Castle 1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** Two years after being kicked out of the 12th Precinct, a young woman's apparent suicide draws Castle back into his old life.

**Disclaimer: **I own an Arby's sandwich. That's the same thing as the TV show Castle, right? If not, then no, I do not own the show.

* * *

Even though I was puking in my private bathroom, not The Old Haunt's communal one, they found me. What can I say? I have a discerning clientele.

I was recounting my lunch with Johnny Walker to my porcelain friend when two men, whom I'll call Buick and Cadillac due to their size, pushed through my bathroom door.

"Our boss would like to speak with you."

"Can we do it some other time? I'm having a private conversation already."

The henchman on the left, who I decided was Buick because to the pinstripes on his suit, stepped into the bathroom. The place wasn't large enough for all three of us. I mean, it was normally large enough for three people and a small pony, but not for two of these guys and me. Buick reached down and grabbed me under the armpits, lifting me to my feet as easily as I used to lift my infant daughter. I'm 6'2" and 220lbs. Buick came to play.

"Fine," I said. "Who are we meeting?"

"Our boss," said Cadillac. He turned and left, and Buick fell in behind me, effectively ending the conversation. Either out of fear or boredom, I decided to follow. Actually, it was the presence of Buick behind me, pushing me along, that did it.

A full-length Maybach was waiting for us on the street outside The Old Haunt. Cadillac got in first and Buick, with his porterhouse steak of a hand still wrapped around my upper arm, pushed me in next, so that I was sandwiched in between the two. A third henchman sat behind the wheel. He was smaller than the other two, in the sense that Saturn is smaller than Jupiter, and so obviously the leader. He said nothing, just pulled into traffic once the door was closed.

Between the car and the bespoke tents on the giant henchmen, I was starting to get why they felt no need to explain themselves. There were only a few people in the city who could combine obscene wealth with severe menace. Well, less than a few. Two. Two men really. And I couldn't see why either one of them would need my services.

A few minutes of utter silence later, we pulled up outside a highrise in Central Park West. No one blinked as they led me through the foyer to a private elevator. Cadillac put his finger on a thumb scanner next to the door and we rose to our destination.

I was rather proud of myself for keeping down the remainder of my whiskey and my jokes as the floor lurched under us.

I'd been placing bets in my head about which of the two men I was heading to meet, but it turned out I was wrong. I was meeting the other one. They led me from the elevator to an office that was about the same size as my loft, with one wall of windows looking out over Central Park. The office was spartanly furnished, save for a desk of about the same size as the Maybach and just as black and intimidating.

Standing at the desk, looking at some papers, stood Vasily Chapayev.

Chapayev was rumored to be ex-KGB. Rumored only in the sense that it was something completely true that no one was dumb enough to say out loud. He'd come up as part of the Putin oligarchy that had turned a bunch of mobsters and KGB into billionaires. I couldn't remember exactly what he owned and controlled. As best as I remembered, it was everything east of Moscow.

He was shorter than me, but built in that russian bear-fighting way, and scarred enough that I suspected he still occasionally took a hands on approach to his business.

Buick and Cadillac forced me to sit in one of the guest chairs in front of Vasily, and then left. I guess they didn't see me as much of a threat. They were probably right.

Chapayev took his time finishing his paper and dropped it on his desk. "Mr. Castle," he said, looking at me for the first time.

I decided to say nothing.

"I must say, I've seen you look better."

"Ah, so you were watching when your guys picked me up."

He ignored the comment and walked around his desk to stand in front of me. He was scarier closer up. "I find myself in a position where I need your services."

"I'm afraid I'm not taking on new clients right now," I said. For four years, I'd moonlighted as an observer with Manhattan's 12th Precinct homicide division. My side-job had fueled my main one - writing a series of novels about a detective named Nikki Heat. After I'd been exiled from the 12th, I'd found myself unable to write Nikki Heat anymore. I'd put the character on the shelf, much like I'd done before with another of my serial characters, and decided to start writing about a private investigator instead.

Private Investigators, as a lot, don't like writers following them around. So instead I'd hung out my own shingle, just to gather a few stories. So far, it hadn't really gone well. I hadn't gotten much work, my novels had just been recycled from cases at the 12th, and my publisher was threatening to drop me due to a lack of sales for my Joe Hammerstein novels. The only part I'd taken to with any aplomb was the hard drinking. Even that was starting to wear on me.

Not that a Russian Billionaire mobster needed to know any of that.

"I think, for me, you might make an exception," he said. His voice was precise and lacked any sort of accent.

"And why is that?"

"I have something you want."

"I already have everything I want. What could you offer me?"

"A tiger."

The confusion must have shown on my face, because he shook his head in disgust. He walked back around to his side of the desk.

"A literary man … I'm disappointed, Mr. Castle." He paused, shook his head, and started again. "In Chinese legend, there was no animal as strong as the dragon. There was only one animal that was considered strong enough to take it on and defeat it. The tiger."

"Are we talking about what I think we're talking about?"

"The Dragon, Mr. Castle. I know who he is, and I can give him to you."

The Dragon was the unofficial name for, well, I hated to use the word nemesis, but there wasn't a better one. He'd ordered the execution of my ex-partner's mother, and later, my partner. That she'd survived had been complete luck. I'd eventually lost her by trying to protect her from the man. The last time I'd seen my partner, she'd declared war on The Dragon. But it had been two years, and I'd seen neither her nor any sign that she'd gotten The Dragon since. Vasily said he was offering me a tiger. What he was really offering was my former partner's life.

I sat back in the chair and thought. It was a tempting offer. I was surprised to hear myself speak. "What do you need from me?"

He sighed, but it was one of slight satisfaction. "You know, of course, of my daughter."

I nodded. Everyone did. Yulia Chapeyev had been found dead of an apparent suicide three days earlier at the age of twenty-one. Beautiful, brilliant, and a celebrity in her own right, the case would have been a huge deal anyway. But last night, it had been leaked that someone else had been found in Yulia's apartment - Roman Morozov. Given the Chapayev and Morozov feud, Yulia's reality TV celebrity, and the sensational nature of the event, the media had understandably exploded.

"The police are saying it is a suicide. But my daughter would not commit suicide. And the discovery of Roman is unsettling."

"I don't think the police will have finished their investigation this quickly." Despite what he was offering, I didn't see anything good coming of getting in-between the Morozovs and the Chapeyevs. Their feud was legendary, and worse, quite bloody.

"No," Vasiliy said with a shake, "they haven't. But I want someone on the inside. Someone who can give me the full story."

"Um, why do you think I could be that person?"

"It is the 12th Precinct that is handling the case."

"Um, I no longer have a relationship with the 12th. I'm not entirely sure they wouldn't just shoot me on sight."

"It's a shame to hear that. You see, your friend, The Dragon? I still have considerable sway over the man. I would hate to tell him to resume his pressure on your Ms. Beckett."

She's not mine - I went to say, but stopped myself. It wouldn't matter either way. Billionaires don't get to be billionaires through stupidity or magnanimity. He had the carrot and the stick and I was stuck.

"What, exactly," I asked, "do you need?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Unless I can buy the show with Kung Fu Fighting, then it will never be mine...

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After laying out the details of his offer, and his request, Chapayev offered to have me driven home, but I declined. I needed to walk off the spinning in my head, which had started from the breakfast whiskey, but was now caused by the mess I found myself in.

In the whole conversation, he'd offered only one bit of information that had calmed my nerves at all.

I cut across the street into Central Park, even though it was the less than direct route to either my loft or the precinct. Nor did I think of heading to The Old Haunt, which marked the first time in eighteen months that I had no real desire to grab a drink. The unseasonably warm sun burned out the last of the whiskey sweats as I walked.

Whatever else he was, it was obvious that Vasily Chapayev was a doting father. I recognized all the signs. But he was also a man that expected, demanded, to know everything, and so the open questions around his daughter's death had him reeling. The idea that I could help was laughable, but since it appeared Beckett's life depended on it, I had to figure out how to turn it from a joke to reality and fast.

Central Park turned into Midtown faster than I would have liked, having made no progress on how I was going to work my back into the 12th. Would Beckett shoot me on sight, or have the boys drag me outside to "explain things?" The only thing I knew for certain - I couldn't tell Beckett about the deal I'd made. I'd made a similar deal once before, and it had cost me everything. Somehow, I suspected this one could cost me even more.

I needed someone to bounce ideas off of, but there wasn't anyone to talk to. My daughter and I were no longer on speaking terms after she had moved in with a fruit-eating hairball. All of my old friends had disappeared when I'd gotten so involved with the precinct in the first place. My mother had disappeared to the Hampton's after, in her words, "she didn't want to see her son wash away in a sea of whiskey."

Maybe, I thought to myself, I could skip the whole thing if I could just confirm that Yulia's death really was a suicide. I tended to agree with Vassily - Yulia Chapeyev didn't seen the type to commit suicide, but then again, you never knew. But I hoped I was wrong, since confirming the whole thing was a suicide would short circuit the rest of the investigation and might get me out of the precinct with my hide intact. Of course, I'd still have to face Lanie, who in womanly solidarity might end up being scarier than Beckett, but it was a risk I had to take.

With a tentative plan in place, I stopped walking, grabbed a cab, and went back to my loft. I got cleaned up. A shower, a suit, and four cups of coffee later, I felt human enough to take on Lanie. Or rather, beg her sympathies and pray she'd help me out.

I took a cab over to the precinct, and went around to the alley to get into the building - enter the same way the bodies did. It seemed like the shortest route, and helped that it was the least likely route to bump into Beckett, the boys, or the Captain. A few uniforms recognized me, but none seemed to want to pick the particular fight that I represented, so they walked on as if I was invisible. The suit felt weird - I hadn't worn one since my daughter's graduation, but now the cashmere felt like armor.

I found Yulia and Roman's bodies laying on identical slabs in the main examination room. Even cold and washed out, they were both striking people. I ignored Roman for a moment to concentrate on Yulia.

Her long blonde hair, which even at twenty-one was closer to white than gold, was spread around her head, framing her long neck and accentuating the strong jaw. Her nose, which one TV critic had called "her only flaw" was less severe in real life than on TV. She was amazing.

Her body was largely covered in the coroner's plastic that replaced a body bag once a body was brought in. I moved the plastic slightly. There was no Y-incision to mark the completion of a full autopsy, but she had a long, ragged scar that ran from the top of her left breast, down through her sternum. This was where, as the news had reported, she'd stabbed herself through the heart with her father's KGB-issued knife.

"What the holy hell are you doing in my lab?" I heard from behind me. At its full intensity, Lanie Parish's voice could peel paint off of a battleship. I turned around, expecting her full wrath, and got something much worse.

Standing next to a livid Lanie stood Katherine Beckett. And her face was devoid of anything.

"Out," Lanie yelled, stalking towards me. Kate stood behind her, not moving. I stepped backwards around the table to use Yulia to save me from Lanie.

"Castle, how the hell did you get into my morgue?"

"Walked?"

"Castle!"

I threw my hands up, begging for mercy. I looked over at Kate. Lanie wasn't the real battle. "I wanted to find out about the Chapayev case. I have something that could help." I cringed when I heard myself. I only had one card to play, and I was already playing it. This was going as well most things I did lately.

Lanie looked over at Kate for direction, but Kate continued to stare at me. Lanie, not receiving any sort of signal from her friend, went back on the offensive. "There are no aliens involved. There's no CIA, no conspiracy theories, Castle. Just a normal murder. You can get the hell out, now."

"Murder?" I asked, and Lanie immediately closed her eyes and swore under her breath, recognizing her mistake.

"How do you know?" I knew I was pressing my case, but I had to try.

"No, Castle. This is where you leave," Lanie said, starting to move around the table to grab me.

"The angle of the wound is wrong," Kate said, speaking for the first time.

Lanie turned to Kate. Kate's head tilted slightly towards her friend, and Lanie seemed to relax. Or gave up might have been a better term. Kate nodded to her friend, and Lanie shook her head in response, but when she looked at me, the anger was in check.

Lanie went back to her side at the table, and pointed to the cut along Yulia's chest. "If she'd stabbed herself, she would have done so with her right hand. The angle of the blade would have been outside in, with the hilt pointed towards her left arm, and the tip towards her right. But the tearing in this cut reveal that the angle of the blade was more straight on, meaning another person stabbing downwards from on top of her."

Lanie looked up at me. I looked to Kate, but she didn't speak. Lanie turned back to me. "So now you can take your dumb ass up out of my lab."

"What do you have, Castle?" Kate asked.

I looked over at Kate. She still hadn't shown any sign that she was happy or angry or feeling anything at all about my presence. "What do you mean?"

"You said you could help. I'm hoping you meant more than just your normal theories."

"The second season of 'Princess Life' hasn't been released to you yet."

"The warrant is pending, yes."

"I have copies."

"How?" She asked.

"I have a guy," I said, and for the briefest moment, Kate seemed to soften. Nothing more than a relaxing around the eyes, but I'd take it. It went as fast as it came.

"Give them to the boys. I'll tell them to expect you."

I shook my head. "I can't do that. I can show them to you, but I'm not allowed to release them entirely," I lied. The copies had been from Vassily. A chip to play, to get me back in. I didn't feel bad using it duplicitously.

"Fine. The boys will watch them with you."

It was enough. It wasn't enough, but it was enough to start. Assuming Espo didn't kill me when he saw me.

When I looked up, Kate was gone.

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**A/N: **Thanks for all the kind words everyone. I know it's different, but I needed to experiment.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I own some socks. They aren't great socks, but they are mine. Castle isn't...

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Yulia Chapayev, before her death, was starting to make a name for herself as a Reality TV star. Producers had thought the daughter of a foreign billionaire, set loose on Manhattan, would lead to a lot of the normal reality fare. They were dead wrong.

It was much better.

They, somewhere along the line, didn't notice that the little princess they had cast had a Swiss boarding school background and a degree from the Sorbonne. They expected her to be a Jersey gambino girl with a Russian accent. Instead they got a poised near-supermodel who spoke five languages.

The show was an even bigger hit for it. Yulia used the cameras to push her charitable causes, and used her lightning wit against herself and herself alone, making sure she was always the butt of any jokes. The first season finale was the first show in Bravo's history to win the night in the ratings. It was also the first one to feature references to Nabokov, but they didn't mention that in the subsequent press releases.

The first half of the second season of 'Princess Life' had already been filmed but not aired. The film crew had gone on their hiatus less than 48 hours before Yulia's death.

And now I got to be the first person outside of the family to watch it. Well, along with Ryan and Esposito.

The two men in question found me halfway up the stairs between the morgue and homicide's floor. Standing a step above me, I finally had to look up at the two shorter men. Staring at them, I realized they'd always intimidated me, but I'd always had Beckett's support. Did I have that now? No, I realized, just her tolerance.

"What the hell you doin' back here?" Espo asked, gripping a case file like a bludgeon. Next to him, Ryan looked at me with anticipation. The normal encouraging look on his face wasn't there.

"I have videos for you. Kate should have…"

"Yeah, Lieutenant mentioned that. Something you coulda dropped in the mail, though, as I see it."

I kept lying. "The person who gave them to me, he made me promise not to let them out of my possession."

"Well, then, how 'bout you go sit in interrogation while we go over them, then we'll give em back and you can be on your way."

Ryan finally spoke. "Is that completely necessary, Espo?"

Esposito gave him a look. Esposito always seemed to be more bluster than bite to me, not that both weren't effective. Ryan was the one I needed. If Espo was the heart, and Kate the brains, Kevin Ryan was the 12th's conscience. Where he led, everyone would follow. Eventually.

Ryan didn't flinch at Espo's withering look. After a moment, Espo gave up, and turned back to me. "How much footage is there?"

"10 hours of show, and another 20 or so raw hours filmed around the last week."

I watched as the idea of three or more solid days of TV watching settled in. Neither looked overly happy, but both were professionals. I hoped several days of working with the guys again would allow inertia to take over. Four years of habit had to count for something. Maybe they'd forget, in the end, that I wasn't supposed to be there anymore.

And then maybe they could convince Kate.

Together they seemed to accept the work ahead of them, and they turned back up the stairs to the fourth floor, with Ryan giving me the slightest nod to follow along. I tapped my coat pocket as we walked. The handful of USB sticks I carried were now the most valuable thing I owned.

As we walked through the floor, I noticed a few odd looks, but no one came forward. Karpowski came the closest with a small smile and a nod. I saw Kate in with the Captain, discussing something. Whether it was the case or me, I couldn't tell.

I looked over at Kate's desk. It looked like a fast-food bomb had gone off.

"What's with Kate's desk?"

"The El Tee has an office. They gave her spot to a new guy, Sully," Kevin said. "He's on another case right now."

"The El Tee?"

"Beckett made Lieutenant about … well, shortly after you left us."

I didn't leave them, of course. I was kicked out, but that was obviously not the story Kate was telling, so I let it go. He said / she said games are a bad idea when everyone's on the other side.

"Good for her. She deserved it," I said, instead.

Kevin gave a noncommittal grunt that seemed to sum up more things than I could understand, so I didn't say anything further. Ryan led me into one of the meeting rooms, which it seemed had been converted into a media and surveillance center. A tech I didn't remember was working the controls. She looked up at me expectantly, so I reached into my pocket, fished out the first of the USB sticks, and handed it to her.

It made more sense, as far as the case was concerned, to start with the raw footage from the last week. It made more sense, as far as my re-assimilation was concerned, to start at the beginning of the season. Of course I chose the latter.

The TV started up, and the first episode came onto the screen. Season 2 apparently started with a party.

"I can't keep any of these people straight," Espo said after a few minutes, pausing the show.

"That's Pyotr," Ryan said, even managing to get a bit of the Russian inflection into the front part of the name. "He's a family friend. He's been after Yulia for years, but she…" he said, finishing with a shrug.

"And this chica?"

"Rosa," I said. "She's a party planner. She does the big affairs for all the rich shindigs in New York."

"So you know her, then."

I did. I had met her once, right when she'd gotten started. But I didn't respond to Espo's taunt. He looked back at the screen at started the video again.

The first episode was largely boring after that, entirely taking place at a charity ball Rosa had put together for Vassily. The camera mostly followed Yulia as she worked the room. Ryan made small notes about the people she spoke with. That he wasn't asking me for names made me realize he was a fan of the show too. Normally I'd tease him, but I decided to wait a day or so before trying. Let Espo make the joke first, if he wanted to. Instead I kept an eye out for something interesting.

Something interesting came at the end of the episode, when Yulia turned and accidentally bumped into Roman Morozov. She gasped as she looked into his eyes; the attraction between the two of them immediately jumping off the screen. We all took a breath, knowing that we were seeing the first meeting of two people who would end up dead together less than five weeks later.

"Hey Castle," Espo said. "Call up and order us a lot of Chinese food. Your treat. We're gonna be here awhile."

I nodded and began dialing.

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**A/N: ** Sorry for the delay. Site was acting up...


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I own Pi. I loaned him to the show. So there.

* * *

The entire second episode of 'Princess Life' was given over to Yulia meeting Roman. The producers were quite obviously aware of the coup they had on their hands. Two beautiful people, well educated and smart, with obvious chemistry and a tendency to flirt. It made for watchable TV, even before you threw in the fact that both were children of Russian oligarchs. Russian oligarchs that seemed determined to kill each other.

Roman was both Yulia's match and her antithesis. He was the black bull to her white crane. But in speech and style, they were a match. They didn't cover it in the show, but I already knew that Roman's biography was a match for Yulia's, if you swapped the Swiss boarding school with Eton, and the Sorbonne with Harvard.

"I'd offer to shake your hand, but that seems too coarse for a woman such as yourself. I should kiss your hand instead," Roman said, from the screen.

"I think you give your hand too little credit, and your lips far too much," Yulia responded, but there was an edge to her speech. The hint of a smile in her words.

"True at that, but I have committed an offense that needs to be remedied."

"I think the offense was mine," she said, circling around him.

"And what offense was that? I bumped into you"

"For not being aware that you and your ego would need so much room."

"It is a wild thing, untamed, but I feed it every so often, just to make sure it thinks it is still in charge. Still, I should have left it at home."

"And we would have been so much poorer for the choice."

"It did, after all, bring me to you…" Roman said, but was cut off by Espo muting the screen.

"Look at this guy," he said.

"Which guy?" Ryan asked.

"Dude in the background there, staring at Yulia."

"That's Yulia's cousin, Timur."

"Bro. You a fan?"

"What? Jenny likes to watch it."

"He's not watching Yulia," I said. "He's watching Roman."

"What the hell is behind this feud, anyway," Espo mumbled to himself.

Ryan shook his head. "Only people that know are Chapayev and Morozov themselves. When I was in gangs, we'd be pulling one or other group's guys off the street every week. Not one of them could ever say why they wanted to kill, just that they did."

"There are rumors," I said, and stopped. "Nevermind. Nothing useful."

"Maybe we should talk to this Tibor guy."

"Timur," Ryan and I said, together.

"Whatever," Espo said, turning the sound back on. Roman and Yulia had separated. Yulia was now talking to her personal assistant, and learning that she'd met a Morozov. Her pale face lost the last of its color. I jumped up as a uniformed officer knocked on the door, dropping off the food I'd ordered. I'd made sure to get enough for the entire precinct.

As I dug into the Mu Shu Pork, Yulia continued to make rounds at the party, but it was clear she's now distracted. We watched the rest of the episode and the next, but nothing much happensedthat is interesting from a cop point of view, save for Timur's continued protestations. Espo maked a note to talk to the guy as soon as possible. I switch to the Beijing Beef. The pork tasted of boiled shoe. I hoped that everyone else got something tastier.

It's late after we've finished all three episodes, what with Espo's continual stops and restarts, and the only thing we've learned is that Roman and Yulia at least met before dying. It's progress, but not a lot. We needed more.

And, for better or worse, Kate had never once stopped by. I've had two years to get used to her not being around, but not being around while less than two hundred feet away had its own flavor of ache. I tortured myself with thoughts that some boyfriend might show up now that it's quitting time, to whisk her away on a motorcycle. It happened before.

I stood up as Ryan did. He stretched, I didn't. I was still too tense, wondering what would happen next. Espo left with little more than a nod, but Kevin turned back to me.

"Be back here at 8am," he half commanded, half-asked. I nodded and smiled. He smiled back, and for a second, I felt okay, but then the mask was back on his face and he left.

I wandered out into the bullpen, which was largely empty, save for a few guys late on paperwork. The Captain's office was closed and dark. I looked around for a second. When I was last on the floor, homicide didn't have a Lieutenant. I couldn't even guess where Kate's office might be. Not that it mattered, as she stood in the middle of the bullpen, apparently waiting for me.

I stopped, and for a moment, we just stared at each other. Her hair was shorter - not quite back to the mullet she'd once had, nor the jaw length she wore when I first met her, but shorter than she'd let it get that day when she kicked me out of her apartment and her life. We'd been planning to watch John Woo movies together. Instead, I watched them alone and wondered when I'd see her again. I guess I finally had my answer.

"Its good to see you again, Kate," I said, breaking the staring contest between us.

"You look different," she said in response. That's when I realized the other change in her - the fight was gone. As long as I'd known her, she'd had that same quality that a jungle cat had, of languid grace hiding explosive power. She always seemed a half second from purring or pouncing. But now she seemed defeated. Or even less than that. Disinterested.

"20% more rugged in my handsomeness, most likely," I said, weakly. She didn't smile or roll her eyes in the way I hoped for.

"How far did you guys get?"

"Three episodes. Not much. Roman and Yulia had met."

"We'd pretty much expected that. No signs of forced entry at her apartment."

"They'd been flirting with each other."

"Never know what that really means," she said and I wondered if the hint of reproach in her voice was real or my imagination.

"We're starting at 8am tomorrow," I responded.

"Would you?" she asked.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said, with a shake of her head. "Early day, for you. Get some sleep."

I nodded, and sensing that the conversation was over, walked towards the elevator. She stayed in place. I stopped near the doors.

"Congratulations on the Lieutenant's bars, by the way," I said. She turned to face me, and there was something else about her that was different, but I couldn't place what.

"Goodnight Castle," she said, half-angry. I wondered if she'd thought I was being sarcastic, but couldn't think of a way to fix things, so I stepped into the open elevator and let it take me away from her once again.


End file.

Castle, Crime, Drama