Six Impossible Things, Chapter 3 (Castle Fic)
Author's Note:
Many thanks to those who have followed/favorited this story.
Castle and Beckett seemed determined to spend time apart until the end of this chapter. They're so pretty. They should spend more time together.
Lanie pulled the drawer out, folding the sheet back from the vic's face with business-like efficiency.
"Take your time, Mr. Winnert," Beckett said quietly, "I know . . ."
"That is Philip Grayson," Winnert interrupted. He turned and lay his briefcase on the lab counter. The snap as the dual latches disengaged bounced off the stainless steel. "A recent set of dental records to confirm." Winnert tossed the file folder on the counter, then snapped the briefcase closed again.
What the hell? Lanie mouthed to Beckett.
"Mr. Winnert, why do you have Mr. Grayson's dental records?" Beckett tried to keep her tone neutral.
"I know that visual identification is only one step of the process," Winnert took a step toward the door, "I like to be prepared."
"I mean why do you have them at all?" Beckett stepped into his path.
"Ms. Beckett, let me save us both some time: I know everything there was to know about Philip Grayson. I know he played second base in little league. I know that he had his appendix out when he was 14. His first girlfriend was brunette named Celia, 10th grade. He slept on the left side of the bed and preferred chunky peanut butter over creamy," Winnert took another step closer to the door and right into Beckett's personal space, "He was utterly common, and other than myself, I don't know of a single person who would've wanted him dead."
"Other than you?" Beckett didn't give an inch of ground.
"Other than me. And since I did not kill him, I have nothing else to say to you," Winnert sidestepped Beckett and made his way through the door.
"Mr. Winnert, we will need to speak with your daughter. I understand that you'll need some time as a family . . ."
"My daughter cannot help you and you will leave her alone," Winnert stabbed the elevator button.
"No, Mr. Winnert, I will not leave her alone. I will not leave anyone connected with this case alone until we find Mr. Grayson's murderer."
Winnert didn't bother to turn around. He stepped into the elevator and was gone.
Beckett spun to face Lanie, whose eyebrows were as far north as they could go, "What the hell was that?"
"Ms.?"
"I know!"
"Does the word armed mean anything to you, Mr. High and Mighty?" Lanie stomped around, slamming instruments on to the tray by the autopsy table.
Beckett scowled, "So, we've got a positive ID on Grayson, a good sense of how, exactly, Clayton Winnert treats the little people, and . . . nothing else."
"Not nothing," Lanie replied, "That man does not want you to talk to his daughter."
"You cannot just haul Audra Winnert down here for questioning."
"Why not, sir? Because she's rich? Because her father's powerful?" Beckett was spoiling for a fight. "She's the victim's fiancée. He father admitted to wanting Grayson dead. I need to interview her before we lose any more daylight."
"Because I have already had one call from the Governor's office this morning," Gates was maddeningly calm. "Detective Beckett, what do you know about Audra Winnert?"
"I know her father doesn't want me to talk to her, which usually means he knows that she knows something."
"What do you know about her?" Gates persisted.
Beckett mentally reviewed the email from earlier. Just a handful of articles, all variations on the fairy-tale wedding theme, clearly drawn from the same material. All dated 4 months ago. And she'd asked for everything, "Not much," Beckett admitted.
"When Audra Winnert was 7 years old, her mother sent her to her room to change into her best dress. Said she had a big surprise for her. Audra waited as long as she could, then ran down to her mother's room. Found her mother hanging in the closet."
"That's . . . I didn't know," Beckett swallowed hard, "Why didn't research turn that up?"
"The Winnert influence goes back a long way," Gates slid a thin file folder across the desk, "A long way. His people kept it as quiet as possible."
Beckett flipped open the folder. Nothing but a few photocopies of faded articles. A short column in the Journal with an oblique reference to Winnert's loss. A terse obituary. No overt reference to suicide. No mention of a traumatized little girl. One photo of the Claire Liddell Winnert-maybe a yearbook photo-of a porcelain-skinned blonde with enormous eyes and a fragile smile. "What happened to Audra. After?" Beckett's voice was hard. Professional.
"There are rumors: Her father shipped her off to an institution. Bought live-in psychiatric care. Sent her away to be raised by some nanny or another. All anyone knows for sure is that Audra Winnert was kept absolutely out of the public eye for over 20 years," Gates leaned back in her chair, "Until 4 months ago."
"That doesn't make any sense," Beckett tapped the edge of the folder against her knee, "Not a word about her in the press, not a picture, nothing for 20 years and then . . . Sir, this doesn't sit right. I have to interview her."
"I never said you shouldn't interview her, Detective, I said you couldn't haul her down here," Gates sighed and shook her head.
"Then I'll go to Westchester. Interview her at home," Beckett's skin itched at the thought.
"Clayton Winnert is not a fan of yours, Detective . . ."
Beckett grit her teeth, "If you think it's best, I can send Ryan. Esposito probably wouldn't fit in out there . . ."
"Detective!" Gates barked, "I wasn't finished. Mr. Winnert is no fan of yours," She slid a photograph out from under her desk blotter, "But as it happens, he is a fan of Mr. Castle's."
"Castle, are you in the closet?" Beckett punched the door release on her key fob, swapping her phone to her left ear.
"Beckett," Castle inched his way under the desk. The heavy wood should muffle the sound of his voice even . . . "What? Am I what?"
"You sound like you're in a coffee can," Beckett slid behind the wheel.
"I am in fear for my life, Beckett," he hissed. "I changed the locks, but that won't stop . . . Oh God, no."
"Castle?" Beckett's hand stilled on the key in the ignition.
"They're here," He whispered urgently, "I'm trapped."
Something in his voice alarmed Beckett. She cranked the key and flipped on her turn signal, pulling into traffic with hardly a glance over her shoulder, "Who's there, Castle? Are you at the loft?"
"Yes! You have to. . . ." Castle was abruptly silent.
Beckett could just make out a familiar female voice in the background, "Is that Martha?" Another voice. Also female. Not Alexis. Older.
"Beckett, just . . ." Castle made a strangled noise, "I need you."
"Tell me something I don't know, Castle," Beckett cut through a narrow gap in traffic to make the light that was just changing, "I'll be there in 10. And you will tell me what the hell is going on with you."
"Everything. Just hurry," The call dropped.
Beckett's alarm resurfaced as she stepped out of the elevator. The door to Castle's loft stood open, like too many doors at too many crime scenes. Instinctively her hand dropped to her hip. She made her way carefully down the hall, placing her feet soundlessly.
"I have never-never-been so furious with you, Richard," Beckett pulled up just short of the door, placing the voice of the second woman she'd heard over the phone with sudden, sickening clarity. Gina. "And that is saying something."
"Gina, dear, can I offer you something? I think I smell fresh coffee," Beckett could hear the strain beneath Martha's bright tone.
"No thank you, Martha," Gina all but snapped, "I'm sorry, but could I trouble you to give Richard and me some privacy?"
Of its own volition, Beckett's fist swung up to rap sharply on the door frame, "Castle, we don't have all day," She kept one foot in the hall as she stepped into the doorway, "Good morning, Martha. Ms. Griffin. I'm sorry to interrupt."
Gina's lips twisted unpleasantly for a fraction of a second before she could arrange her face into a well-practiced, insincere smile, "Gina, please."
"Gina," Beckett nodded. "Castle?"
"Oh, I'm afraid I can't spare Richard right now, Detective."
"Kate," Beckett mirrored Gina's plastic smile.
Meanwhile, Richard was already scooping his keys off the hall table and shrugging his jacket on. He brushed by Martha under the pretext of kissing her cheek. Beckett watched her pale by a shade or two as Castle caught her hand in a white-knuckled grip and said something in her ear.
"Richard," Gina stamped her foot, "If you walk out that door, I will . . ."
Castle's hand tightened on Beckett's shoulder, then fell away. He turned back to face Gina, "You'll what?"
Before that exact moment, Beckett would have sworn she'd experienced every one of the many moods of Castle. This was something new altogether. His face was an absolute blank.
Judging from Gina's almost audible blink, this was new to her, too.
"Don't come back. Don't call," Castle's words dropped one by one into the heavy silence, "And do not use my mother or Alexis to get around me. You'll have it when you have it." He turned and propelled Beckett into the hallway.
"I would've let you drive," Castle mumbled against his own fist as he stared out the window of Beckett's Crown Vic.
Beckett let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. They were 15 minutes out of the city, and this was the first complete sentence he'd uttered since she'd insisted they take her car. She'd recapped what little they knew without a single interruption. Fifth impossible thing. Her attempts to bait him about Winnert's being a fan and Gates not-quite-admitting they needed Castle's help on this one had been met with two identical, humorless snorts.
"It's an interview, Castle. Not exactly a Ferrari occasion."
"It's Westchester. Every day is a Ferrari occasion," He winced as the road curved, bringing the sun head on, "You aren't going to ask?"
"Ask what?" Beckett eased the car into the left lane.
"What's wrong with me?"
"We're just going to Westchester, Castle," Beckett glanced over at him, "We don't have that kind of time."
His yawn devolved into a guffaw.
"You can tell . . ." Beckett began after a moment or two of more comfortable silence.
"I don't know how it ends," He blurted at the same moment. They looked at each other, eyes wide.
"Ah," Beckett turned back to the road.
"I always know how it ends," Castle slumped against the door again. "And Alexis . . . "
"What about Alexis?"
"She's planning a . . . tryst."
"A tryst?" Beckett's tone was skeptical.
"A tryst. A rendezvous. A liaison," He knocked his head against the window, "A booty call."
"Alexis," Beckett couldn't quite suppress a laugh, though she could tell he was serious. "With who? Whom?" She corrected herself before he could transform into grammar cop.
"Ashley."
"I thought they broke up moths ago?" Beckett watched the Hudson recede off to her left.
"So did I, until I got an email from my favorite concierge asking if he could do anything to make Ms. Linden's stay this weekend more magical," Castle breathed heavily on the window and traced a string of Rs into the fog.
"You're paying to have this thing detailed," She scolded, then added nonchalantly, "It may not be what you think, Castle. And if it is, she's 18 . . ."
"When she was 9, I came home and found her sobbing in front of the television," He pulled his sleeve taut and absently polished the smudges from the window, "It took her half an hour to calm down enough to talk. I kept making stupid jokes. Just made her cry harder."
"I know the feeling," Beckett bit her lip and kept her eyes on the horizon, but she could see his lop-sided grin out of the corner of her eye. Another knot in her shoulders loosened just a little.
"I shut up eventually. Just held her. Listened to her breathe," He leaned his head back, "She tried to tell me she was fine, but she had these hiccups. 'I'm fine . . . HIC . . . Daddy'," Castle opened his eyes just enough to watch his favorite grin break out on Beckett's face, "I told her she could tell me anything. Always."
"Well," Beckett prompted, "Did she tell you?"
"She did," He turned away, hiding his own grin. Making her wait.
"Castle!"
"My beautiful little girl was crying her eyes out because she was in love with Tom Welling. She couldn't bear the thought that she'd never be able to tell him," Castle's smile faded, and his eyes fell closed again, but some of the tired lines around his eyes had been smoothed away, "When she falls, she falls."
"Like her dad?" It slipped out before she could stop herself. Castle was quiet for a long moment. She hoped against hope that he'd dozed off.
"No, not like me," His voice was almost inaudible, "I always know where the exits are."