177. Oh, what a show!

“How did you talk Ryan into taking Mother and Alexis home?”

“Threatened him,” Beckett says laconically, as they comfortably sip their coffee on her couch.

“What with?”

“Watching it again.” She doesn’t need to specify what it is.

Castle sniggers. “Mean, Beckett. Very mean.”

“It meant you didn’t have to.”

“There is that,” Castle agrees, and slithers much closer. “Are you okay?” He thinks she’s still tense.

“Yeah. It’s done now. We’ve got what we needed.”

“It looks like the play did too.”

“Uh?” Beckett downs half her coffee in one go.

“Carl’s directing gig has finished. Mother’s taken over, whether it’s official or not.”

“Oh,” Beckett says, nonplussed by the apparent non-sequitur.

“Beckett, wake up! If Mother’s using her – er – talents on the stage and cast, she’ll completely forget about using them on you.”

“You think?” She doesn’t look convinced.

“Oh yes. Didn’t you see her? She’s in her element. This is what she should have been doing all along, not messing around with ‘life coaching’ and pseudo-psychiatry. All I have to do is make sure she sticks to the theatre. She just needs one break to get her confidence back, and I think this might be it.” He hugs her. “It’s you that’s done it.”

“Me? I didn’t do anything. I didn’t want her there at all.”

“But you got her there. Even if you didn’t want her, you knew it was best for the case.” He grins boyishly, ridiculously attractive, eyes crinkling happily. “Karma. Positive karma.”

“Karma’s a myth.”

“Whatever,” Castle says. “It’s all worked out. She’s got something new to get her teeth into, so she’ll leave you alone.” Another grin, turning lazy and sleepy and very, very sexy. “So you should relax.” He massages her shoulders, gently. “I could help you.”

“Mm?”

“Yes,” Castle drawls, pouring molasses syrup into her ears. “You’ll like it. Stop thinking now, and let me lead. You’ve been in charge all day. It’s really hot, but now it’s my turn.”

Beckett’s posture softens and she nestles into him. He leans down and kisses her, softly demanding, searching along her lips to seek her opening for him, and then entering, raiding and taking and wholly possessive. His hands grip her, angling her head and opening her shoulders to give him free access, sure and assertive and so very, very male.

“All mine,” he murmurs hypnotically. “All soft and contented and mine.” His hands move, gently firm: a little forceful, a little commanding, a lot arousing. She curves into the strokes, and purrs in pleasure, pushing against his touch. He opens her button-down one handed, keeping her mouth to his, glides over the curves below and palms the mounds of her breasts. She reaches for him, rising up on to her knees so that he pulls her in to straddle him and be pressed against hard hot flesh; trying to open his shirt and being denied as her own leaves her shoulders; tightly held.

And then suddenly she’s turned and stretched out along the couch, pants gone and open to the heated, intent, blazing gaze that rakes across her body and fires every nerve: leaving her soaked and squirming against his wicked touch almost before his fingertips land.

“Mine,” Castle says, entirely certain, wholly masculine. “My Kat.” His hands roam over her and leave heat wherever they go.

“My Castle,” she points out, and pulls his head down to hers. For a moment, it works, and then he pulls back.

“Uh-uh.” He smiles lazily. “I’ve got plans for us. Lie back and enjoy it.”

“Not lie back and think of Manhattan?” she smirks.

“Absolutely not. You won’t be thinking of anything but me.”

“Very sure of yourself there – ohhhhh.”

“With good reason.” Castle’s voice slides over her and leaves her stroked without the need for touch, though touch has also been given. “You’re all wet.”   His finger proves it, and then remains circling her until mew becomes moan becomes desperate repetition of his name as he kisses her deeply and takes the noises as she makes them and brings her home.

Next thing she knows she’s draped across his arms and then laid out across her bed, as boneless as the Kat he makes of her and as kittenishly satisfied with their play. She pets him, lazily seductive in her turn, long smooth strokes from the arc of his pectorals to the coarse hair arrowing down his stomach. He growls, dark in his throat: imprisons her hands in his to stop her and move down over her; teasing at her breasts, licking the hot wet line down further, below her navel, nipping at her hip. She arches to him, complaining that she wants to play with him as he’s playing with her, but it’s his time to lead, and he wants her drowned in sensation, mindlessly reacting. Then she can play, and no doubt he’ll be left brain-fried and melted too. But first, her.

He slides the thin fabric of her panties back and forth: delicate pressure to build erotic friction, and her hands clutch at his hair, try to force his head to her, but for all her fitness and disciplined strength she’s no match for him. He smiles dangerously against the satin skin of her thigh.

“Just let me start here,” he rasps, and rubs the shadow on his jawline over her. She squirms. Castle smiles more widely, spreads her wide, and settles into a comfortable position. He breathes over her, and she writhes. A butterfly kiss to one soft side, then to the other, another scrape of shadow over the creamy skin, and then one firm sweep of tongue across damp fabric means he has to hold her hips to do it again, and again, and once again. He peels her panties off, tantalisingly slowly, returns, and uses his lips and tongue and teeth, and adds fingers, to leave her a melted mess, lost in the feelings he induces and only, wholly, thinking of him. Well, thinking might be putting it too high. He works her up and up till she’s lost all words, even his name, and only then takes her over.

When she recovers enough energy to open her eyes, Castle is idly drawing patterns on her stomach, half-cuddling her. She curls into him, stretches and rubs over him from clavicle to knee, then turns over, pushing him down into the pillows. Having had his own fun, Castle is perfectly happy to be turned into her toy for a while. Playful Beckett-Kat is always enjoyable. Playful naked Beckett-Kat is even better. He lets his fingers roam over his handful of Kat, who sighs happily and wriggles over him. Castle groans. Wriggles like that are totally unfair. He’s instantly aroused, ready for her, and she’s spread over him like a very sexy blanket.

He thinks about rolling them over and simply taking her, but before he can act on it she’s acted on him: slithering down his body wreaking erotic havoc as she goes and then – stopping, her chin on his stomach, looking up at him with a wicked, feline smile and a lascivious, leisurely lick of her lips which she follows up by an obscenely arousing suck of her finger. He’s painfully hard, and Kat lapping at him like that is really – ohhhhh – not helping at all. He can’t help his hands in her hair: desperately not pulling, as her hot lips and evil fingers leave him groaning and mindless and helplessly thrusting up against her, her name spilling from his mouth as she drives him to spilling into her mouth.

He has just enough strength left to pull her back up over his chest and clasp her to him: his Kat, his love as he is hers. His hands spread over the slimness of her back, ending their span at the flare of her hips: no longer seductive and erotic but warmly affectionate and loving. In a moment, in a moment they can play some more; in a moment they can be hot and intense again; in a moment they can be joined, two flesh made one. But here and now they’re two minds and emotions, made one.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too.”

Castle arrives in good time the next morning to join Beckett in Interrogation One, where Kane Travers is waiting. He’s a relatively thick-set man, with a face that suggests a little gentle ring-work in his teens. He’s also sweaty and nervous.

“Mrs Rodgers was amazing!” he opens. “I don’t know why you want to talk to me but I have to say that her direction was fabulous. Do you think she’ll keep me in the production?”

Oh, for God’s sake, Beckett thinks. He’s nervous about being fired, not about this interrogation.

“I have no idea,” she says coolly, “but if you don’t tell us everything she certainly won’t. Mrs Rodgers is assisting us to solve the murder” – she puts severe emphasis on the word, and Travers shudders – “of Callista Corday. That is her primary concern.”

“Sure,” Travers hurries out. “Anything you want to know.”

A few careful questions about the production and the “vision” later, Beckett moves on to her main line of interrogation.

“So, you left the stage for a few moments.”

“Yes.” Travers shifts uncomfortably in the chair.

“We know about Derren’s drinking,” Castle says.

“Okay, well, he kept a bottle in my things. That way Carl couldn’t see it. Carl only took Tim on because he was told to. The funders…” he trails off, but Beckett can read that cue. “Anyway. He needed a sip but I was there to make sure he didn’t overdo it.” Travers looks upset for a moment. “He didn’t, but… Well, I had to take it off him.”

Unseen under the table, Beckett feels Castle’s hand rest briefly on her knee. She ought to feel pain, and the stab of memory – and yes, she does, but it’s not the agonising, searing blade it had been. It’s… muted. A stage whisper, not a shout. She knows how Travers felt, but it’s allowing her to get into his head, not leaving her devastated.

“Yes?” she says, empathy lacing her voice, sympathy for Travers’ plight infusing the air.

“He wanted more. He said he needed another swig. I told him no, and then I took the bottle away.” He looks at her. “We’ve worked together a lot. He – we’re – good foils. He’s so patrician looking and I’m more of a rough diamond, so… anyway, I’ve been looking out for him. So I went out with him because I knew he needed it and if anyone spotted him in my bag they’d think the worst, and then I stayed with him and took it away like I said and we went back to the stage.”

“Okay. Is there anyone else who might have seen you two together?”

“I don’t know. I thought someone had gone past – no, two people, but I wasn’t really looking. I was concentrating on Tim.”

“Where were you?”

“Backstage. There aren’t dressing rooms in the rehearsal space, so my bag was in a space just off the corridor.”

“Can you draw me a picture?”

Beckett passes Travers a pad of paper and a pencil. He makes a few lines, then tears off the top sheet and starts again, sketching.

“Here’s the stage,” he says, and labels it with the exits. “We came off upstage left” – Beckett mentally ties that up with the videos and the re-run rehearsals, and nods approvingly – “and came along here so everything was out of the way of entrances and exits” – he hitches – “and, er, so it wasn’t too obvious that Tim needed a drink.”

“So what’s at the end of the corridor your bags were by?”

Travers draws a few more lines. “This door here is the back exit,” he says – and stops dead. “Oh, shit,” he says. “Whoever went past us… they could have gone out. They could have been the killer, or Cali, or anyone?”

His rough-hewn face crumples. “I never noticed them. It’s vital and I never noticed.”

“What was your relationship with Cali?” Beckett asked. The answer to this question had been in the original questioning by Ryan and Espo, on site, but she wants to hear it again.

“I didn’t really know her. Knew of her, but we hadn’t worked together. She was a better actor than Carl was letting her be.”

“Oh? How?”

“He was really pissed that he couldn’t have Lee. He didn’t want Cali and he made it pretty plain. She did exactly what he said and then he said it was wrong – we all knew she’d done what he said. Made sure that she was upstaged by everyone, even the rude mechanicals, every scene.”

“Did anyone call him on it?”

Travers looks at her as if she’s crazy. “Call him?” he says on a rising note of astoundment. “Call out the director? That’s a short route to no work. It’s not like we’re Martha Rodgers.” He visibly calms himself down. “I don’t know if Cali said anything to him, or to the backers. If she did it wasn’t where anyone could hear it. That would have been round the cast in seconds.”

“Do you remember where Cali was when Carl stopped the scene?”

“No. I was concentrating on Tim. She wouldn’t have been on stage: she’s not in that scene. She’d have stayed out Carl’s way, for sure.”

“Anything else you can think of, Kane?” Beckett also taps Castle’s foot, in case he’s thought of anything.

“No.”

“If you do, call me.” She stands up. “Thanks for your help.”

Travers departs, a little happier than when he arrived.

“We’ve got half an hour,” Castle says. “Coffee.” It’s not a question. Beckett throws him a quizzical glance, and stops on his serious look.

“What’s up?”

He shepherds her out and to the break room before speaking. “That – what he said about Tim – are you okay?” He’s looking straight down into her face.

Beckett looks straight back at him, holding his eyes. “Yes. It’s not easy, but I’m not upset. I’m not going out after him like I did with Julia, either.”

Castle relaxes, and Beckett suddenly realises that he’s been tense since Travers mentioned Derren’s drinking. “Good,” he exhales. He turns to the machine and starts the coffee.

“It’s… okay. I’ll talk to Burke about it, but it’s okay. For now,” she adds.

They down their coffee in short order and prepare for Charles Wentway. This includes Castle being told to sketch – neatly, Castle! – the floorplan out again, so it’s not obvious that it was drawn by Travers. Beckett confesses to a complete lack of artistic and/or sketching ability in order to excuse herself from attempting the sketch.

Wentway is late. This is not a good start. When he arrives, it’s pretty clear that he objects to being summoned and he isn’t in a co-operative mood.

“Why am I here?” he opens, in a theatrically offended manner. “I’ve been through all this already.”

“Because Callista Corday was murdered,” Beckett says icily. “Why were you late?”

“Does it matter?”

Castle sits back to watch the show.

“The dead deserve respect. The victims deserve justice. You have a duty to assist and not obstruct justice. Why were you late?”

“I was learning my lines.”

“You open in far less than two weeks. You expect me to believe that a professional” – there’s a frosting of disbelief on the word – “doesn’t know his lines yet?”

“It was shorthand. The way Mrs Rodgers directed us last night made it all different. I needed to fit it all together.”

“And that was more important than a murder?” Beckett’s cutting tone stabs into him.

“I forgot the time.” Skewered on Beckett’s pointed stare, he backs down as he realises that Beckett is not intimidated. “I didn’t mean to. I liked Cali.” The arrogance drains out of his face. “She put up with a lot from Carl.”

“You went off stage,” Beckett says, “when Carl stopped the scene. Why?”

Wentway doesn’t answer for a second. Then, “I was annoyed. There was no reason to stop except that Carl was a power-hungry prick.” The venom in his voice causes Beckett to raise her eyebrows. “He had his vision, but he couldn’t articulate it except in general terms.” He turns to Castle. “You must know about theatre. You saw it. You saw how even one run-through with Mrs Rodgers worked when three months with Carl was still a disaster. We were going to be hung out to dry by the critics and we all knew it. He wouldn’t see it and we couldn’t make him see it. I’d never have seen a good role again.”

Beckett meets Castle’s intelligent eyes and exchanges the message I can see any one of them murdering Carl, but why Cali? She changes tack.

“Here’s a rough floorplan of the backstage area. Where did you go?”

Wentway peruses the sketch. “I came off downstage. Here.” Beckett puts a pencil within his reach, and he indicates with it. “Then I went round here, and into the backstage area.”

“Why not exit upstage?”

He colours. “Um… I didn’t want to run into Tim. I knew he was having a drink. I didn’t want to be involved.” Beckett raises her eyebrows. He hangs his head. “I’ve been there. I didn’t want to be tempted.”

“I get it,” Beckett says softly. “Carry on.”

“So I went round the front of stage. I went to the restroom – here” – he draws it on as she watches – “and then back up to the stalls where I wouldn’t run into Carl.”

“Oh?”

“Carl was coming out the restroom when I was nearly there.”

“Guess you didn’t want to see him, from what you just said,” Castle puts in. “It would be difficult to avoid him.”

“Yes. Anyway, he went off down here.” Wentway indicates again, drawing a light, wobbly line. “I don’t know where he went after that.”

“Where was Cali in all of this?”

“I don’t know. She hadn’t been on stage for this scene.” He thinks hard. “She might have gone into the stalls, but I think I’d have seen her – you look out even though there’s no audience – so she might have gone outside. She smoked, occasionally.”

“Tobacco or weed?” Beckett asks.

Wentway squirms. “I guess since she’s dead, it doesn’t matter. The occasional joint. If Carl was really screwing her around.” Beckett waits. “I only saw it a couple of times. But if I had to guess I’d say she’d gone out back of the theatre for a quick toke.”

Beckett mentally notes that to check the detail of the CSU sweep.

“Carl would have gone batshit if he’d known.”

“Oh?”

“He was so tight-laced about smoking and drugs and alcohol. God knows how he survived in theatre.”

“God knows how he worships my mother,” Castle mutters. “She’s been half-pickled half the time for thirteen years.” Beckett kicks him. “Ow!” Fortunately Wentway misses the aside.

“Is there anything else you can remember?”

“No,” he says unhappily. “You saw that we went through several scenes before we needed Cali again, and then she missed her cue and you walked in and… here we are,” he says miserably.

“Okay.   Thank you for your co-operation. If you think of anything else, call me.”

“Yes.” Wentway looks at Castle. “Couldn’t you persuade your mother to take over? We’d all appreciate it.”

“Er,” Castle says, nonplussed. “Um… yeah? If Carl stepped aside.”

“Please?”

Wentway exits. Castle lets out a long sigh. “How is my mother suddenly the saviour?”

“Good luck?”