Capítulo 33: 33. Hanging on the telephone
Two hours later Ryan has produced financials, Esposito has extracted vast quantities of information and shooting statistics from the range – and from the smug grin he’s displaying has done it by spending some time showing off to the range officer – and between them all they are moving matters around the murder board like pieces in a chess game. White Queen to move and mate in two. Two perpetrators in Interrogation, that will be. All Beckett needs now is the signed warrant, and she’s typing at machinegun pace to finish it off and find a handy judge. With a final decisive tap of the Enter key, she stretches up and sighs.
“That’s it sent. I’ll give it a few minutes and then call the court to finish it off. As soon as it’s e-mailed back, we’ll start. Castle, uniforms’ll go pick them up. When we get them in I want to look at handspans. Ryan, Espo, you two supervise the search. We’re looking for the GoPro in particular.” She stands up and stretches again. “We’ll hit them with the money first.” Pause. “I need a coffee.” She aims for the break room, Castle following.
He watches her quick, competent hands creating two cups of coffee and pushing one in his direction while already drinking her own, noticing more today the tell-tale small callouses from shooting practice, as the current case is all about shooting. There’s no indication at all of what she may feel about her enforced vacation days, no indication of anything other than her desire to wrap up the case.
“If we break them,” Castle opens, “before dinner time,” – Beckett turns a gaze on him which says louder than words What do you mean if? When – “then d’you want to go get a burger after?”
There’s an uncomfortable silence, not at all disguised by Beckett continuing to swallow down her coffee. Castle thinks she’s about to refuse.
“I don’t know. Leave it,” she says, before he can start to persuade her. “Leave it till later.” The fractures are back in her tone. Castle slides a little closer and brushes a finger over her waist, swift enough to be undemanding, slow enough to make a point.
“Later, then.” His finger traces over her hand as she puts the emptied cup down. His voice drops. “Or we could simply go to yours and get takeout.” He quits the break room before she can answer, leaving his silky words to work on her.
The warrant has come through while they’ve been drinking coffee, and suddenly it’s all speed and bustle and uniforms going off and Ryan and Espo following with identically happily predatory smiles at the prospect of closing this case down and not needing to do any more overtime. Beckett doesn’t look nearly as happy at that idea as would relieve Castle of a nagging worry that Montgomery’s pushed Beckett the wrong way. She might have said she wanted her vacation days but he doesn’t believe that.
“Why have my clients been arrested?” a sharp-suited attorney demands.
“Because your clients have been skimming money from Asher Washington’s trust fund, and he would have found out next month, after his twenty-fifth birthday.” Beckett is short, forceful, and absolutely certain.
“We did not!”
“Don’t say a word,” the lawyer says.
“I can prove you did. Here” – Beckett tosses a bundle of statements across the table – “are the withdrawals you made from the trust fund account and the corresponding amounts arriving in your bank account.”
“Asher knew all about them and agreed.”
“Did he? That’s not what he told his colleague, when he asked him for some advice.” She’s bluffing, but she hasn’t told a lie. Castle may be a wordsmith, but in the interrogation room she’s as brilliant with words as he. Estelle has paled to corpse-like grey. Her hands are flat on the table. Beckett looks at the span. Her hands aren’t unusually large, but they’re wider than Beckett’s. “We’re searching your apartment now. If we find Asher’s GoPro there…” she lets the implication hang in the air. “Even if we don’t we’ve enough to send you down for grand larceny, and then I’ll take your hand span and I’ll prove that you held Asher down after you shot him so he drowned in the slush.”
“What did you do, Estelle?”
Beckett turns on Carson Washington. “Don’t start down that line. You called Asher just at the time he passed the pool. You knew he’d stop to take a call.” She drills a hard stare at both of them. “You told me he always took the same route. So you knew just when to ring so your wife could take the shot. But he didn’t have his phone so she took the shot anyway.”
“This is all conjecture. You have no evidence.”
“We have the financials, the phone records, and enough to send your clients down already.” She shoves back from the table and stands. “You’ll be taken down for processing and then into Holding.”
At that point Ryan knocks. Beckett exits, Castle on her heels. “We got it. In the trash in their building.”
“Good work.” Beckett re-enters Interrogation.
“We found Asher’s camera when we searched your apartment.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” the lawyer says contemptuously.
“Really? Because that camera was on Asher’s head when he was running – and when he was shot.”
“You can’t possibly make that statement, Detective.”
“It was transmitting to his Facebook account.” Castle says, with a nasty gotcha expression.
“Every five minutes,” Beckett adds. “Right up until it stopped. We have timed photo evidence. The only way that camera got from Asher to your apartment is if one of you took it.”
Estelle crumples. Carson lets out a defeated sigh. The lawyer looks bleak. “May I have a minute with my clients, please?” he says. Beckett nods once, sharply, and stands again.
Outside Interrogation Castle turns to her, carefully maintaining a sensible separation. “Looks like you got them, Beckett.”
“We got them. All of us.” Well. Well now. Castle didn’t exactly think that he’d contributed a lot to this case, unlike some others. But he’s not going to turn down being in Beckett’s good books either, and if she thinks he helped he’ll take that. Her expression is a strange mixture of deep satisfaction at the win and unhappiness that now she’ll have to take her two days of vacation.
The lawyer pokes his head out the door. “My clients would like to make a statement.”
And state they do. Anything and everything that they think will exculpate them from Murder One. Castle listens with ever-increasing disgust as they whine about their poverty (their apartment alone is worth way over a million dollars) and how much they’d done for Asher (very little: he was already in the first year of college when his parents died) and… and… but Beckett’s switched off next to him. She hadn’t – they hadn’t – known that. Suddenly she re-focuses. No-one who didn’t know her would have noticed the instant’s blankness; the biting tension that scraped across her back and whitened her knuckles and that she then put away. He will be leaving with her, and spending the evening with her, and letting her dissolve that stress in whatever way she chooses to refill her reserves. Whatever she chooses: whether that’s food, or soda – not vodka – or games – board or adult – or simply affection and soothing silence.
He says nothing about her momentary pause when it’s all over and the Washingtons, still making excuses for their greed-induced murder, are taken away. Beckett’s writing up the report as tidily and efficiently as always: clearing the paperwork before she has to leave.
“So, Detective. Dinner at Remy’s or takeout for two?” he murmurs mischievously: eyes twinkling within the laughter lines. She taps out a few more words, finishing a section, presses Save, and looks up, briefly.
“Takeout,” she says tiredly, distracted, he thinks, by the need to finish the report and the unwanted prospect of her enforced leave. His mischief hasn’t registered at all.
“Sure. Thai?”
“Okay.”
And so when she finally slashes her signature across the report and files it, tidies her desk and shuts her computer down so that she can leave, Castle pads along and out beside her, not drawing attention to himself. He’s settled in the passenger seat before Beckett even notices properly, and then she doesn’t object: simply sighs a quietly exhausted sigh.
“Time for you to go home. What do you want to eat?”
“Pad Thai. Shrimp.”
Castle taps out an order, puts in Beckett’s address, assesses the traffic and the likely delivery time, and puts a thirty minute delay on delivery. Beckett is clearly using all her remaining concentration to drive: and she’s aiming for hers, not Broome Street, which means that either she doesn’t object to his having invited himself for dinner or (more likely) she’s too tired to have realised. He wonders vaguely when – or if – she slept last night. He wonders much more intensely what triggered such tiredness. Okay, he knows she went back to the precinct, but she called him relatively early in the evening… Oh yes, that call she took that cut his call short. Hmm. How to find out what that was all about?
An answer hasn’t occurred to him by the time they reach Beckett’s, but then he isn’t being politely requested to leave either. Since they’re now inside, and there will be a short delay before dinner arrives, that leaves a number of options. He goes with the easy one: sitting on the couch next to Beckett, who has disposed of her gun, badge and heels and slumped down into the corner; putting an arm round her – and not asking what’s tired her out.
Astoundingly, it works. She nestles in a little more closely – not nearly closely enough for Castle’s taste, but it’s a start – and then lays her head on his shoulder, which is definitely to his taste. He pats gently.
“Dinner should be here in about twenty minutes.”
“Good,” she replies, and leaves it at that. Strangely, the silence isn’t chill, or intimidating, or even blocking the possibility of questions or answers. More astoundingly, after another moment, she speaks. It’s as if she’s too tired to filter her thoughts, too exhausted to hold her barriers against him. Against everyone.
“O’Leary called last night. Picked up Mr Berowitz again.” Her words are slow, forced out against remembered pain; memories of taking those calls. “Wanted to know if I needed him.” Her voice trails dismally through the silence. “I said no.” Misery begins to tinge the previously comfortable silence. “He was Julia’s problem. Not mine.” She gulps in air. “She needed to go get him. Not me.”
“Not you?”
“Julia called me. Wanted me to be there. Wanted help. I listened.” She stops. “Told her where to get help.” Castle’s hand tightens around her upper arm. “I wouldn’t go to her.” Another gulp. “She cried. Dad… Dad used to cry.” She pulls right away. “I wouldn’t go,” she says again, bitter agony laced through each word. She stands, and walks to the kitchen, stiff-backed, pulls plates from a cupboard and cutlery from a drawer; two glasses and a jug from another cupboard; fills the jug with water, sets the whole lot at the table. Opposite each other, not side by side. All the brief openness is gone.
The door sounds at that point, and Castle stands up to answer it and bring in the takeout. Setting it out covers the silence, and eating more so. Eventually, though, it’s done, the table is cleared, and there are no longer any ordinary courtesies, offers to share sides or to try each other’s dishes, to break the suffocating weight of memories and guilt.
Castle looks at Beckett’s rigid spine as she fusses with the kettle and coffee, waits until she’s put everything down on the table in front of the couch, and then steps up to her, places both hands on her waist and smoothly draws her into him. He doesn’t yet kiss her, simply holds her close and waits till she should soften and curve and lean on him.
Except that isn’t happening. She’s held rigid by unhappiness, instead of softly in his arms, and it seems that holding is not enough to change that. So, as before, as every time, he smooths his hand over her back to end by tipping her head up, bends the few inches to kiss her, takes and keeps possession of her mouth and shows his strength not by muscular grip but with soft, sure assertion that draws her in – and draws her tension out. Slowly she eases, stands down, leans into him and on him; but her hands are still at her sides, limp and lax. He ceases kissing, but doesn’t move his hands, keeping her against him, foreheads touching, and then he shifts her head so it’s lying on his shoulder, tucked into his neck; turns and seats them both, she on his lap and still leaning in.
“He would cry, and beg me to come and get him. I wouldn’t go. I wouldn’t answer. He’d cry and beg until my voicemail was full. I never went to him. I just let him cry.”
Castle abruptly realises that Beckett had never blocked her father’s number; and worse, that she’d heard each desperate, drunken plea. She had forced herself to listen and not to answer, or go. That must have taken inordinate self-control – and fed her inordinate guilt. She’d made herself suffer: self-flagellation to punish herself for leaving her father alone – and she may not know it but she’s still doing exactly that. She owes the Berowitzes nothing now she’s found them justice, but still she pours out help and then feels guilty when she said no more. She won’t show her father anything that isn’t bright success and cheerfulness – and won’t disagree, get irritated, get angry, or be upset however much it might be justified. However much he might need to hear it. Over-compensating.
He thinks, again, that Beckett really needs some external help. He just doesn’t know how to suggest it. So he doesn’t, just sits with her in his arms and exudes solid comfort and affection, giving her a chance to stabilise, petting her hair gently and – well, she is right here and he is only human and male – watching for another chance to kiss her. Kisses seem to help.
Talking to Jim will not help, and he shouldn’t even be thinking that he might. It’s not up to him to interfere. It really isn’t, and she’ll run like a rabbit if he does. Beckett needs to talk to her father – which is almost as likely as her taking the leading role in an outdoor production of Lady Godiva in Central Park. But… for as long as she won’t understand that she’s burying her guilt and unhappiness, for as long as she doesn’t understand that she hasn’t forgiven herself and probably hasn’t really forgiven her father… that’s not going to happen.
He kisses the top of her ear, peeking through her hair. She wriggles a fraction, not away from him, more to make herself comfortable; her hair falls away and reveals some more of the edge of her ear. Castle kisses that, too, and when there’s a tiny little hum, barely audible, drops butterfly kisses down it. Comfort is his main aim, though he won’t say no to providing anything more.
He has an idea. “Would your dad talk to Mrs Berowitz?”
“Uh? What?” Beckett wakes up from her miserable stupor and stares at him. “Why?”
“Well…” Castle’s thinking hadn’t got past the initial idea. He rapidly assembles his thoughts into some vague semblance of order. “I just thought that maybe he could tell her that she can’t make it work. From the perspective of Mr Berowitz. I thought if she heard it from someone who’s been there and done that and come out the other side, she might believe it.” Beckett’s face is flabbergasted. “I know she heard it from you, but if she heard it from your dad it might have more impact.” He stops. Beckett is utterly still.
“My dad?” she says, dumbfounded. “My dad?” But she hasn’t dismissed the idea out of hand, she isn’t crying, and she hasn’t shot him. Yet.
Beckett’s brain is fried. She would never, ever have thought of that. Never. She’s so used to thinking of her father as a man who needs help and support, that she’d never have turned her head round the idea that he could give it. (He certainly hadn’t given it to her – but that was then, and this is now, and she hasn’t asked him in five years.) At first blush it sounds like a way out Castle theory on a par with CIA spies and Men in Black aliens… but in among Castle’s way out theories there are often some workable ideas. This… might just be one of them. She eases down from her shocked stillness, and starts to think.
Pro: it might actually bring the truth home to Julia. That’s a huge advantage. Con: her dad has never met Julia and this is going to come out of nowhere. He might spook, and spooking might be fatal. Pro: she could be there to stop him spooking. Con: Julia might start to cling to her dad, which would not be helpful. (A nasty little voice says at least it wouldn’t be you. She squashes it, with venom.) Um. Pros seem to outweigh the cons, here. Probably. Enough to talk to her dad. Yes. Okay.
“Okay.” She nestles back in. “Let’s talk to Dad about it. See what he says.” She lays her head back on Castle’s ample shoulder, tired simply from making the decision. He’s nice and cosy and comforting. She likes being cosy and she likes being petted and finally Castle seems to be back in a place where he will do both and take a gentle lead and not ask any questions at all. She wriggles into a perfectly comfortable alignment, curls herself up against him and finds with a complete lack of surprise that she is gathered in and held close.
It’s even less of a surprise when Castle, after a particularly short pause, encourages her to look up at him by carefully moving her head off his shoulder, and starts again where he left off before his idea, dropping little kisses round her face and finally ending up on her lips. She opens to the first touch of his tongue asking for entrance, and lets herself fall into the sensuality that surrounds her: firm mouth, firm hands, firm muscle in the chest and arms between which she is held. Assertion, affection, and no pressure to do or be or answer or support.
It’s everything she needs, right now.
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