castle fanfiction, castle/beckett - the ends opening into new ends always (2/10)

[recycledstars]

Part I: Winter.

New York City. January, 1925.

The music was loud, but somehow the whispers were louder. They spread like the 1918 Spanish flu from the corner of the bar near the stairs all the way to the back, where Rick Castle was fishing for the answer to a long forgotten question at the bottom of a whiskey. He was about to turn and ask Ryan at the next table what all the fuss was about when he caught a glimpse of her, snow turning to water at the base of her heels as she stripped off her fur-trimmed coat. Her back was to them, but he could see the embroidery on her stockings; he followed it with his eyes as it snaked from her heels to the back of her knees where it disappeared beneath her skirt.

Ryan leant over and nudged his shoulder, but he didn’t avert his eyes. "That skirt over there? She's a cop's wife. A prohi. Javier says be ready to leave in a hurry," he said, in his American-Irish lilt.

Javier Esposito was the bartender - an immigrant who’d decided providing the good people of New York City with liquor was a more profitable and all-together more agreeable than trying his luck in California or working on a production line in Detroit. He was part-man, part-legend due to some well-told lies, a reputation that kept his bar well-stocked and the less-savoury elements out of his business. When it suited him, he had an exotic accent and he could mix a mean martini. His skill behind the bar was matched only by his ability to get a secret out of a man, which he’d happily sell for the right price unless he considered you a friend. He’d been shut down eight times by the feds, but always re-opened within a week.

Castle shrugged, "She's probably here for a drink, just like the rest of us."

"Mmm," Ryan finished his in a single mouthful, "Nope, they say she's asking questions."
Castle rearranged the pile of shredded paper in front of him, trying to sort out useful scribbles from those he'd be happy to leave behind. "That never bodes well."

“Mm, so quit your gaping and finish your drink.”

He folded the appropriate papers and placed them in his pocket and took a large mouthful of whiskey. He paused suddenly when he felt someone’s eyes on him but didn’t look up. Instead, he studied the floor and the tops of her shoes. Ryan actually raised his hands off the table top. She rolled her eyes.

"Relax boys," she drawled, and he was afraid to do anything but. "I'm not here to spoil your fun."

He looked up and studied her face. She looked like a porcelain doll - beautiful, but deadly across a poker table. His interest had already been piqued by her figure; the air of mystery heightened it to a budding obsession. “Then what are you here for?”

She set a worn black-and-white photograph on the sticky table. "Do you recognise her?"

Castle nodded slowly, "It's you, no, a female relative. May I?"

She bobbed her head once, regarding him warily.

He turned the photograph over in his hands. It was dated, in neat script, November 1915. "She’s too old to be you, and probably too old to be your older sister too. Your mother," he surmised, "But I'm sorry, I've never seen her before."

"Well you’re a little young," she snatched back the picture in a single deft movement and carefully placed it in her purse. “She died - was murdered - six years ago.”

“Oh?” he gave her a hint of a smile as his eyes followed the path traced by the string of pearls around her neck. They hung low between her breasts. She gave him a disapproving, impatient look. He was cataloguing details: the red curve of her lips, the soft wave of her hair behind her ear, the way her hands clutched the handle of her beaded purse. It was a bad habit he’d developed while writing his first novel. He’d study people, try to invent their stories, explaining how they got to where they were and where they were going.

She clammed up on that subject and changed tack. “Have you ever seen a Mister Lockwood or a Mister Pulgatti around here?”

Ryan coughed behind him. It sounded suspiciously like ‘gangsters’’.

"Those are some pretty bad names," he twisted his glass between his hands, "What's a nice girl like you going around asking questions in a gin mill like this?"

"The killer was never caught," there was a musicality to her tone but it was measured, calculated for maximum impact. She wanted information and she’d charm him to get it.

He was slowly building a character profile in his head.

"You got a name doll?"

"I do," she hedged. "What's it to you?"

"Well, murder mysteries are sort of my business." He corrected himself quickly when he noticed her horrified face. "I mean to say, I'm a mystery writer. I'd like to help," he extended her his hand, "Richard Castle."

"Katherine Beckett," she accepted and shook his fingers firmly, "Sorry, Sorenson."

"I used to forget I was married too," he grinned, "So Katherine Beckett-sorry-Sorenson, can I buy you a drink? I'd like to hear about this mystery of yours."

"Sorry Mister Castle," she pulled her hand away quickly, "I don't think that's a good idea. I have to get home."

“Well then, let me see you out,” he stood and clapped Ryan on the shoulder. “I’ve got an idea and I have to write it down immediately.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” Ryan smirked into his whiskey, knowingly. The second clap on the shoulder was a little more forceful than necessary.

“I’ll be fine Mister Castle,” Kate Beckett Sorenson shifted her weight from one foot to another.

“I’ll walk you out just the same,” he let his hand ghost behind her, guiding without touching.

Kevin Ryan rose and re-traced their steps after the band finished their number. He leant against the wood of the bar while Javier served a steady stream of customers and lit a cigarette. He was luxuriating in the seductive diminished seventh in a chord concluding the solo of a trumpeter from Harlem. The hand in his pocket fingered his badge. Ryan was good at his day job. He rarely drank to excess, he went to church on Sunday and he regularly wrote to his mother. His vices were modest: a whiskey worthy of the old country and some adeptly played jazz. He was more likely to fall in love with a girl than take advantage. So if he occasionally turned a blind eye for a few clams when he came across an establishment selling liquor or a barrel house, well, he still considered himself a good man, on balance.

“Did you see that?” Javier finally stole a moment to trade gossip.

Ryan nodded, “From a mile away.”

“She’s married,” the bartender refilled his glass and waved away his money, “To a prohi.”

“Mmm.”

“And Ricky’s already making gaga eyes at her.”

“Mmm.”

“And she was asking questions about some real nasty folk.”

“Mmm.”

“That man’s gonna bring down my whole operation.”

“Now now Javier, we’ve survived worse than a doll coming down here asking questions about a murder.”

“I tell you Ryan, those two, the way he was looking at her? Ain’t nothing but trouble going to come of that.”

“Can’t say I disagree with you there,” Ryan knocked back his whiskey.

“Any money in the world Ricky’s skulking around here tomorrow asking about her,” Javier wiped the bar top and slung his cloth over his shoulder.

“I’m not a gambling man Javier,” Ryan reached into his pocket and put on his gloves. Javier was already holding out his coat. He took it with a nod of thanks. “But if I was? I wouldn’t take that bet.”

They laughed and exchanged goodnights before Ryan traipsed up the stairs and into the dark, snow-covered street.

--

Never one to leave well enough alone and ever one to be predictable, Richard spent the morning loitering around Javier’s place, smoking and kicking up dirt. He was stuck on the events of the previous night, in particular the half hour they had spent in the freezing street waiting for her cab. She had rewarded all his attempts at conversation, flirtatious and otherwise, with rebuttals that varied from genial to caustic. She had also steadfastly refused to share any more details about the murder she was trying to solve. After she took the cigarette he offered her, they had resorted to a quasi-comfortable silence while they smoked. He’d opened the door of the cab for her, she politely wished him a good night and he had walked the ten blocks home in the freezing night air with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, trying to figure her out. When he awoke the next morning he was still puzzling over her, so he’d dressed and come straight down to Javier’s after his first coffee. Three hours later and he was starting to get impatient. Javier never worked before eleven, but it was pushing noon and he was starting to get hungry.

Just as he was about to give up for the morning and stop somewhere on his way home for a sandwich, Javier pulled up in a truck full of illegal gin.

“Castle,” he grinned to himself when his speculations proved correct. “I thought I might see you this morning. Come on,” he lifted the canvas covering the back of his truck, “Help me unload this cargo.”

Castle obliged, dragging his feet.

“There was a lady in here last night,” he began, lifting his first crate and bracing it against his hip. “A real doll…”

“Mm, the fed’s wife,” Javier pressed his lips together in an effort to control his amusement, “Ryan said you were taken with her.”

“I was not,” he denied, unconvincingly. He set down his load at the back door of the speakeasy.

Javier waggled his eyebrows, knowingly. Richard scowled.

“Mrs Sorenson,” he confirmed, “You know her husband?”

“Yeah, he’s with the Bureau of Internal Revenue, goes around busting us up every month or so. Mostly for show of course, I’ve heard he’s quite the regular at Louis’ place down the road.”

“Got an address?”

“Are you going to use it to harass that poor girl Ricky?”

“She was in last night asking about a murder,” he tried his best to look affronted but really, Javier knew him too well. “So I made a few telephone calls, asked Doctor Murray down at the city morgue to have a look into it for me.”

Doctor Clark Murray was well known in certain circles; a respected city ME by day and what he liked to call an experimental chemist by night, which really amounted to using a property Rick owned down around the docks to brew a wicked tasting moonshine, laced with whatever opiates the good doc could get his hands on. He was also one of Rick’s prized sources of information. His foundling interest in the new forensic science made him more than willing to fill the pulp novels of the American public with the gruesome details their English counterparts abhorred and he was always available at Javier’s place for a quick chat about what would happen to a man with his hand cut off or a bullet through his torso.

“Ah, the good doctor!” Javier grinned, “Did you ask him when he’s bringing down his next batch? It’s not for everyone, but it’s certainly got a following.”

Rick made a face, “That stuff is going to send people blind.”

“Probably,” Javier looked remarkably cheerful, “As long as they can still find the place, I don’t mind. So, a married woman eh Castle? You’re the worst. Did The Doc give you the goods on our lady’s murder?”

“He found something,” he answered, evasively. Javier looked at him imploringly. “You mind your beeswax Javier.”

“Hey man, I’m a bartender. My business is everyone else’s business. That doll was asking after some pretty mean fellas.”

“Her mother was killed, stabbed, six years ago. And the doc says she wasn’t the only one, he looked back over all the cases that crossed his slab in 1919 and came across three similar killings,” he handed Javier a crisp five dollar bill, “This information stays between us, and I trust you’ll clue me in if you hear anything.”

“You don’t need to pay me for my confidence Ricky,” Javier took the bill anyway, folded it and shoved into the pocket of his slacks, “But this job don’t pay well enough for me to turn down an Abe’s Cabe.”

“Mm, liar," he accused. "I also expect to be served the good stuff when I come by tonight.”

“The lady likes gin,” Javier tapped the side of his nose. “And the Sorenson’s place is on West 68th and Columbus.”

“Thanks Javier,” Rick clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good man.”

“Beat it Castle, I gotta get to work.”

He waved over his shoulder as turned down the alley, heading back to the main street.

--

The maid answered the door on her way out for the day. She called out to the back room after the lady of the house and told him, in no uncertain terms, to wait in the sitting room and not touch anything. He did the first, but ignored the second and was hurriedly trying to replace a pile of William Sorenson’s mail at the writing desk in the corner when she entered the room.

“Mister Castle,” she was surprised to see him, “What are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to treat a guest?” he chided, “Mrs Sorenson, lovely to see you.”

“How did … ” she began then shook her head, “No, I don’t want to know and given where I found you, I’m guessing you probably don’t want to tell me. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t understand why you’re here.”

“Can we talk?” he gestured to the couch in the centre of the room, “I mean, is anybody else here?”

“No Mister Castle,” she smoothed her skirt with her palms as she sat, gesturing for him to the same, “My husband is at work and you saw Elsa leave. Why?”

“Last night,” he leant back into the chair, fingers moving absently over the patterned fabric, “You were in a hurry to get home, and your husband is a cop. I’m guessing he doesn’t know about this little investigation of yours?”

She turned to look at him, choosing her words. “No,” she affirmed, “Will doesn’t know. I didn’t think he would approve.”

“Understandable,” he grinned at her, “Beautiful woman like you going around town to some of the shadiest drums in the city alone? I wouldn’t stand for it if you were my wife.”

She bristled. “Luckily for you, I’m not.”

“Oh I doubt that,” he gave her a brief once over out of the corner of his eyes.

“And I don’t need protecting,” she continued hurriedly, to disguise her embarrassment. “If that’s why you’re here.”

“No I don’t expect you do,” he assured her, “And that’s not why I’m here. I told you, murder is my business Mrs Sorenson. I’m here for the story, and yours intrigued me.”

Their eyes met for a moment too long; he caught something in her expression and latched onto it and she spent a minute trying to puzzle him out. She felt like Edison’s carbon filament inside a vacuum, humming with an unseen current, about to burn. Swallowing slowly, she blinked twice then dropped her eyes to stare at her hands.

“So,” he continued, staring at the wall behind her head, “I asked around about a Mrs Beckett who was murdered in 1919 on your behalf.”

“Oh?” she raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’ve got a guy,” he smirked. “Do you want to know what he found or not?”

“Ok Mister Castle,” the teasing note in her voice was returned. “I’ll make you a wager. You manage to tell me something I don’t already know, and I’ll agree to let you help me.”

“Deal,” he held his hand, which she shook once.

“Ok,” he pulled a wad of papers from his coat, “Here. There were three other murders in the year your mother was killed; all three were committed in the same manner and it’s my contact’s professional opinion that they were committed by the same person.”

A slew of black and white crime scene photographs spilled across the carpet as he handed her the file. She stared at the images at her feet for a moment, bending to let her fingertips trace the wounds that killed her mother. He scrambled to pick the others up off the floor, stacking them like a deck of cards. She picked up a single photograph, showing her mother’s eerily still face.

“I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly, holding out the wad of photographs as a kind of peace offering.

“I’m not some dumb Dora who’s going to cry on your shoulder Mister Castle,” she said in a measured tone, but he saw the shine of tears in her eyes as she turned the picture over and slapped it against her thigh. She blinked furiously twice and met his gaze, defiant. “I didn’t know about the other murders, so I’ll let you help me, but this is mine, my mother’s murder, and I don’t want some cake-eating amateur dick breezing in and stealing leads out from under me. We’re partners, equals, and you don’t have to coddle me.”

“Pardon me partner,” his voice was low, and the words were clearly meant only for her even though they were alone. “I never doubted it.”

Humbled by his reaction she took a breath and nodded once, “Ok then.”

“But let me just say, if it was me looking at pictures like this of my mother?” their fingers met as she took the pictures from his hand and he let the contact linger, “I’d be a mess. There’s no shame in it.”

“We’re not well acquainted Mister Castle,” she explained herself unnecessarily. “And I prefer to keep my grief private.”

“Very well. I just wanted you to know, I don’t consider any sign of emotion to be a weakness. In fact I think it takes rather a lot of strength to be exposed in that way and carry on as if you weren’t.”

“You mentioned you were a writer,” she gave him a long, amused look complete with a sly smile, “Is this propensity to make attempts at poetic speeches a symptom of that madness?”

He took the barb in his stride and rewarded her with the grin of a co-conspirator in the unspoken game they played, “I suppose so.”

“These papers, are they the police files on the other murders you uncovered?” she returned to business after a moment of mutual amusement. She found herself immediately easy with him in an odd sort of way; it wasn’t that she’d trust him further than she could throw him nor did she peg him for a virtuous man, but she felt assured of their respective positions, as though she could count on him to react in the way she expected. Besides, as a wordsmith, he was a worthy sparring partner. She enjoyed the sport of their conversation. He found himself drawn to her, literarily and otherwise, though he tried to forget the latter and focus on the former. Prose was forming behind his eyes in the silences, endless streams of words describing their interactions. It was part of the burden of his craft: the never-ending narration of one’s own life. He tried to occupy his mind with the facts at hand.

“Yes,” he affirmed, “We’re ah, borrowing them without permission, though my contact says since the cases are closed or cold they won’t be missed. I’ll make notes and return them after you’re done with them.”

“You’ve read them yourself of course,” she stated more than asked, but he took it for a question, “Yes, though without doing some digging of our own it’s hard to tell if there’s a solid connection between the victims, other than, of course, the manner in which they were killed. You might be able to help with that - did you know your mother’s friends well?”

“I was seventeen when she died,” she told him, “It was before I married Will. I was well-acquainted with several of her friends, especially her political associates.”

His silence was questioning in and of itself.

“My mother was a suffragette Mister Castle,” she explained, “She was heavily involved in the National Woman’s Party before her death.”

“So were two of our other victims,” he exclaimed excitedly in response, quickly making the connection in his head. “A Diana Cavanaugh, who was tragically killed on,” he reached into the pile of papers and retrieved the appropriate file, “Sunday March 7th 1919, near 65th and Amsterdam and Jennifer Stewart, who was killed on May 21st in Central Park.”

“I’m not familiar with those names,” she tilted her head to one side, as though straining to recall her every acquaintance. “My father kept all of my mother’s old things. They’re at the old house; I can look for them when I visit him this week. She kept a diary for appointments and an address book.”

“Do you recognise the other name?” he pressed on, undeterred, “Scott Murray?”

“Mister Murray was a family friend, a lawyer who worked with my grandfather and assisted my mother’s organisation in petitioning Congress. I thought he was killed in a bar fight,” she flipped through the file, “It says here the murder was attributed to a known criminal who he had failed to keep out of prison several years before. He was stabbed four times outside a bar, now closed of course, on the same day Miss Cavanaugh was killed.”

“My contact, we call him the Doc down at Javi’s, is a city medical examiner. He looked over the files and he believes this man was killed by the same man who murdered your mother. Look at the evidence used to convict the alleged murderer - they found the bloody knife in his apartment? He was a known criminal, who had escaped felony charges on numerous occasions. It seems unlikely he’d make such an obvious error.”

“If the motive was revenge, he could have been in an emotional state,” she countered, “But I concede your point. It all aligns very neatly, and if you look at the dates on the file, the police barely investigated. The case was open all of three days. There were no witnesses to the attack, but the convicted man failed to provide a solid alibi and was seen at the bar in question that night.”

She laid the file she had been examining out on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “But this new information provides me with some clear leads. I wasn’t having much luck tracking down the men I mentioned to you last night.”

“And you should be thankful,” he informed her shortly, “How did you come across those names?”

“I received a letter in the mail a few weeks ago,” she got up and went into the other room for a few minutes and returned with an opened envelope containing a single sheet of paper. In neat script, it mentioned two names, Hal Lockwood and Joe Pulgatti. It was unsigned. He turned the envelope over in his hand - the overside was blank.

“It isn’t postmarked,” he noted.

She nodded. “It came after the regular mail, while I was visiting the library a few days ago.”
“Intriguing, an anonymous tip delivered in person,” he stroked the paper thoughtfully, “That’s almost scary. He knows where you live.”

“You assume it’s from a ‘he’,” she took it from him and replaced the letter in its non-descript envelope.

“True,” he acknowledged his assumption gracefully, “So, what’s our next move?”

“Well it’s obvious you don’t think I should be following up on the letter,” she began, “Which ordinarily would just make me more determined to do it, but since you’re here and you’ve volunteered to help and you’re obviously a little scared by the big bad gangsters I think I’ll let you handle that,” there was something about the way she smiled through it that took the sting out of her words, or maybe he was just sweet on her. He’d always had a weakness for strong, attractive women. It was probably Freudian, but he’d never thought it a good idea to consider it in that much detail or apply the novel theories of psychoanalysis to anything but his characters.

“And I will visit my father tomorrow afternoon and sort through my mother’s things for any hint of these names you’ve uncovered.”

“Ooh, can I help?” he looked far too enthusiastic at the prospect of clearing dust and cobwebs off a few small boxes in her father’s house.

“And how will I explain you following me like a shadow to my father?” she raised an eyebrow, in a way he was beginning to think she should patent. (It was quintessentially her though, so remaining original wasn’t much of a concern. He didn’t know an actress who could copy it if she tried, and he knew far too many actresses.) “No,” she determined resolutely, “Besides, I’m sure you’ll be busy pursuing your own avenues of investigation.”

“Not really,” he shrugged, “I’ll go down to Javier’s, ask Javier for the goods, follow up on that with Kevin Ryan and that’ll be that.”

“And you expect this to yield information?” again with the incredulous tone. He was beginning to think she didn’t take him seriously.

“It’s never failed,” he boasted. “And if it does, I have a few contingency plans.”

“Good,” she finally approved of something he had said. “How will you tell me what you find?”

“I expect I’ll meet you someplace,” he was being wilfully literal.

“You want me to meet you at that speakeasy your friend runs don’t you?” she furrowed her brow. He wanted to reach out and smooth the lines in her expression, as though that would ease their underlying cause.

“People have a way of forgetting what they see go on down at Javier’s,” he laid out his reasons. “In a way that neighbourhood gossips don’t. You might want to make less of entrance this time, but otherwise, I don’t expect we’ll attract much attention.”

“Fine,” she said, “Tomorrow night at eight. But I expect answers.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” she stacked the papers neatly and held them in the crook of her arm when they stood. “I don’t think I ever said that. Not many people would take such an interest in the worries of a complete stranger. I’m not sure if that makes you incredibly generous or just a little odd.”

He offered her his hand before he opened the front door, “You’re more than welcome.”

“Good afternoon Mister Castle.”

“Until tomorrow Mrs Sorenson,” he tipped his hat to her with a knowing smirk, “And why can’t it be both?”

She decided it certainly could be as she closed the door behind him.

--

Katherine Beckett Sorenson had a key to her father’s house and her childhood home but she rang the bell just the same. Lanie Parish, who answered the door, was more a member of the family than a maid. They had been girls together - Lanie’s mother had done her job before her - and Kate considered her a confidante and the closest thing she had a sibling. She took her arm as she stepped through the doorway, “Lanie.”

“Oh girl, you look fantastic. Who made that hat?” Lanie pulled it down around her ears with a grin, “It’s divine.”

Kate pressed her lips together and pulled it off, smoothing her hair with gloved hands. She handed it to her friend, “I don’t know, there’s probably a label on the inside. I’ll buy you one for your birthday. Is my father home?”

Lanie twisted the hat between her hands, “He is, but he’s still asleep.”

“He’s drinking again,” she surmised, walking through the hall into the kitchen, heels voicing her disapproval against the hardwood.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Lanie murmured as she entered the room after her. “You know he was never the same after your mother died.”

“That was years ago Lanie,” she pulled off her gloves and set them down on the kitchen table, “And I miss her too, but I can’t pick him up off the floor of every drum in the city anymore.”

“I know love,” Lanie patted her shoulder. “Sit down. I’ll make tea.”

She nodded her assent and sat at her father’s kitchen table.

“So a little birdie told me a certain writer paid you a visit the other day,” Lanie sing-songed, lighting the stove and putting the kettle on. She rummaged in the cupboards for tea.

“Mister Castle,” she said, amused. “Yes. And who might that little birdie have been?”

“You know my people, they gossip. Nellie heard from Dorothy who heard from Dolores who heard from her mother who works for the folk across the hall from you.”

“Well, with that many links in the chain, I don’t doubt the tale was highly embellished.”

“I heard that he visited you when you were home alone, he stayed for just over an hour, and he left looking… satisfied.”

“Lanie.”

“Oh shh, no one would blame you honey. Will hasn’t been the same since the war.”

“Lanie it wasn’t like that. And, I told you those things in confidence.”

“I haven’t told a soul,” she turned and raised her hand as though swearing on the Bible, “With Jesus as my witness. And you know I don’t mean Will any disrespect. But if it wasn’t like that, what was it like?”

“Lanie remember how I told you I overheard those men talking about my mother’s murder when I went after my dad on New Year’s Eve?” she let her thumb trace her cuticles to busy her hands, “I told you I went back asking questions and it was a dead end, but I got a letter, a few weeks back. It didn’t say much. It just said that if I wanted to know what happened to my mother I should look for two men.”

“And one of those men was our writer?”

“No,” she half-laughed. “Gosh, no. I went down to the kind of place where one finds information about men like that and that’s when I met Mister Castle. He … he offered to help.”

“Really?” Lanie raised an eyebrow.

“We’ll see,” she gave her a measured smile; “I’m meeting him tonight to see what he found out today.”

“And you’re sure you don’t need a chaperone?”

The kettle whistling saved her from having to answer that not-very-serious enquiry.

“I don’t know what to make of him,” she confessed, fingers running along a grain in the wood where the paint was chipping. “He seems… different.”

“You mean he’s a little peculiar?” Lanie poured water from the kettle and dunked the bags a few times. “Creative types can be a little, you know,” she made a ‘crazy’ gesture beside her temple, “Odd.”

“No,” she took the cup that was offered and leant back in the chair. “That’s not what I meant. He’s just a mixture of extremes,” she blew steam off the top of the cup and set it down on the table to let it steep. “And every new thing I learn about him is completely at odds with my first impression.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t judge an author by his cover,” Lanie suggested sagely, putting milk and sugar in her tea.

“I’m rarely ever wrong.”

“Honey, if you let them, people will always surprise you.”

“Perhaps. In this case, I’ll reserve my final judgement until I see what he turns up.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Lanie voiced her concerns for the hundredth time, “Going around chasing after a murderer?”

“She was my mother Lanie. I can’t just let it go,” her voice was heavy with the weight of that burden.

“I’m not saying you should. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t go and get yourself killed with your gumshoeing.”

“Speaking of,” she crossed her ankles under her chair, “Are mom’s things still in the cupboard under the stairs?”

Lanie nodded. “You know he’d never let me throw them away. Why?”

“Because that’s my next step,” she said, “Castle has a contact with the police department. He found three similar murders around the same time and I want to check for a personal connection between them. We already have one. Castle’s contact thinks Scott Murray was murdered by the same killer.”

“No kidding,” Lanie warmed her hands against the ceramic of her cup, “Well everything’s exactly the same as it’s always been honey. I have to fix breakfast for your father after we finish this.”

“Breakfast? Lanie, it’s after twelve.”

“He was out late.”

“Well tell him I’m here. I’d like to speak with him.”

“You’re going to lecture him again and put him in a foul mood,” Lanie looked displeased. “And then I’ll have to spend all afternoon ‘yes sir’-ing and ‘no sir’-ing and he’ll tip me twenty clams to sit around here all evening waiting for him to come home.”

“Twenty dollars’ll buy you one of those fancy hats you like so much,” she tried to keep the irritation with her father out of her tone, “So hush.”

“Well if you must, you must.”

“Lanie, you know he can’t keep on the way he has been. There’s probably more liquor in his personal stash that at any blind pig in this town. And mores the point, what about his health?”

“I know,” she stood and put her cup in the sink, “I’ll be here if you need me.”

“I know,” she smiled. “I’ll be in the hall closet.”

Lanie nodded and shooed her from the room by waving her arms.

--

She spent the afternoon sorting through her mother’s things - photographs and jewellery and letters - and pleading with her father. By the time she left, she was exhausted and running late. Her husband was outside the city on business, so that wasn’t a concern, but finding the time to change and pin her hair and paint her face appropriately was. She made a quick job of it, shimming out of her day dress and into a more appropriate, knee-length beaded gown. She twisted her curls around her fingers, trying to smooth them but gave up in a frustrated huff. Within twenty minutes, she was on her way to Javier’s, only half an hour behind time.
There was a perspiring inch of gin sitting on the table beside him when she arrived. His whiskey was in his hand.

“Well,” he set it down and stood when he saw her, “Mrs Sorenson, don’t you look swell?”

“Hello Mister Castle,” she said by way of greeting, giving him a funny look at the compliment and eyeing the drink suspiciously. “I’ll have you know, I don’t accept drinks from strange men.”

“I’m Richard Castle, novelist. My mother is Martha Rogers. I live on the Upper West Side with her and my daughter, Alexis. I served in the 2nd division of the AEF in the war. I don’t like Brussels sprouts and my favourite colour is blue. There, not a stranger, drink up.”

“Oh but you’re still strange,” her lips curved at the sides ever-so-slightly as she slid onto the stool next to him.

The ice in her glass clinked against the sides. She turned the liquid over in her mouth with her tongue. It was pleasantly bitter. “So,” she set the glass down and clasped her hands in her lap, “What did you find?”

“Not a whole lot on Lockwood,” he admitted, “But nothing can often be very revealing. That name struck fear in the hearts of some of the most hardened criminals in this town - so much so that no one was willing to talk.”

She looked displeased with that result. “Well, that won’t help us much. You couldn’t track him down?”

He choked on his whiskey. “When people like that are afraid of a man? I make it my business to stay out of his way. But I did ask where I might find him and no one knows. It seems he’s a bit of an enigma around these parts.”

“What about Joe Pulgatti?”

“Oh, well there I did find something. Pulgatti is in the big house,” his eyes lit up as he began spinning the tale. She watched with a kind of admiring curiosity as he practiced his craft.

“And he has been since before your mother died. He’s not our killer.”

“What was he in for?”

“Murdering a policeman,” he flicked through a notebook he pulled from his pocket, “In 1913. He’s been in prison ever since.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t get the chair.”

“He put the finger on some of his associates. The real wonder is that he wasn’t killed in the cooler. The people I talked to were not his biggest fans. I got the police file on his case,” he tapped the front of his coat, “From Detective Ryan, but I won’t give them to you here. Something’s fishy though. The police arrested Pulgatti out of nowhere, and all the evidence linking him to the murder was found afterwards. I think we should pay him a visit in Sing Sing.”

“I’d prefer to exhaust our options within the city first,” she traced patterns in the condensation on her glass with the top of her finger. “Or we’ll have to wait until Will is out of town again. He’s got some big investigation down in Atlantic City at the moment.”

“Is he away often?” he said with measured disinterest as he palmed his whiskey.

“Since he’s been with the Bureau he goes away every few months,” she hedged, “Which should be convenient if we have to do field work. Do you have anything else?”

“Just an empty glass and a burning desire to find out the truth,” he stood, “I’m going to buy us another round, and then I want to hear about what you’ve found.”

“I…” she started the protest, but he was already gone. She rolled her eyes into her gin and tapped her foot along with the music. She noticed Kevin Ryan standing by the bar, staring at her and looked down self-consciously. Castle returned, not too soon by her count, and set down their refilled glasses.

“Who’s our friend?” she nodded towards Ryan.

“That’s just Ryan,” Castle sent a displeased look in the Mulligan’s direction. “He’s my contact in the police. He’s an Irishman; I’ll have a word with him about minding his potatoes.”

“Oh,” she ran her hands along her skirt, “No. I’m just glad he’s a friend. The way he was staring was giving me the heebie-jeebies.”

“He’s harmless,” Castle assured her and pushed her drink in her direction. “Now, your turn; did you find your mother’s datebook?”

She reached in between them for her purse and pulled out a small, leather-bound black book. “Yes and her address book, though none of the names you found were in there, except for Mister Murray’s, as I expected.”

“She didn’t have Miss Cavanaugh’s address?”

“No. My mother was meticulous; if she knew someone, they would have been in that book.”

“So they were involved in the same political movement, but they didn’t know each other.”

“It’s possible they had met,” she mused, “But it’s also entirely possible they hadn’t. The only way to tell will be to question the ladies. I’ll pay some of them a visit.”

“What about the datebook? Where there any appointments that seemed strange in the days leading up to her death?”

“I’ve never been able to figure out her system,” she admitted, “It’s a cipher worthy of a secret agent, and it was several years ago now so my memory of her appointments around that time is limited. But her death was a shock Mister Castle; nothing indicated to my father or me that anything was amiss.”

“Secret agents you say,” he pondered that for a moment, “You’re sure she wasn’t a spy? I mean there were lots of lady spies during the war, femme fatales stealing secrets from the Jerries.”

“Try to be serious Mister Castle,” she traced the rim of her glass to remove her lip rogue; “My mother wasn’t a spy. She never set a foot west of the Appalachians or south of the Mason-Dixie Line.”

“Right, so we don’t know how the murders are connected.”

“Or if they’re even connected.”

“True, the doc, that’s the man who looked over your mother’s file, thinks it’s the work of a professional. He says he killed with a single blow and the other wounds were just to cover his tracks.”

“Making it look like the work of an amateur when the coroner looked over the body,” she surmised.

“Exactly,” he nodded.

“So it could have been someone who was hired, someone who does this for a living.”

“Yes, but my instinct tells me they’re connected,” he tapped his notepad with his fingers,

“Except for your mother, they all happened within a two week time frame. I’m sure if we dig deeper we’ll uncover a connection between the victims.”

“I can ask some of the ladies what they know about the two women,” she was thinking, he could see her thoughts ordering themselves behind her expression. “And Scott Murray was survived by his wife and daughter. I know them both. His daughter and I went to school together as girls. I’ll make arrangements for us to visit them.”

“Us?” he quirked an eyebrow, but it was an expression that better suited her.

She made a face, “I thought you wanted to help.”

“Aren’t you worried it’ll be the talk of the town?” he teased.

“Do you want to come or not?” she narrowed her eyes at him.

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, you’ve proven you can be moderately useful, so to hell with the town and its talk,” she stood and left a bill on the table, “Now, it’s late and I have to go. I’ll send a note with Elsa when we need to meet again.”

“I’ll walk you out,” he stood.

She gave him a look, “That won’t be necessary. Good night Mister Castle.”

“Until tomorrow,” he said, absently, as she shook his hand.

He watched her back as she ascended the stairs to the street until Ryan began snapping his fingers in his field of vision. He rewarded his friend with a sour look.

“Oh Ricky,” Ryan smirked into a whiskey, “You’re a hopeless case.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “And you could be more subtle, you nearly scared her half to death with your gaping.”

“Just looking out for my friend.”

“So how much did you overhear with your strategic lurking?”

“Enough.”

“She’s a bearcat when she gets going.”

Instead of responding, Ryan leant back on his stool and appraised him with a smug look on his face.

"What?"

"Oh, you are sweet on her."

"I am not."

"Mmm, yes you are."

“Well she’s married.”

“That’s never stopped you before.”

“She’d slap me into next week for getting fresh.”

“Neither has that.”

“It doesn’t matter, because I have no untoward designs. I just want to help.”

“Sure.”

“Oh dry up Ryan.”

“I’m just saying, watch yourself. Pretty girl like that’ll have a sap like you falling over your own feet within a week.”

“Says you.”

“Says that wedding ring you’ve got in your pocket and the little lassie at home. Not to mention all the charity cases you’ve kept over the years.”

“You mean my mother?” he joked. “Look, I’m going to need your help with this. Your disapproval is noted, but I can count on you when we need you right?”

“Ricky, much like my warnings always go unheeded, your colossally bad decisions have never even tempted me away from your corner.”

They shared a friendly smile.

“To tell you the truth, I’m more tempted to stand back and let you get yourself into hot water. It’s endlessly amusing.”

“Thanks Ryan.”

He raised his glass, “Here to help.”

--

They visited Scott Murray's widow on a Thursday in February. She was an attractive woman in her forties, and she greeted Kate like a daughter. Castle had been regarded with some suspicion at first, until he mentioned the title of his latest novel at which point she had become much warmer and confessed she was a fan. His ego appreciated the compliment. Kate rolled her eyes when she noticed just how much he enjoyed the praise. Turning the conversation to murder was an unpleasant business, but it flowed naturally when she explained that Castle was helping her investigate her own mother's death.

"You don't think they could have been connected dear?" Mrs Murray exclaimed, spoon clinking against her good china as she served tea.

"Well, my mother was assisting Mister Murray with the petition to Congress at that time," Kate reminded her, "And Mister Castle's friend the medical examiner believes they were killed by the same person, due to the nature of the wounds."

"Well I suppose it was only a few months after Johanna died," the older woman puzzled over the new information with her tea cup halfway to her mouth, "Such a nasty business. Mister Murray's old papers are all in the study. If you think it will help you, you're welcome to have a look dear."

"Thank you," Kate smiled politely.

Castle, of course, blundered on without consideration. "Did Mister Murray ever discuss his work with you ma'am?"

Kate turned and shot him a warning glance, not wanting the invitation to inspect his personal papers rescinded.

"Oh no dear," the widow laughed, "I'm much too simple for all that. Johanna did good work, and I tried to help as best I could, but I'm afraid I don't have much of a mind for politics. Now that you mention it though, your mother did call a few times before she died. I really couldn't say when, but I do remember thinking it very strange when we heard the news, that I had seen her not the day before and served her tea. It was such a common thing, you see, that I would never do again. But you must know what I mean dear," Mrs Murray patted her on the arm. Kate tried her best to look properly wistful.

They finished their tea and were shown to the study. Mrs Murray told them she'd be in the kitchen and to call her if she was required then left them alone.

Castle was quite taken with her. "She seems quite helpful," he began appraising Mister Murray's bookshelves.

Kate sat in the leather chair behind the desk and ran her finger though the soft layer of dust that had collected over the years. "Yes well, you say that now. She certainly seemed unfazed when I mentioned that I was investigating my mother's death. But I'm sure she'll have a lot to say about it in other circles."

He glanced over his shoulder at her, "What does that mean?"

"That means, Mister Castle," her head was hidden from view as she inspected every nook and cranny of the mahogany desk, "That I'm sure she'll be gossiping to her friends as soon as we leave, telling them that I'm about the town with a stranger doing a man's job because my husband can't give me a child."

When her face became visible again she looked properly indignant. "As though that's the only reason I might want to catch my mother's killer."

Castle tactfully turned back to his study of the bookcase.

"I can't find anything in here," she patted her hair back into position and leant back with a sigh of frustration, "Just his ledger and an appointment book. He did meet with my mother several times in the months before her death, but I already knew that. They were working on documents for the suffrage movement."

"Are you sure that's not why they were killed? The lawyer that worked on the draft and three women heavily involved in the suffrage movement? Maybe someone who didn't want women to win the vote intervened."

"The movement had gained a great deal of momentum by that point Mister Castle. The deaths of four relatively unimportant players made no difference to the outcome."

"Is there any mention of the other two victims in his appointment book?"

She flipped through quickly, "No. What are you doing over there?"

He had pulled out a copy of The Awakening and held it up for her to examine.

She shook her head once, "I've not heard of it."

"Surely you were told not to read it because of the scandal it caused," he opened to the first chapter, "The American Madame Bovary. Society wasn't too keen on it. Women writing about sex is unseemly, you see."

"Men are afraid they might learn something," she arched an eyebrow, half-amused.

He flipped through the tome and stopped halfway, making a small excited noise.

"What is it?" she enquired, half-curious, half-dreading the salacious response she was sure was coming.

"Letters," he pulled them from the centre of the book and replaced it on the shelf, "Addressed to a Mister Scott Murray from one Johanna Beckett."

She was up and out of the chair before he had a chance to open a single one, and pulled them from his hands eagerly. Silently, they both began to read.

She devoured the first she opened ferociously, fingers brushing the dried ink that formed her mother's familiar script. "Well these are definitely from my mother," she told him absently.

"And they're all about your Joe Pulgatti," he added, folding his second letter carefully and replacing it in the envelope.

"They're so vague," she groaned, refolding the last letter and shoving it into the envelope more forcefully than was necessary. "They hint that she has more information, but never reveal it. And I certainly get the impression that he sent her some interesting responses."

"You didn't find any letters from Mister Murray in your mother's things?"

"No. I found some old love letters from my father and some from her sister, but other than that she didn't seem to keep her correspondence."

"It's clear from what I read that she thought Pulgatti was innocent," he mused, "And from the dates, it's clear that Mister Murray wasn't interested the first three times she wrote him."

"Which means sometime in the December of 1918 she must have found something to pique his interest,” Kate concluded, “Because here, she writes to wish him merry Christmas and later thanks him for looking into the matter."

"And within six months, they're all dead."

Kate put the letters in her purse, "Don't tell Mrs Murray we took anything."

He held his hands up in surrender. "I don't understand how female society works."

"It's exactly the same male society," she told him primly, "But instead of guns and fists we use carefully chosen words."

She gave Mrs Murray the sweetest smile he had ever seen when they wished her goodbye. If he didn't know better, he'd think she thought the world of the other woman. It seemed to him that while guns and fists had their shortcomings, they leant relationships a certain clarity.

--

It took them two weeks, all told, to track down and visit Diana Cavanaugh and Jennifer Stewart's families. After a minor break-and-enter involving her using a hair pin to jimmy the lock to the National Woman’s Party’s members' files, they had questioned Diana Cavanaugh's mother and Jennifer Stewart's sister in short order. The only interesting piece of information to come out of the meetings was that Diana had worked as a document clerk at the courthouse where Joe Pulgatti's trial had been held.

All their leads were pointing them 30 miles up the Husdon to Joe Pulgatti. Castle was impatient to visit the prisoner, but Kate was stalling. Will Sorenson had returned from his business in Atlantic City, and was expected to remain in New York until the end of the month.

In his frustration, Castle had taken to writing elaborate solutions to the mystery nightly. With each passing draft, the twists and turns got more convoluted and the killer more unlikely. Something did come from his late night scribbling: the outline of a new novel about a lady detective who bore several striking similarities to Katherine Sorenson. He divided his time for the rest of February between pacing the hall waiting for her to send for him and writing furiously. The result was a half-finished novel and the nagging sense that he should ask her permission to so obviously base a character on her and a story on their work.

In the end, he sent her a letter. It was three pages long and he slipped in the news about the novel about halfway and finished with paragraphs and paragraphs of entirely transparent praise. He was hoping she would forget about it entirely by the time she was done reading, or at least want to kill him less.

She sent him a note in response. It said: meet me Javier's on the sixteenth. Homer she was not. At least she'd asked to meet him somewhere that sold liquid courage. He had the feeling he would need some good old-fashioned anaesthesia before she boxed him about the ears.

He met Ryan early in the evening and related his predicament over dinner. The Irishman sat back with a wide grin on his face and sipped his wine. "Oh Ricky."

"She's going to be mad isn't she?"

"Likely."

"It's not like I meant for this to happen," he insisted.

"How much is fact and how much is fiction?" Ryan winked at him.

"You mean have a I written any love scenes between the protagonists?"

"You know me too well."

"Err. Yes. But they're chaste!"

"Really?"

"Mostly."

"She's going to kill you," Ryan looked incredibly happy at the prospect, "And I'm not even going to have to arrest her, because it's justifiable homicide."

"Look, I'll cut out those bits before the publishing house sees it."

Ryan laughed, "Oh Ricky. You don't get it at all. It doesn't matter at all. Everyone who knows her and who knows you is going to fill in the blanks."

"You mean they'll assume we're, you know, intimate."

"You're writing her a love letter."

"I am not. It's a murder mystery. The body is decapitated. Very gruesome. Hardly the stuff of great romance."

"If you say so," Ryan finished his wine and refilled their glasses.

An hour or so later, the Irishman was happily drunk and Castle was secretly dispensing of his glass into Ryan's at every opportunity. It wouldn't do to be overly lubricated when the impending doom finally arrived. She was prompt, as usual, and she'd barely made it halfway down the stairs before Javier had a gin on the rocks waiting at the end of the bar. She raised an eyebrow at the bartender. He grinned, "Rick insisted."

"I'm sure he did," she pressed her lips together and plucked the glass off the counter. "Fine. Thank you Mister Esposito."

When she approached, Castle tried to subtly hint that Ryan should make himself scarce, but hints weren't getting him anywhere. Finally he told him to beat it, and Ryan sulked over to the bar where Javier fixed him a black coffee.

"Mister Castle," she announced herself from behind him, and even though he knew she was coming and at what time to expect her, he froze. She sat opposite him and took a sip of her drink.

He looked at her, guilty as sin, and didn't even spare a moment to greet her before he launched into an apologetic speech.

"I'm sorry I didn't ask you sooner," he managed before running into difficulty thinking of words, "I know... well... I promise you I had no intention of writing about you when we met."

"No names," she said after she had been silent long enough to watch him squirm a little, "And try not to make it too obvious."

"That's all you have to say?"

"What else can I say? You're free to write about what you like. I can't stop you."

"Well, it's just that I've had such chronic writer's block since I published the last novel. And working with you these past few weeks has proven very inspiring."

"I can't imagine why. It's hardly been exciting."

"Well that's not true, we've made some progress," he argued. "And besides, it's mostly... you."

She looked appalled.

"No, it's not like that. You just ... you intrigue me, that's all. And you're an interesting woman."

"That's a compliment I suppose."

"It is. You're like a muse."

"I don't know if that's laden with the implications I think it is," she said, eyebrows at their full height, "But I assure you, I have little interest in being your muse Mister Castle."

"No, no implications," he flashed her his most charming smile, which he was beginning to realise did actually work on her, even though she pretended otherwise. "A reluctant muse then."

She looked faintly amused but hid her smile by taking a sip of her gin. "If you must, you must."

"I'd prefer it if you were just a little bit flattered."

"Flattered? Do you know what people are going to say about me? What they're already saying about me?"

"They've said worse about me."

"That's not exactly reassuring."

"Look, my mother doesn't know who my father is. Trust me, my life began as a scandal and I've had more than my share since. The trick is to not let it get to you. If there's one thing you can count on in this town it's that someone else will do something more interesting to draw attention away from you by the end of the week. Besides, I haven't even sent the idea to my publisher yet."

"I want to read it," she demanded. "Before anyone else."

"You can have power of veto," he assured her, "Within reason."

"I've read your other books," she confessed, "They're good. You know how to draw in a reader."

"I sense a but coming."

"You're not a poet," she shrugged. "I like that though. Too much literature is dripping in poetry. Prose dealing with that kind of subject matter should be uncomplicated."

"I like to think I have my moments," his feathers had been ruffled.

She smiled to smooth them. "You do."

"So, reluctant muse, do you want to dance?"

"Don't push your luck Mister Castle."

She did their usual dance though: a bill on the table and a fuss over him helping her with her coat, their footsteps precisely choreographed over the several times they had met at Javier's. She adjusted the strap of her purse and shook his hand, and he leant against the bar while she sauntered up the stairs. It was always the same. He wondered if she noticed.

End Part I.