18. Under pressure

They’ve pulled up at the parents’ block. Beckett leads the way with her normal swinging step, strength and purpose in every pace.  Just as they’re about to knock, though, her phone rings.  She holds a hand up to pause Castle, and takes the call.

“Beckett.”

Castle observes closely as the colour drains from her face.

“Okay. Lunchtime.  One o’clock.  Same place.  I’ll be there.”  She clicks the phone shut.  There is no explanation.  “Sorry about that.”  She raps on the door before anything can be asked.

“Mr Godley, I’m sorry to bother you again, but could we ask you and your wife a few more questions?”

“Yes,” he says heavily, grief weighting the words. “But be quick, please.  We… we need peace.”  He lets them in and ushers them through.

“Mrs Godley,” Beckett says gently, “did Susan normally wear jewellery to work? A necklace, or a ring?”

“Oh yes. Both a necklace and ring.  She was always very smart.   She said it helped remind people that she was a serious professional in a serious job.  Some of the people she met were inclined to forget that, just because they made millions in bonuses.”

Beckett exchanges a swift look with Castle. “Could you describe her jewellery, especially her ring?  Or would you work with a sketch artist to have a picture?”

“If it helps, sure. Anything to help you find her…” she starts to tear up.  Mr Godley puts an arm round his wife, and she leans into him.  Leans on his strength, Beckett thinks, sadly, and doesn’t show it by a single flicker.  Not like the Berowitzes.  No evidence of that, here. 

“What do you need?” Mr Godley says. “We’ll do it.”

“If you could come down to the Twelfth Precinct this afternoon, I’ll arrange for you to sit with a sketch artist who’ll draw a picture of the jewellery that we can circulate.”

“It’s missing?”

“Yes.”

“That was my grandmother’s ring,” Mrs Godley is now in full-blown tears. Her husband gathers her in.  Beckett watches, and a tiny stiffness enters her spine.

“It wasn’t valuable,” he says. “But it meant a lot.  The necklace she bought herself, with her first paycheck.”

“What does the ring look like?”

“A pearl, with tiny diamonds round it. Looked a bit like a flower.  A daisy.  She wore it on her right hand, fourth finger.”  He embraces his wife.  “Could you…” He throws a glance at the door.  “We’ll come down at two-thirty.”

“Thank you,” Beckett and Castle say in unison, already rising. The last thing Beckett hears as the door closes is soft words of comfort and consolation.  Her shoulders tighten further.

Castle is confused. Beckett, he knows, pours out compassion on the victim’s family.  And so she has.  But now she’s all tensed up and it started halfway through that interview.  Not to mention the phone call beforehand, which she isn’t mentioning.  Beckett has far too many odd pauses and hitches in her conduct, he suddenly realises.  The problem is, there doesn’t seem to be any reason for them.  Hm.  Maybe that would repay some thought.  Later.

“Lunch, Beckett,” he says thoughtlessly.

“Can’t, sorry. I’ll pick something up on the way back.”

“Can’t?”

“I’ve got things to do. Do you want to come back to the precinct or shall I drop you off somewhere and see you later?  I’ll be back by two for the Godleys.”

“Okay.” What else can he say?  “Precinct, please.”  But… Beckett had said same place.  Not usual place, which implies it’s not a person she meets often.  Hm.  Castle makes a huge leap of logic which is totally unsupported by any minor little props such as facts or evidence, and concludes that this is Mrs Berowitz and that that means that Beckett will be in the same coffee bar as last time.  Hm.  It won’t hurt to check it out.  This time, though, he definitely won’t go in and interrupt.  He’ll just pass by, and observe. 

And then he’s going to go home tonight and do some serious thinking, because nothing he is seeing makes any sense at all.

Castle’s line of thought is somewhat supported when Beckett turns in the direction of the previous café in which she’d met Mrs Berowitz. He locks down the desire to follow her and goes up into the bullpen to see what the boys are doing.

Eating lunch, is the answer. The footage is still with the techs, and Perlmutter is trying to find more prints, so there’s not a lot to be done except for Castle to report what they found.

“So where’s Beckett?”

“Don’t know.” He doesn’t know.  He suspects.  Strongly suspects.  “She said she had things to do and she’d see us at two.”  He changes the subject.  “I need lunch.  I’d offer to get you some, but you started without me.”

“If you’d been in earlier you’d have been hungry too.”

“Yeah, well. Sure I can’t get you anything?”

“We’re good.”

Castle wanders out and wanders in the general direction of the café in which he’s surer by the moment Beckett is sitting. He’s equally sure that she’s with the unhappy Mrs Berowitz, and as he casually detours by the café he has that confirmed.  One swift and penetrating glance through the windows shows him Beckett with her arm round her.  He deduces that there are tears, wonders why Mrs Berowitz is leaning on Beckett, whom she wouldn’t have known from Adam – or Eve – two months ago, and adds it to his list of matters for later.  His sharp mind is now very busy indeed, and remains very busy all the way through lunch. 

Mrs Berowitz is married to an alcoholic. Last time, Beckett was talking to her about Al-Anon.  Last time, Beckett had claimed that as a beat cop you see a lot of that.  Last time, he’d forgotten that Beckett had said it’ll bring you down too.  A beat cop doesn’t know that.  Not, at least, from being on the beat.

Stop. Stop right there.  He needs to tuck this away and not forget it.  But right now, he needs to concentrate on the case, and not on maybes and might-bes and wannabes, because…

Because Beckett’s just come back, and she looks like hell. Not that it stops her tearing into the case again, wanting to know where everything has got to.

“Footage due back any minute.”

“Put the fear of God” – shouldn’t that be the fear of Beckett, Espo? It’s worse – “into Perlmutter.  He promised me results before four.”

“Good. The Godleys are coming in shortly to work with the sketch artist.  Susan should have had a pretty distinctive ring on.  She didn’t.  I’m liking Carrie Franks more and more.”

“Makes a good story,” Castle points out. “You deprive me of my ring, I’ll deprive you of yours.  It fits.”

And on that highly positive note the Godleys arrive.

Once they’re settled comfortably, Castle follows Beckett to the break room where she’s making her coffee in a way which suggests that it’s all that’s holding her in one piece.

“You okay, Beckett?”

“Fine,” she says. Castle hums sceptically, and receives only a filthy look in return.  “I am fine.”  She stalks back to her desk.  Shutting him down and out, again.  He’s good enough to contribute to the case but not good enough for her to talk to?  Nothing new there, but he doesn’t have to like it.

Beckett would rather be anywhere than here. Her preference would be her own apartment, on her own, with two Advil and – though this would astonish all who know her – a cup of herbal tea.  Camomile, for preference, though peppermint would also do.  Julia had been… difficult.  She, too, had been just that difficult, once; that disbelieving.  And so, when someone else needs her strength to lean against, to rage and rail and fight against reality – she couldn’t refuse.  She can’t be weak, when someone else needs her to be strong.

The Godleys need her to be strong. To fight for their dead daughter, find the culprit and find them justice.  They need her to be strong, and leaving for her own peace would be weakness.  This case is almost broken, and she’ll see it out before she takes her rest.  She can be strong: for them, for Julia Berowitz, and for her own self-respect.  She can be strong for as long as she has to be.  After all, she’s managed it for the last ten years.  Why change the habit of an adult lifetime?

Enhanced footage shows Susan Godley wearing the ring during the argument. The sketch artist produces a picture in short order, which matches up. 

“Okay. Let’s get uniforms canvassing pawnshops and jewellers round about where she was found with the picture of the ring and a shot of Carrie.”

“On it,” Ryan says, and decamps to start it going. “We don’t have a lot of the day left to get to them.”

“I know,” Beckett says. “But get them started, so they can carry on first thing.  Perlmutter come up with anything yet?”

“Just called me,” Espo says, sidling up to the group at the murder board. “Smears, but no clear prints.  No help.”

“No change there,” Beckett mutters darkly. “I’m going to see Montgomery.  See if he thinks I’ve got enough for a warrant to search Carrie’s apartment.”  She’s halfway across the floor before Castle gets round to reacting, and by the time he does the door is shutting.

“Sir?”

“Mmm?” Beckett runs through the evidence and the case to date.  “Okay, Beckett.  I think you’ve got enough for a warrant.”

“Thank you, sir.” She starts to turn to leave.

“A moment, Detective.” Montgomery is formal.

“Sir?”

“I don’t want you in here after seven tonight. Understand?  I know you saw Mrs Berowitz today” –

“How?”

“Saw you,” Montgomery says laconically – “and I can see you’re exhausted. I’d send you home now but you’re on a case.  If you’re not out of here before seven, I will order you to leave.  The cold cases will wait.  Got it?”

“Sir.”

Beckett exits before Montgomery can confound her any further.

“Did we get it?” Castle asks, the boys listening hopefully.

“I have enough for a warrant,” Beckett says, with a strong emphasis on I.  “So if you can all contain your enthusiasm, I’ve got to type it up stat and get it into a judge before they all go home.”  She’s already opening up the form, staring at the screen as if glaring will hurry up the document loading slowly.

“Why didn’t you let me come too?”

“I didn’t stop you. It’s only a warrant request.  Nothing new.  You know all about the case, and you’ve seen me get warrants before.”

“I’m here to shadow you.”

“Better luck next time, then.” She looks at her watch, winces, and starts to type.  She hasn’t much time to get this done.  “Gotta get this together.  I’m running out of day.”

When she next looks up, Castle is gone. She hadn’t noticed him say goodnight.  Maybe he hadn’t.  It wouldn’t surprise her, really.  It’s not as if there’s any reason he should say goodnight specially to her.  She finishes her request for a search warrant and prints it out to sign.  That’ll go into the system now, and then she’ll go home, since she’s been ordered to. 

So that’s what she does, one short step ahead of Montgomery’s looming wrath. Home is quiet, and cool, and soothing.  She has some dinner, two Advil, and tea; and doesn’t look at the game on the shelf or the row of Richard Castle books in the book case.  Instead, she spends half an hour on slow yoga forms, and then loses herself in re-reading Chekov’s short stories, in Russian.  It takes all her concentration, which was the idea.  No-one rings her, and she doesn’t ring anyone except her father.  She calls him every week.  See him Sunday for dinner, ring him during the week – she’s later than usual this week, they’ve been so busy – and he goes to AA two or three times every week, first thing in the morning.  He never misses.

Which thought brings her back to Julia Berowitz, crying in the café for the life she doesn’t have any more. It’ll never be the same.  She might save the marriage, but Julia can’t save her husband, just like Beckett couldn’t save her father.  Only he could change himself.  He had.  But it had taken five years of hell for him to realise it, and even now it’s fragile.  They’re so careful of each other: they never talk about it now.  He’d apologised, and made amends, and done everything that AA recommends; but still, she’s never been able to listen to it again and she’s never, ever told him how much he hurt her, how the scars still pull and ache and all her memories of her mother are in some strange way soiled and tainted.  Why are you so like her? I can’t stand it.  Go away.  And in the next breath – the next gulp of whiskey – You’re so like her. You’re so strong.  Don’t leave me, Katie.  She’s had to be strong, because she never had the chance to be weak.  She’s not sure she knows how to stop being strong, any more.  She’s not sure she knows how to share her burdens.

Not that it matters. There’s no-one to share them with.  She couldn’t get over her petty, pathetic, disgusting jealousy of Castle’s happy family life and unsurprisingly he’d ditched her because she couldn’t hide her discomfort at being exposed to it.  If she’d been stronger… if she hadn’t shown her weakness: been as strong as she is any other time… hidden her history better…  He might not have known how she felt but that doesn’t really matter.  He’d have done it earlier if he’d realised how unpleasantly envious she was.  No point crying about it.  None at all.  It doesn’t stop the tears dripping.

She’ll just have to go back to the one place that’s always provided some surcease, some mercy for her guilt, the one place she’s always a success. Her job.  She’ll find her strength in her work: those burdens lighter beside the crushing weight of her personal load. 

She always has found strength in her work. It’s just as well.  There’s nowhere else to find it.

Castle had gone home with a generic farewell to the bullpen which, he noted with some irritation, Beckett hadn’t seemed to hear. She’d been wholly focused on her warrant.  He cheers himself up with preparing and eating dinner with his family, and then retires to his study with a small glass of good Scotch and a large mug of excellent coffee.  He is going to solve this mystery of Beckett for his own self-satisfaction.  And then he’s going to twist it, change it, and use it to inform Nikki Heat, because Beckett is supposed to be his inspiration and he is supposed to be allowed to shadow her and she is not providing him with any help at all to do either.

And if all of this is actually driven by pricked pride and a large measure of hurt that she simply walked out and wouldn’t listen to him or even try paddling in the shallows of a relationship or show him anything at all about who she is, ever since Christmas – well, he can’t force her to be friends, or lovers, and he isn’t going to try. Her loss.  She didn’t like his loft and his family, and he’s never going to be happy about that.

He has a gulp of his coffee, and a sip of whisky. Reversing the quantities is not good for clear and focused thinking.  So.  Start with the Berowitzes.  She’d identified Mr Berowitz as an alcoholic and said it was because of being a beat cop.  She’d – he’d forgotten, till now – sent him off and taken a moment before she followed.  She’d refused to let him come with her to see Mrs Berowitz – both times – and the first time he’d overheard it’ll bring you down too and the second time Beckett, touch-me-not Beckett, had had an arm around her.  The first time Beckett hadn’t even come back to the bullpen, and the second time she had but she’d looked like hell.

And then there are the other discontinuities. No booze in her apartment.  Lying about the mince pies and brandy butter, and then the taste of mint toothpaste.  A tiny pause when he’d offered mulled wine.  She drinks, but barely – the only time he’s seen her drink was on her birthday.  And she’s entirely uncomfortable in his loft with his family: right from the very first time before Christmas, in fact, now he thinks about it.  Every time she’s been faced with Alexis.  She doesn’t believe in Christmas, though she had Christmas dinner with her father, and she takes – volunteers for – the Christmas Day shift every year.  She doesn’t do presents under the tree.  She took a day off when they were flat-out busy, and Montgomery approved it, and the boys wouldn’t tell him why but he’s sure that they know.  And, of course, her mother is dead.  And most of the time she’s cool, slick, sardonic Beckett; but just occasionally she’s been soft, cuddly and affectionate Kat.  When she isn’t Kat, he’s always felt that it, or he, is in some way second best.  Settled for.

He writes it all down, in neat, organised bullet points, as if he were planning a story. (He is.)  Then he looks at it for a while, letting his mind absorb each point without trying to fit them together.  Then he does something he usually does, when researching, he interrogates the internet – specifically, press databases. 

Ah-ha. Johanna Beckett, criminal attorney, murdered 9 January 1999, leaving a husband, Jim, and daughter, Katherine, age 19.  Well, that explains the personal day, he supposes.  That’s a history and a half.  It explains the boys’ reactions to him asking, too.  That’s not something they’d simply throw out there.  It’ll make a superb back story for his character, changed around a little.  He opens his laptop and starts to sketch it out, lost in the words.

Some time later, coffee cold, whisky untouched, Castle re-emerges from the depths of his tale. As so often, whilst he’s been buried in explosive, unstoppable creation; the recesses of his brain have been chewing over the rest of the story – in this case, the rest of the Beckett story.  And what it all adds up to is that she is considerably more familiar with alcoholism than merely observation as a beat cop would provide. 

His first thought is that it was her. Teenager hit with massive trauma – not unheard of.  But he swiftly rejects that, since if it had been her, she wouldn’t touch a drop.  She does.  So, not Beckett.  He investigates the internet some more, and finds that Jim Beckett is listed as a practising attorney – and indeed partner – at a very respectable firm.  So, unlikely to be her father.  Not impossible, though.  He makes more coffee, and drinks it and his whisky, and thinks some more.

He hasn’t reached any more conclusions by the time he goes to sleep, and he’s not exactly satisfied with those he has reached. She might be familiar with alcoholism on a personal level, but that doesn’t explain the whole anti-Christmas feeling.  Her mother might have been murdered in January, but that doesn’t explain the familiarity with alcoholism, unless it provoked it, for which he has no evidence at all.  There is no obvious reason why any of it should make her uncomfortable with Alexis, because Alexis has effectively lost her mother too, so there should be a connection.  And none of it explains the dual personality of slick, sardonic Beckett and soft, cuddlesome Kat.