Chapter 117: 117. A fighter by his trade
“Hey,” rumbles around the bullpen. Several detectives look up to see who’s vibrating the floorboards.
“Hey, O’Leary,” comes from Beckett and Castle in unison.
“Hey,” add Ryan and Espo.
“You ready to rumble, little man?” O’Leary says amiably, flexing an elephantine arm.
“You bet, mountain-man.”
Pleasantries exchanged, everyone tidies up, only a few minutes after shift end. Montgomery’s Captainly glare around, preparatory to ordering the team out, stops abruptly when it hits the mass of male muscle that is O’Leary, and he wanders out of his office to examine for himself the Bigfoot denting his floors.
“You’re Detective O’Leary?”
“Yessir.”
“Beckett’s friend and sparring partner?”
“Yessir,” says O’Leary, more doubtfully.
“You’re here for?”
“Sparring, sir.”
“Not with Beckett, you’re not. Not after last time.”
“Nossir. With Detective Esposito, sir.”
“Okay.” Montgomery looks O’Leary up and down, examines Esposito, re-examines O’Leary, and sighs. “Please try not to break my detective. One damaged detective from sparring is quite enough for this month.”
O’Leary’s enormous eyebrows wriggle in confusion.
“Detective Beckett’s last sparring match was less than successful. I can’t use damaged detectives. So don’t. Okay?”
“I’ll try, sir,” O’Leary promises meekly. Behind him, Espo is scowling blackly at the implication that Montgomery thinks that he can’t take O’Leary. Castle mutters to Ryan, who mutters back. It is possible that an entirely illicit bet is being made.
“Beckett!” Montgomery raps out. “No sparring. You got that? I’m not having you breaking your wrist this time.”
“Sir, I tripped.”
“I didn’t believe that the first time and I don’t believe you now. No sparring. That’s an order.”
“Yessir,” she says, drooping. She’d just have liked a nice warm up round with each of them. Clears her head, sparring. Spoilsport.
Castle notices her sudden droop and runs a concealed hand across her back. She straightens up.
“Okay, let’s get this party started,” she announces, and leads the way to the gym.
When the two fighters emerge, Castle wonders how on earth Espo will ever manage so much as to land a blow on O’Leary. He looks tiny in comparison (though so does just about everyone) and worryingly thin.
Castle, Beckett and Ryan deposit themselves on a handy bench to watch the show. For the first few moves, the two on the mats are testing each other out, feints, kicks, the odd punch. Gradually matters speed up. For a mobile giant redwood, O’Leary has surprisingly fast moves. Espo’s quicker, but O’Leary’s mile-long reach means that he’s not landing much. In fact, almost nothing, and it’s beginning to rile him.
For all Beckett’s assurances that she would explain everything to Castle, she’s not explaining anything. Her eyes are riveted to the pair duking it out. Her hands are moving in synch with the men on the mat, her body bending as if it were her out there.
It occurs to Castle that despite the intense mental stress and overall fragility that she’s had since before Christmas, she’s actually as tough as they come. She’s watching as an expert, he’s only an interested observer, and that means – and he should have seen it the first time he watched her spar with Espo – that she does this a lot. Puts herself through this physical exertion, the falls, the bruises, the pain. Blocking out everything else. That last round, where she’d gone all out and hurt herself… that was only the strongest manifestation.
Esposito, Beckett notices, is beginning to try harder, but his temper – always there under the surface – is rising too. Not being able to land much on O’Leary isn’t making him happy. He starts to go in faster, and that works, as he gets in under O’Leary’s reach and uses sheer speed to start landing blows. Good tactics, Espo.
Unfortunately, O’Leary doesn’t take long to get wise to that, and drops Espo with a well-placed kick and throw. This is not noticeably improving Esposito’s mood. He goes in again, and manages to rock O’Leary’s frame with a solid punch to the stomach.
“You’re a lot tougher than Beckett,” O’Leary says happily. “She’s sneaky, but she’s not as good as you.”
Beckett splutters, very audibly. O’Leary takes his eye off Esposito for half an instant, which is all it takes for Espo to land a sweep kick that puts him on the mat. The walls shudder. Esposito grins ferally.
“One-all, mountain. Best of three?”
“Sure. Then let’s go for beers and discuss technique. Seeing as Beckett’s not allowed to have a go – and what’s that about?”
“Got a little rough” –
“Espo, leave it,” Beckett whip-cracks. She knows all too well what is likely to happen if O’Leary decides to be protective. Which is utterly ridiculous because O’Leary’s thrown her all over the mats in the past and Espo’s always had her back since the moment they started working together. “O’Leary, I went full out and hurt myself doing it. No-one else’s fault. So no getting all Papa-bear on Espo, okay?”
O’Leary regards her with a big-brotherly stare. Beckett glares right back, and adds a black-as-midnight scowl for good measure. “But,” he says.
“But nothing. This is my precinct, and Espo’s my people, and I went all out. So play fair, O’Leary. Or I’ll tell Pete on you.”
The last is just plain low, but Beckett knows that it’ll work. Atlas winces, right on cue.
“Beckett, that’s not fair,” he whines.
“Nor would you breaking Espo be” – Espo growls – “C’mon, Espo, if O’Leary lands on you you’ll have no ribs unbroken, and what use’ll you be then?” She turns back to O’Leary. “Get on with it, then. You mentioned beers, and you’re wasting time.”
O’Leary regards her blandly for a moment. Beckett regards him equally blandly. O’Leary drops his eyes. Espo winks at Beckett, who winks back.
It’s the last time he looks cheerful for the next three minutes, which is how long it takes O’Leary to put him flat on his back, having spent the three minutes proving that a really good enormous guy will always beat a really good normal sized guy.
O’Leary extends a hand, and hoists Esposito up when he takes it. They bump fists, and go off to clean up as the best of friends.
The table around which everyone is sitting is flavoured with the slightly spicy scent of various male shower gels. They all have a drink, and in Espo and O’Leary’s case, two, by popular consent and by way of appreciation for the show. Beckett, O’Leary and Esposito are conducting a discussion centred around technicalities, such as placing one’s centre of balance, how and when to pull a punch, and the need for constant practice.
“So, Beckett,” O’Leary rumbles. “What’s all this about you gettin’ hurt? Have you forgotten how to play?”
“Out of practice,” she evades. Esposito acquires a studiously blank expression.
“Out of sorts, more like,” O’Leary suggests. “Not like you to hit the mats and forget how to play nice.”
“Bored of old cases. Hadn’t seen a new one in too long. We’ve got a nice one now, though,” she distracts.
“You do?”
“Sure,” puts in Espo. “Perfect Beckett-flavoured one. Crazy scientists, confusion, inconsistent evidence, an’ even foreigners.”
“Foreigners?” Beckett says. She wasn’t aware that there were foreigners involved.
“Well, you said they were from outta state. Minnesota and New Mexico. Makes ‘em foreign, in my book.” Espo’s born-and-bred in New York attitude is showing.
“Sounds fun,” O’Leary says happily.
In the background, Castle and Ryan are discussing basketball, without much knowledge on either part. Ryan is a touch disgruntled, having put ten dollars on Espo in precinctly solidarity without actually considering the reality of a difference of a foot in height and possibly two feet in width. Castle, who despite all appearances had both listened to Beckett and is capable of assessing probability quite accurately, is trying not to smirk smugly.
More drinks happen, some food happens, and everyone relaxes by degrees. The arrangement of personalities also shifts slightly. Somehow Beckett is sandwiched between the two big men, with Espo next to O’Leary and Ryan next to Castle. This has not been entirely accidental on the part of O’Leary and Castle. It also allows Castle to slip a warm hand on to Beckett’s knee at regular intervals without the boys noticing. O’Leary noticing is entirely irrelevant.
“Time for me to go home,” Ryan slurs slightly, some time later. He wobbles very slightly as he hoists himself to his feet. Castle, who has paced himself carefully; O’Leary, who would require the entire annual output of Anheuser-Busch InBev to wobble more than, say, the continental shelf; Beckett, who has stuck to soda since her single beer at the beginning of the evening; and Espo, who has the world’s hardest head, all jeer. Ryan leaves with only a few mildly embittered comments on the subject of so-called friends.
During the next round of beers, Espo, not a man susceptible to atmosphere, becomes aware that there is a marginal tension about the table. He couldn’t have said why, because the banter and technical discussion is undiminished and nobody is blocking him out, but he’s getting the distinct sense that O’Leary and Castle would rather like him to leave. Beckett appears to be entirely oblivious to the possibility.
It occurs to Espo that O’Leary might want a little chat with Beckett, centring around exactly how she hurt herself. It further occurs to him that O’Leary won’t be doing that in front of her team, and while Espo would pay good money to hear what’s going on with Beckett, that’s not going to happen this side of Kingdom Come, or possibly the Atlantic becoming beer and O’Leary drinking all of it, which is almost as near. He drains his beer, and makes his excuses and leaves. Beckett looks mildly confused at his early departure. O’Leary winks at him, over Beckett’s head.
“So, Beckett,” O’Leary says again. “What’s all this about you gettin’ hurt? What did you do?”
“Fell on my wrist. Sprained it.”
“Fell over Espo?”
“Yeah. No need for you to play Big Brother, O’Leary. It wasn’t Espo’s fault. I went in too hard and paid for it.”
“Hmm,” he rumbles sceptically. Castle tucks an arm round Beckett now that the boys are both gone. “Why?”
“O’Leary, you’re not my brother. Leave it.”
“I was worried about you, Beckett,” he rumbles embarrassedly. “I don’t wanna pry, but it ain’t like you to be runnin’ off an’ then pickin’ a fight with me. I didn’t mean to push you. Just wanted to say my piece, an’ you asked me to say it.”
“I don’t remember asking you to tell me I’m screwing up, or how I should deal with my dad.”
“Nup. But you did ask me for help, an’ sometimes you get more help than you bargained for.”
Beckett stays silent for a moment, processing, then peeks up through her eyelashes at O’Leary’s cliff-sized face. “ ‘Kay,” she says. “Friends again?”
“Never stopped, Beckett.” He plucks her out of Castle’s arm and hugs her fraternally. She oofs as he takes the air out her. “Friends.” He hands her back to Castle with a grin. “Pete won’t approve of me cuddlin’ up to you.”
Beckett laughs.
“Pete approves of you whatever you do. You pair are so cute it gives me tooth decay.”
“An’ you two here ain’t?” There is a very Beckett bristle.
“I’m not cute,” Castle complains. “I’m ruggedly handsome. All my PR says so.”
O’Leary grins widely, blinding a passing server with the reflection from his teeth. “Put you two together an’ it’s cute.” Beckett growls warningly, which is very much not cute. O’Leary takes the hint. “Okay. I’ll keep my mouth shut. But don’t let it all build up again, or I’ll have to talk to your boyfriend here.”
“Talk to Castle!” Beckett ejects. “You got something to say about me, you say it to me. You don’t go sneaking around being all macho and protective and big dumb man – or you,” she flips round and says to Castle, who is currently hard-pressed not to laugh.
“You don’t go messing with Castle ‘cause you’ve got a problem with me.” she ripostes to O’Leary, who is quite openly laughing at her. “If I find out you’ve been doing that I’ll come over to Central Park and shoot you.”
“No, you won’t, Beckett. I’m too cute,” O’Leary smirks mischievously at her. “You love me really, even when I’m messin’ with you.”
She throws up her hands in disgust and then snickers.
“I’ll get you later. You wait.”
O’Leary looks theatrically terrified, and then grins. “Bring it on, butterfly,” he says, and gets a friendly (maybe) punch in the shoulder.
Castle sits, swigs his beer from the bottle, and watches the floor show with unvoiced relief as Beckett and O’Leary re-establish themselves after the previous week’s tensions. It’s a lot easier than fixing things with Lanie had been. In fact, no fixing had been required, really.
“Time to go home,” O’Leary says when he’s drained his drink. He stands, and stretches. Castle has a momentary vision of O’Leary as an Ent, and considers that the film makers missed a trick in failing to cast him, although maybe eight or nine years ago he wasn’t quite as large.
“Night, O’Leary,” Beckett grins. “Still a lightweight.”
O’Leary is unfazed. “Night, butterfly,” he smiles back, from a safe distance.
“Bye,” Castle says. “Home time for you too, Beckett?”
“Yeah.” But she doesn’t rise, yet, instead staying in the crook of his arm for a moment more.
“I need to get home.”
“Yeah.” She stands, stretches as O’Leary had, and picks up her purse. “Want a ride?”
“Sure.”
In the car, there’s comfortable silence. At least, until Castle has an idea, and fails to examine it before letting it loose.
“Um…Beckett?”
“Yes?”
“Um… do you think you could stand another try at Sunday brunch?”
The silence acquires a rather less comfortable quality. Not, however, angry. Thoughtful, perhaps.
“I… maybe. Ask me again after tomorrow night.”
They’ve reached Broome Street, and Castle’s building. Beckett parks neatly, and Castle leans over to kiss her searchingly before he gets out and goes inside.
“Till tomorrow, Beckett.”
“Night, Castle.”
Overnight, finger prints have arrived. They are not currently much help. Not in the database, not in the files, not anywhere. Mystery fingerprints. Just what Beckett doesn’t want. She growls at them. They don’t magically identify themselves. She growls again, just in case. Nothing happens. She looks at her watch, and realises that she needs to hustle to get to NYU for eight. There’s no way she’s letting John Terrison look at her evidence without her there. She only just remembers to text Castle to tell him where she’s going.
John is delighted to see her, clearly exulting in the opportunity to bring another rookie into the science fold. He explains carefully what he is going to start with, only interrupted by Castle hurrying in, somewhat tousled and with a cut on his chin where he’s shaved rather too quickly. Castle’s eyes, however, are sparkling and interested, and he pays intense attention to John’s information.
“So, I’m going to start by simply refracting light through it to see what happens,” he says, and demonstrates. The optical machine – Beckett has no idea what he called it two seconds after he dropped the name – does its bit, John makes a note of the results, and they move on.
And on. And on. Beckett had never really liked chemistry. Sure, she’d done as well in it in high school as everything else, but she hadn’t been at all passionate about it. It had just been one more subject to get a good grade in to bolster her college applications. Castle, regrettably, is as curious about each test as he was about the first, and asks a sufficiently large number of questions to make it clear that he is interested. Beckett tunes out somewhat, enough to stop her brain turning to chemical sludge but not enough that she will miss anything that might be useful, in between the results happening, and thinks about how preferable math had been to chemistry. Statistics has actually been useful to her day-to-day job.
It seems that John’s tests are leading him to the conclusion that this is indeed Ricky Belvez’s synthesis. From the happy, enthusiastic noises John is making (Beckett sees exactly why he’s a friend of Castle’s) it seems that it outperforms John’s variant on the same thing, which, amazingly, is making John very, very pleased.
“This is wonderful,” John enthuses. “Outperforms mine by two percent. This movement of the amino group” – he gestures at a diagram on the papers – “must be what’s done it… unless it’s the trifluoromethyl placement.” He looks up at Beckett. “I have to work through these. Ricky’s made the breakthrough we’ve been looking for.” He’s acquired an introspective, faraway look as he runs chemistry through his head. “I need to get into my lab.”
“Who would have wanted this?”
“Everyone,” John says simply. “All the big telecom companies, anyone who uses optics. Defence companies, I suppose. They’ve approached us to fund before, but Verizon offered a better deal this time.”
“Could someone have been spying on Ricky?” Castle asks, hopefully.
“I can’t think why. It would be quicker to get it when he was still in New Mexico. You can’t just cook this up in the sink – or on the beach, Rick – you need a lab.”
Beckett doesn’t say anything – then. She simply thanks John for his input and conveys herself and Castle back to the Twelfth, thinking furiously all the way and entirely ignoring Castle’s ever-wilder suggestions about spies, the CIA, the Russians, the Chinese, and little green men from Mars. She isn’t actually sure whether he mentioned the last one, but it seems plausible, with Castle on a roll.
“Yo, Beckett,” Espo is on her almost as soon as the elevator doors open. “We got something.”
“I got something,” Ryan points out. “On the footage from the building. C’mon. You gotta see this. It’s last week. We got all of the last three weeks, but this is the best view.”
This turns out to be relatively clear footage of a man who is definitely not Ricky Belvez. It seems very likely that this is the mysterious Troy Bolton. This version is not handsome, not under twenty, and does not sing. Not on camera, anyway.
“That’s good. Any info on who this guy might be?”
“Naw. He’s only come up this time. That’s not all, Beckett. Look at this.”
A little further on is some equally clear footage of none other than Karlen Petersen. She is let in by Bolton. Albrechtssen enters. A while after that, Bolton leaves, and shortly after, oddly, Belvez. Some time later Petersen and Albrechtssen exit, together. Very together, seeing as his arm’s round her waist. No-one else enters or leaves for the rest of that evening.
“The best view?” Beckett queries.
“Every couple of nights, right up till last Friday. ‘Cept that Troy person.”
“So they had their little meeting on Friday night, but nothing since?”
“Yep,” Ryan says.
“Huh. Roll back a little, Ryan. I wanna see what Bolton’s carrying.”
“McDonalds. But…” he rolls the frames forward… “our girl Karlen’s carrying a pharmacy bag.”
“Shaving foam canisters?”
“I’ll see if I can get some measurements. Even if they’re not precise, it might help.”
“Good work.” Beckett claps him on the shoulder.
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