160. Dancer for money

Beckett is perfectly happy for Castle to raid and ravage as he pleases, but arousing as that is, she wants to play too. She loves his assertive blend of sexuality, but she’s feeling mischievous and she’s just a little inclined to show him that sheer strength isn’t the only game in town. Sneakiness is just as useful. Now if she could simply pull her mind out from the fog of excitement for long enough to work out the angles…

She twists, tugs his arm out from under him and flips them so that she’s on top, smirking down at his surprised face, and trapping both his hands by his head. He gives her plaintive puppy dog eyes.

“What was that for?” he asks, aggrieved.

“I felt like it,” Beckett says lightly.

Castle’s plaintive look sublimates faster than dry ice under a spotlight, replaced by wicked male intent.

“Did you?”

Possibly taking action that could be seen as a challenge was not the cleverest thing Beckett could have done this evening. On the other hand, maybe it was. Her top appears to have mysteriously vanished. She appears to be sitting astride Castle, which is producing delightful pressure in some very sensitive areas. Shortly she is not sitting astride Castle. She is sprawled on top of him, and her pants have mysteriously vanished too.

“You’re still on top,” he drawls dangerously. “Just what you wanted.”

She might be on top of him, but it is entirely unreasonable that he escaped her grip so easily and that he’s managed to undress her one-handed because she’s the one whose hands are now caught. Castle is an overgrown bully. And for someone who says he doesn’t spar in case he damages his fingers (though she’d be deeply upset if he damaged his fingers: she very much enjoys his fingers), he’s suspiciously good at self-defence and Beckett-wrangling.

“You seem to have lost rather a lot of clothes, though,” he adds. His hand roams over the skin which had previously been covered by clothes. Then it roams over the lower curves that are still just about covered by thin silk, pressing gently: moulding and palming. The delightful pressure is still there. “I like you like this.”

“Mmm?”

“Mostly not-dressed, and curved against me.” He moves slightly. “Though I like you even better under me.” He flips them without any effort at all, and without spilling them off the couch. Beckett pouts.

“That’s not fair,” she says, looking up at him.

“I thought it was. Now I’m on top.”

“You think?”

Castle shifts, and settles hard weight insinuatingly between her thighs. Beckett draws her lip through her teeth, and then laves her tongue across the sting. His eyes flare hot and dark at the provocative gesture.

“I don’t think, I know.” He settles a little more weight on her. “You’re stuck.” She nibbles her lip again. Castle dips his head and kisses it better. She nips at his lip – and it all explodes in a hurry. He falls off the couch on to his feet, hauls her up and then sweeps her up into his arms, hustles to the bedroom and drops her on the bed, flicks his pants off in one swift, determined movement and falls over her, shirt still on.

“You’re still stuck,” he says lazily. “Stuck with me.”

Beneath him, Beckett blinks. That’s another casual assumption of their permanence. He’s doing that – by accident? By design? – more and more. She likes it. It gives her reassurance and enfolds her in strength.

And that piece of very un-Beckett sappiness over, she reaches up, hauls his head down, kisses him passionately, and takes full advantage of his instant, instinctive response to remove his shirt, embark on his boxers, and reduce him to raw physical masculinity with no thought involved at all.

“Mine,” she murmurs sleepily into his shoulder, and holds him tightly. He is, of course, cuddling her. Right from the very start Castle has always wanted to cuddle, afterwards.

“Mine too,” he replies, and kisses her hair. There is quiet contentment for a time.

Castle is reluctantly dressing to leave, watched by Beckett, who is unashamedly surveying him with an appreciative gaze.

“So I’ll see you just before eight, at Dr Burke’s office.” The appreciative gaze has turned to the hunter’s long-distance stare. “This is going to be fun.”

“You want revenge,” Castle grins.

“I want evidence. Facts. Much as I’d like it if he was involved, I don’t think he is. So I get the benefit of his thinking without all the pain. And I get to grill him.”

Castle prowls back to the bed and takes her mouth in farewell. His bad-ass Beckett is going to enjoy herself tomorrow, and so is he.

At two precise minutes before eight, Castle arrives at Dr Burke’s offices and is entirely unsurprised to find Beckett already there. He hands her the cup of coffee, and just as normal, at any early morning meeting, she takes a long draining draught and switches on.

“Let’s do this,” she grins. Castle’s answering grin has fewer fangs but just as much amusement. Neither grin fades at all until they are entering Dr Burke’s room.

“Good morning, Detective Beckett, Mr Castle.”

“Good morning,” Detective Beckett says formally. Dr Burke observes that she is wholly composed, and exhibiting a considerable aura of command presence. She is, in fact, quite consciously in control of the room and the meeting. Dr Burke admires the shift of personality, and notes that this is, as he had discussed with her, her natural mode of operation.

“Hey,” Mr Castle says. Dr Burke notes with interest that he is positioned slightly behind Detective Beckett: in a supporting role, not the guardian placement which has been displayed in all of their other meetings. It appears that in a professional context the relationships between Mr Castle and Detective Beckett are on a very different footing, in which she is the leader and motivating force, and Mr Castle follows. In non-professional contexts, that is, if not entirely reversed, certainly substantially altered. How interesting. Mr Castle’s distressing informality, however, is wholly unaltered. How disappointing.

“Please sit down.”

“Thank you. Dr Burke, you told me yesterday that you attend the Manhattan Central Racquet Club, and that your coach is Jace Atkiss. You have said that you will assist us in our investigations and have agreed to answer questions. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Could you tell us about how the club operates, please, and how you use it?”

Dr Burke would have liked to ask Detective Beckett a number of questions about the case, starting with who the unfortunate victim might be, but he reminds himself sternly that he does not appreciate amateurs questioning his methods, and therefore he must extend the same courtesy to others.

“I attend once a week, early in the morning. It is usually quite quiet at that time. I have a two hour session. Usually my lesson is on a Thursday, from seven until nine.”

“Do you always use the same coach?”

“Yes, if possible. I find that familiarity with my strengths and weaknesses improves the efficiency of the lesson for both of us. If Jace were absent for any reason, I would, of course, request an alternative.”

“How do you book?”

“I arrange the lessons at the earliest possible time. I normally block book for the following three months.”

“And when you first joined?”

“I was given a selection of possible coaches, and offered a trial with each. I tried out four, and found that Jace was the most compatible.”

“Thank you. Are you a good tennis player?”

Dr Burke is relatively proficient. He is invariably in the top quartile of the competitions for his age group, although he rarely wins. If he were to play more often, he expects that he would win more often.

“Reasonably,” he admits, and explains.

“So you do quite well,” Detective Beckett says. So far, her questioning has been logical and simple. Mr Castle has not said anything, but his assessing gaze has told its own tale. Detective Beckett has not so much as glanced at Mr Castle: her entire attention has been focused on Dr Burke. The scrutiny is intense, but not hostile.

“How do the coaches interact?”

Dr Burke remembers that Detective Beckett had said that it was one of Jace’s colleagues who had died. It must, therefore, be another coach, or she would not be asking about their interactions.

“I have only seen them together rarely. Jace appeared to be friendly with the others: he exchanged greetings. In the locker room, they compared notes, and often they would talk about competitions. I did not observe any conflicts, except once.”

“Once? When was that?”

“The week before last, after my session on Thursday morning.”

“So that would be around 8.45 a.m.?”

“Indeed. Jace was speaking to Bryan. They were both quite emotional.”

“They were upset, or angry?”

“Angry. However, not with each other. It seemed that they were angry with one Vance, whom I assumed to be another coach. It appeared to me that they believed that Vance was attempting to take away their clients.”

“Why did that get them angry?”

“I believe that the coaches are remunerated based on the numbers of clients which they teach.”

“I think that’s right,” Mr Castle says. “Vance told me that he was glad I’d turned up because he had lost a couple lately, and he could do with the replacement income.”

Dr Burke manages not to splutter. Mr Castle is a member of the Manhattan Central Club?”

“That was a year ago, and temporary, Castle. You can’t have done much for his ongoing income.” Mr Castle smirks. Dr Burke merely experiences a feeling of intense relief. The notion that he might encounter Mr Castle during his tennis lessons is really quite unpleasant. Detective Beckett is pinning Mr Castle with a glare. “But we’ll talk about why you couldn’t tell us that yesterday, along with anything else you know. Don’t tell me you didn’t grill Vance like a burger.”

“It’s research, Beckett. Everything’s useful.”

Dr Burke coughs.   Detective Beckett refocuses, immediately.

“Did Vance ever approach you to change coach?”

“No, never.”

“What were Jace and Bryan saying about Vance?”

Dr Burke casts his mind back to the scene, and visualises it with precision. He had been towards the back of the locker room, and not visible.  

“It is probable that neither man could see me. I was in a secluded corner. I dislike changing in full view. They were quite near the door. Jace said that he thought that Vance had targeted several of his female clients. Bryan agreed that he had lost clients, and added that he had thought the same. They were exercised by this apparent strategy, directed at both of them, and then as they discussed it further, fuelled each other’s anger. By the time they left, they were both quite determined to confront Vance at the earliest opportunity and to – I quote – teach him a lesson.”

Dr Burke looks distressedly at Detective Beckett. “I assumed that to be the natural annoyance of younger, fit men. I see from your expression that this Vance is the victim. I do hope that neither Jace or Bryan proves to be the perpetrator.”

“It’s far too early to say. I won’t be telling them that I’ve spoken to you, though.” Detective Beckett smiles, very professionally. “Is there anything else you can think of?” Dr Burke considers that to sound as much like a threat as a request for further information.

“No. If something should occur to me, I will let you know. I presume I should advise you at once if that happens?”

“Yes, please. We may need to ask you further questions, but that’s it for now. Thank you for your time, Dr Burke.”

“You are welcome.”

Dr Burke courteously rises to escort Detective Beckett and Mr Castle out, and on returning to his office prepares a pot of tea with some despatch. He feels the need to ingest a revivifier, and is deeply relieved that he has done nothing of which to be in the least ashamed, still less anything which might be criminal. Although Detective Beckett has been wholly professional, and had not shown in one single glance or gesture that she was deeply pleased to be on the other side of the table (Dr Burke is, however, quite certain that she was), nor had she adopted a hostile approach, it had still been a considerably unnerving experience.   He had thought that Detective Beckett would be a ferocious interrogator. He is now quite convinced of it.

Of course, Dr Burke thinks as he drinks his delicate tea, he should be extremely proud of himself. If that is Detective Beckett’s normal demeanour and behaviour, it is quite extraordinary that he has brought her as far through her treatment as he has. It is, in fact, quite extraordinary that she has accepted his methods. If she had not been so very much in need of assistance, he doubts that it would ever have happened.

“Spill. Everything you can remember and everything you know about the Central Club and their coaches. Ryan will interrogate you.”

Ooops. Beckett is genuinely annoyed with him. “Won’t you?”

“No. You don’t deserve a treat at all. You’ve been following me around for nine months and it didn’t occur to you that we might want to know that?”

“Um… I wasn’t thinking straight after you” –

“Not an excuse.”

“Yes it is. You fried my brains.”

Beckett makes an indeterminately furious noise, and orders Ryan to rip everything Castle knows out of his head, stat. If his eyeballs and brains leave his head at the same time, that’s okay, apparently. It’s not okay with Castle, but saying so won’t improve his chances of kisses later on. Although losing eyeballs and brains wouldn’t either… On balance, it might be an idea to stay very quiet, until Beckett is happier.

There is a happily predatory noise from Beckett’s desk as Ryan runs through everything Castle can remember.

“Finally!” she emits. “Got my warrant. Right. Finish up, Ryan, you’re taking longer than a mute monkey to get anything out of Castle. I can’t imagine he’s suddenly lost his voice, so what’s the hold up?”

“Nothing. ‘Cept Castle can’t stop talking.”

Castle squawks indignantly. “You said tell me everything. So I did.”

“I didn’t need to know the brand of shower gel you used, or your hair products.”

“I see,” Beckett says slowly. “Insolent obedience, as practised by grade-schoolers everywhere?”

Castle grins. “Just trying to do what you told me, Beckett. You’re always complaining I don’t do what you tell me, and now you’re complaining when I do. What’s a man supposed to do?” In the course of three sentences, he’s standing so that Ryan can’t see his face, which is sporting an interestingly possessive and hot expression, swiftly wiped. He knows what he’s supposed to do. It might not be what Beckett thinks he’s supposed to do, but that’s her problem. Well, it won’t be a problem. It never is.

They get down to the cruiser before Castle opens his mouth again. “Where are we going?”

“Back to the club, to get footage, client lists, and anything else I want. Is there anything else I should know before we get there?”

“Not about the case,” he says. Beckett fixes him with an interrogative stare. “One other thing, though.”

“What?”

“You’re unbelievably hot when you’re angry with me.” He leans over and kisses her briefly, but deeply. Beckett splutters, and can’t find a single word to retaliate. Castle slides into the passenger side, and smirks happily all the way to the Central Club.   Beckett’s tide of dark mutterings bothers him not at all.

“Get your manager, please,” Beckett says to the same receptionist as last time. This time, she doesn’t bother giving Castle the once-over or indeed the come-on. She cringes slightly, and obeys.

“Max,” Beckett states. He nods. There’s more than a hint of a cower, too. “I have a warrant.”

Max slumps. “Okay.”

“I want everything on this warrant as fast as you can.”

“Gingerbread man,” Castle mumbles. Beckett ignores him.

“Okay.”

“We’ll wait. While we’re waiting, I’d like to talk to Jace or Bryan. Are they here?”

“Jace is. He’s on break. Bryan’s coaching.”

“I want to see him.” Beckett is implacable.

“But…”

“Now. Or I can take him downtown, which will really screw with your schedule.”

“Okay,” Max wails.

Jace appears within two minutes. He’s tall, ripped, and has artfully messy blond hair which Beckett thinks has been equally artfully highlighted.

“Jace Atkiss?”

“Yes,” he smiles. It’s very charming.   Jace is clearly very aware of just how attractive he is. Unfortunately, Beckett is immune to practised charm. She even manages to resist Castle’s very sincere charm, some of the time. Jace needs a few lessons before he manages the mind-and-body melting effect which Castle produces without effort on every woman (and probably a few men) he meets, from baby Callie to, no doubt, great-grandmothers.

Beckett looks very coolly at Jace, who stops preening, somewhat confused by the failure of his studied sexuality. “We’re investigating the murder of Vance Lingham.”

Jace goes white. Now, is that horrified surprise or horrified terror of being caught?

“We have a warrant for all the camera footage, and the client lists. So, anything you wanna tell me before I start asking questions?”

Jace looks utterly terrified. Beckett smiles like a stiletto and watches him crumble in front of her.

“I hated Vance,” he says. “He came on like he was Roger Federer and the rest of us were public court players.”

Beckett recalls where Lingham had been found. Hmmm. Was that a signal, or making an example of him? She abruptly decides to leave alibi questions until later, when they’ve reviewed footage.

“He was no better than any of us. He wasn’t that great of a player, and he didn’t put in the hours. We all know why that was, though.”

“Mm?”

“He was doing escort work on the side. Afternoon tea parties, lunches, that sort of thing.”

Castle pokes Beckett’s foot. She makes a not-now gesture without even looking at him. She remembers what Venetia had said too.

“You were overheard bitching about him to Bryan, last week,” she says.

“Damn right I was. He was trying to poach every woman from twenty to eighty from my list. Same for Bryan. So I went to tell him to stay the hell away from my clients or I’d have him banned.”

“When was that?”

“Saturday. I do daytimes, and he only did evenings. We only overlapped on a Saturday.”

“Hm,” says Beckett, an edge to her sound. “You sure you weren’t angry because he was taking your chance of escort work? Banned from where, and by whom?”

Jace’s eyes bulge in fright, not anger. “I… I…” He looks helplessly, frantically at his watch. “I got a client. I gotta go.”

“When do you finish?”

“Four,” he says hopelessly.

“I’ll expect you at the Twelfth Precinct at four-thirty. If you don’t show, I’ll have you brought in.”

“I’ll show. Don’t do that. I’d be fired.”

“Four thirty,” Beckett reiterates menacingly. Jace flees.

“Right. Let’s get Bryan in here.” The knife blade of her smile glints.