearily at Castle. “Um… remember me to Martha?”

“Er – okay,” Castle says.

They leave.

“Ugh,” is Castle’s first comment, as soon as they’ve left the building.

“Yeah,” Beckett agrees fervently. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

“I asked first.”

Castle turns to her. “Yeah. I’m okay. Brought back some memories, is all.” Beckett slides an arm around his waist. “I’m not… we’ll never be like that again.” His own arm curls round Beckett. “Ewww,” he suddenly adds.

“What?”

“What if Derren had an affair with my mother? Eurgh. I did not need that thought. That’s horrible.”

“Could be worse,” Beckett puts in.

“How?”

“The affair could be now. That’s a complication we don’t need.”

“Beckett!” Castle wails. “Stop. That’s even more horrible. Ugh, ugh, ugh.”

“Back to the precinct. I want the ME’s report, and you have paperwork.”

Castle whimpers unhappily, and then remembers that Beckett hasn’t answered his question. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Beckett says slowly. “Yeah.” She smiles. “I am.”

Back at the precinct, a series of uninformative interviews have been reported by the canvassing team. Their collective videos are not particularly helpful, although Espo wins the day’s smartypants prize for pointing out that they should get each witness-suspect to watch them to tell them if it’s correct. It is universally agreed that since the team has already had the dubious pleasure of watching the show live, they should leave that to persons who would benefit from the expansion of their cultural horizons. With four identically nasty smirks, the persons are identified as uniformed officers. A suggestion by Castle that Montgomery might enjoy it is rapidly squashed by the three detectives on the perfectly reasonable grounds that they wish to enjoy continued life, and pay checks.

The ME’s report reveals the fact of the stabbing, a lack of any detailed anatomical knowledge by the killer, and some suggestions for the weapon. Also of possible note is that the victim had taken an anti-anxiety med. Lanie is apparently trying to trace the exact compound, but it’ll take a day or three. The lack of murderous knowledge is not exactly helpful, since Beckett does not expect actors to be students of anatomy. There are no prints.

“But they might have been in medical dramas,” Castle suggests hopefully, still thinking about the actors. “They’d be bound to pick up something.”

“Probably herpes,” Beckett says bitterly. “All they seem to do in medical series is have sex with each other.”

Castle guffaws, but then relapses into somewhat sulky silence as he realises that he has to spend some time preparing his report.

At four-fifty-five precisely, chosen because Montgomery is not in his office, he provides a report on both Sunday’s and today’s interviews. He leaves out the lacerating discussion that he and Beckett had had, but is entirely truthful, if floridly descriptive, about the rest. The report is left neatly on Montgomery’s in tray, where he will discover it without difficulty.