62. Baby don't cry

Beckett is unreasonably comforted to see Castle striding across the sidewalk to the building. A considerable part of it is because she has absolutely no desire or idea how to deal with a parent with a constantly crying baby, but at least if there are both of them there is some hope that Castle can talk the same language as the mother.  He’d said that Alexis had gone through a period of crying all the time.  The thought of Castle-being-father bites nastily at her gut, but she pushes it off and covers it with the thought that she needs this for a case.  Nothing to do with anything else.  Nothing at all.

The Donbasses clearly have cash. This is an expensive apartment and even Castle looks as if it’s better than he’d expected, though it doesn’t compare to his loft.

“Mrs Donbass, we’d like to talk to you about Delaine Roberts.”

Mrs Donbass is, as Esposito had said, around five-five or a little less, naturally blonde (or she has an excellent hairdresser and goes weekly) and what Beckett would describe rather unkindly as chocolate-box pretty: big light blue eyes, a cute slightly snub nose, curvy. She also has black rings under her eyes that her makeup does not disguise, and looks tired, harried and very stressed.  The reason is obvious: in a swinging cot arrangement in the smart living room is a crying baby.  Well, crying is an understatement.  Screaming.  Loudly and very unhappily.  Beckett wanders over and finds that the baby is red-faced, with its tiny fists clenched.  She has an unexpected wave of fellow-feeling for it.  Since it’s dressed in a pink onesie, she assumes that it’s a girl.

Mrs Donbass casts a hopeless glance at the cot. “She just doesn’t stop crying.  I’ve no idea what to do.  My husband doesn’t know what to do, and now he’s staying at work all hours and it’s because I can’t settle her.”

Castle comes over and looks at the noisy scrap. “She’s cute,” he says softly, and extends a broad finger to touch the tiny hand.  “How old is she?”

“Four months.”

Castle gently taps at the clenched fist. The baby looks up at him and emits another shriek.  “There, there,” he rumbles.  “That’s not nice.”  She looks hugely unimpressed.  He takes the little fist in two fingers and wobbles it delicately.  The shriek changes to a squawk.

“That’s the quietest she’s been for a week.” Beckett wonders how anyone within a mile has survived.  Earplugs?  Valium?  Moving out?

“Can I cuddle her? My daughter’s fifteen, and I haven’t cuddled a baby in forever.  Please?” 

Castle looks massively hopeful. Beckett is open-mouthed.  It’s only a case.  It’s only a case and she can cope with this.  Besides which, it’s a baby.  She has no problems with a baby.  It’s when they’re much bigger she gets edgy and the memories bite.  Babies are just fine.  Just so long as she doesn’t have to cuddle it.  Her.

“Well…”

“I’ll be really careful.” Beckett suddenly recognises the Castle technique of calming stressed women.  He’s very good at it: the big, pleading eyes, the air of come-on-it’ll-be-fine, the intense focus on the one thing sure to make them comfortable.  But as with Mrs Berowitz, this isn’t personal.  He looks at Beckett, where it is personal, completely differently.

“I suppose so.”

Castle reaches into the cot-contraption and lifts the baby out: one broad hand cradling her head, one under her chubby, diapered bottom.   It – she – is still squawking, but the noise has changed from tempestuous unhappiness at brass-band volume to confusion at a lesser volume.  It is almost possible to hear oneself think, now.  Mrs Donbass glances at Castle, is clearly content that he is not breaking her precious baby, and acquires an expression of enormous relief as the decibel count continues to drop.  Castle jiggles the child gently, crooning nonsense in a soothing baritone and cuddling the baby against his wide chest.  “There we are, poppet.  Shhh, shhhh, pretty girl.  Let mommy have a minute…”

Beckett tunes it out, along with the astonishingly disconcerting sight of Castle with a tiny baby against him. Castle’s amazing ability to soothe upset females clearly begins at their birth.  She can let him cope with that, since it’s given her an open run at Mrs Donbass.

“So, Mrs Donbass, how did you know Mrs Roberts?”

“Mrs Roberts?”

“Delaine Roberts. She was a physiotherapist at the clinic on East Fourteenth.”

“Della? Della Roberts? 

“Yes. How did you know her?”

“She treated me for a while. Before I had Callie.”

“You called her six or seven times in the last week. What was that all about?”  Beckett is soothingly sympathetic.

“I wanted her to see Callie. One of my friends at baby group said I should try cranial osteopathy.”  Beckett looks entirely blank.  Castle turns round from where he’s been talking non-stop to the baby: pointing out all sorts of things out the window, like clouds, and buildings, and pigeons; all of which have two huge advantages over said baby, being silent and elsewhere.  However, he has kept it – her – quietish for at least the last few minutes, and in fact the baby has now been muted to a general level of gurgle with occasional happy – and loud – squeaks.

“Like skull massage?” he says. Somehow it’s not a surprise that Castle’s heard the term.

“Yes. It was recommended by my friend and I wanted to ask Della if she would do it.”  Her face turns annoyed.  “She wouldn’t.  She said it had no basis in science and could actually harm my baby.”  Her voice rises indignantly.  “I’d never harm my Callie.”  Callie starts to whimper, and Castle returns to jiggling and crooning.

“Of course not,” Beckett soothes.

“I just wanted her to stop crying and be happy. But Della wouldn’t help me.  She said I should be making sure my husband gave me more support.  That was all she ever said.  Get Cal to help out more.  It’s his baby too.  But when I asked him he got cross and said he had to work to support us both and I had to deal with the baby while he made the money.”

“You last called her on Monday morning.”

“Callie cried all night. I called her to make her listen to the noise so she understood.  She said I could come to the clinic.”

“Did that help?”

“Sure. I went at nine-thirty.”  Beckett doesn’t react to the timing.  “She saw Callie but she still wouldn’t stop crying.  Sometimes taking Callie for a walk helps, so that’s what I said I was going to do.  Then I went to Cal’s office.  And Callie was still crying so it didn’t work.”

Callie is not, in fact, crying at the moment. Callie is staring at Castle, who is pulling faces at her and tickling her tummy.  Beckett wouldn’t like to speculate as to which of them is more mature, though she’s betting on the baby.

“Okay. Thank you, Mrs Donbass.  That’s been very helpful.”  She turns round.  Castle is blowing raspberries against Callie’s cheek.  Honestly, what age is he?

“She’s gorgeous,” he says sincerely. “So cute.”  Slightly reluctantly, he gives the baby back to Mrs Donbass.  Callie doesn’t, rather surprisingly, protest.  In fact, she – now she’s not red-faced and screaming – is really quite nice.  As long as she’s with someone else.

“You coming, Castle?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Mrs Donbass.”  He looks a little wistful as they go back down to the street.

“You okay there, Castle?” She won’t get wound up about him petting babies.  It let her interview Mrs Donbass, and her instincts are twitching.

“Yes.” More wistfulness.  “Babies are so cute.”  She’s about to sigh at his sappiness.  “As long as you can give them back.  It’s really hard when they’re always crying.  Torture.”  Ah, that’s better.  If he’d been sappy for any longer she’d have been forced to shoot him.

“Let’s get back,” she says briskly. “I want to check that out.  Something’s off, but I don’t know what yet.”

They’re just coming up to the Twelfth when Beckett’s phone rings. She looks at it, tuts, and with no hesitation declines the call.  Castle’s glance asks the question.  “Dr Parrish.  If it’s important or to do with the case she’ll leave a message.”

“You… don’t think it might be easier just to speak to her?”

“If I want my head bitten off I’ll jump into the grizzly bear enclosure at the Zoo.”

That does not sound to Castle as if anything’s likely to get better between Beckett and Lanie in the immediate future.

“You could simply have the fight she’s spoiling for, and then it would be done.”

Beckett sags. Droops.  “No,” she says, and it sounds defeated.  Castle looks down at her, and doesn’t press.  Strangely, she starts again.  “Not now.  She’s one thing too many.  Anyway, she’s not important.”  It sounds as if she’s trying to convince herself.  Castle manages a quick half-hug before the elevator doors open and the momentary sag has gone.  It has not, however, been forgotten.

Ryan has, without needing to be prompted, obtained the CCTV footage from the clinic entrance, and, sure enough, Della Roberts had walked out with Mrs Donbass and the perpetually screaming Callie. What is rather strange, however, is that there is no footage of her walking back in.  None.  And the time of walking out is strangely coincident with the likely time of death.  Which is not proof, but is certainly very suspicious.

“I don’t see how or why she could have done it,” Beckett says crossly, “but I’m sure she had something to do with it.”

“Bit difficult, with a screaming baby. More likely to snap at home and go for her husband… or the baby.”

“Uh?”

“Well, her husband isn’t helping her with the baby, and she’s exhausted, and trust me, Beckett, when your baby cries all the time you’ll do anything to make it stop.”

“You’re the one who’d know,” she says neutrally.

“I would. That was Alexis, for two weeks.  Only two weeks.  It was hell.”

Somehow, that almost makes this case bearable: to know that even to the most devoted father children aren’t always perfect, or perfectly loved. Just so long as she doesn’t think about the point that most fathers still love their children even after they have grown up.

“Huh,” she says again, as more of a conversation-ending punctuation point.

A few more interesting elements are added to the timeline, but Beckett’s glare and Castle’s commentary don’t pull anything into sharp focus.

“Hold on,” Castle suddenly says. “What about the husband?”

“Dr Roberts?”

“No, Donbass. How’s he play into this?”  He starts to speak faster.  “It’s old-fashioned.  Maybe he’s old-fashioned.  Maybe he’s just an ass.  Dumbass – hey, that nearly rhymes: Donbass dumbass” –

“Focus, Castle!”

“Yeah, right, okay. So he’s got his wife at home – he must be really pulling it down – and she’s pregnant and he’s going to have a family, be the patriarch, head of the house: pretty wife, beautiful baby, everything just the way his dad had it, just the way life should be. It’s gonna be great.”

“So?”

“So the baby arrives, and it’s not like he thinks. His wife’s exhausted.  Really exhausted – you saw.  Not so pretty, and too tired to care.  Too tired for him, too.  Only thing she’s focused on is the baby, little Callie.  And little Callie’s not what he expected, either.  Babies are a lot of work even if they’re sleeping well, and little Callie isn’t sleeping well, and she’s crying all the time.  He’s not going home, not helping out, it’s all her fault, all her responsibility.  After all, he’s the daddy.”

“Yeah, but why would he kill Della? He’s got no reason.  He’s doing just fine.”

“I think he did.”

“What? How?”

“I think we’ll find that Mrs Donbass called Cal to say she was going to the clinic, and begged him to meet her there. I think Cal said no.  I think Mrs Donbass asked Della to talk to Cal, and Della said she would, and Cal feels like just the sort of idiot not to take it well and lash out.”

“But…” she stops. “Okay. If your theory” – she doesn’t say crazy, but it’s there on the air – “has any validity at all, we need to dig into Cal.  Still, it seems a serious over-reaction to being told you’re a jerk.”

“Never underestimate the size of the male ego.”

“How can I? You’re here.”

Castle fakes a wound to the heart, Beckett rolls her eyes, and Esposito and Ryan, who have slunk up to see what’s going on, snigger.

“ ‘S lunchtime, Beckett.”

“And?”

“And,” says Espo menacingly, “you were too slow on Thursday, and it’s Wednesday now and you haven’t been in the gym since, so time for another round.”

“Okay. Give me five minutes.”

Fifty minutes later another brutal round of sparring is over, and Beckett is, again, tapped out on the mat. Espo hadn’t gone down noticeably more, but Beckett had gone down noticeably less.  Amazingly, Castle thinks it was even faster than last time.  He waits for her as Ryan waits for Espo, and the four of them go downstairs.

Shift end comes, and Cal Donbass is being taken apart, metaphorically. Everything they can find out about him is splattered on the murder board like blood round the corpse.  He’s a good looking man, bulky in a weight-trained way; another Wall Street winner.  Beckett takes an instant dislike to his smug, I’m-in-charge face.  Or maybe that’s just because he couldn’t lower himself to help his wife.  He’s pulling down megabucks from a Midtown-based hedge fund, which also doesn’t endear him to Beckett.

“Right. We need footage from his building, and we need to haul him in.”

“Not tonight, Detectives.” Montgomery has sidled up behind them all.  “Enough for today.  You don’t have enough to bring him in yet, and you certainly won’t get a warrant on Castle’s theories.”  He smiles benevolently on them all.   “Home time, Detectives.  Scoot.”

All three detectives, and their pet writer, look at him as if he’s crazy.

“Scoot. We’re so far out of sight at the top of the stats we can afford you four to go home at shift end today.  You can close the case tomorrow.”

“Beer?” says Ryan hopefully.

“You betcha.” Espo’s on it at near-light speed.

“Not tonight,” Beckett says. “I’m having a drink with O’Leary.  Remember him?”

“Mountain-man?”

“Yeah. O’Leary.”

“Huh. Castle?”

“I’m going with Beckett. I want to see this mountain.”

“We’ll come too.”

“No, you won’t,” Beckett states flatly. “This isn’t a party. I’m seeing an old pal.  I don’t need you glaring at him.”

“We wouldn’t.”

“You so would, Espo. You can’t stand that he could take you down sparring.  Last time you sulked for a week.  I’m not having you spoiling my evening.”

“I could take him.”

“Guys, no. My evening.  You are not invited.  Shoo.”

“How’s Castle going?”

“Shadowing,” Castle says smugly. “Different stories.  Different characters.”

“You sayin’ you’re bored with us?”

“Never,” he says hurriedly. “But I need some minor characters.”

“We’re major characters?” Ryan asks.

“Sure you are.”

“Okaaayyyy. But he’d better not be a big character.  That’s us, bro.”

Beckett snickers. “He couldn’t be little,” she says, and exits before anyone has stopped groaning at the descriptor.  Castle ambles after her, not hurrying at all.  Ryan exchanges a glance with Espo.

“You let that go easy, man.”

“Not planning to get into it. Just wanted to rag a bit.  She ‘n’ O’Leary go way back.  Like, way back.  Before she was ever a detective, or in the Twelfth.  Not buttin’ in on that.”

“So how’s Castle got in?”

Esposito casts Ryan a pained glance. “Bro, when’s Castle not trailed after Beckett?  She don’t even bother tellin’ him to quit.  Waste of breath.”

“Specially when they’re together.”

“Yeah.”

Castle summons a cab, rather than fighting it out in the rush hour subway. It also has the huge advantage that he can sling an arm round Beckett, who, now that the rush of work-induced adrenaline has stopped, is again a little tired and pale.  She needs a hug, and he is very good at delivering hugs.  She wriggles closer.  Far too soon – whatever happened to rush-hour traffic? – they’re at Molloys.

“What was that about O’Leary trying to find his Irish roots?”

“Oh, he’s always going on about his great-grandmother coming from Ireland. He’s never been nearer Ireland than East Harlem.  Don’t think he’s ever been out of state.”

“I been outta state, Beckett. I went to the Bronx once.”

Beckett laughs at the joke. “Hey, O’Leary,” she grins, and turns into his bear hug.  Castle watches her disappear into his massive form and is hard put to it not to snatch her back out again.  He’s the one who hugs her.  Not Kodiak bears.  O’Leary puts her back down on her feet and extends a hand to Castle.

“Hey, Castle. Nice to see you again.  You still hanging around the Twelfth?  You should come see us at Central Park.  Much more fun.”  He grins widely.  “An’ I’m much prettier than Beckett here.”  She splutters. 

Castle laughs. “There’s certainly more of you to observe.”  There is a low-toned growl behind him.  It might contain there’d better be.

They find a table with enough space for O’Leary to stretch his legs without tripping everyone up. Castle manoeuvres matters so that Beckett ends up in between the two men – and notes without too much surprise not only O’Leary’s approving glance but his unobtrusive co-operation.  Seems like he’s noticed Beckett’s off-duty fragility too.  Beers for the men and soda for Beckett appear, and everyone more or less relaxes.  Conversation swiftly turns to case-work.  O’Leary is deeply unimpressed by Cal Donbass.

“Asshole like that shouldn’t get to have a wife, never mind a cute little baby.”

“Yeah,” Castle agrees. “Can’t wait to see you rip into him in Interrogation, Beckett.”

“You still the terror you used to be?”

“Uh?” Castle queries.

“Used to be” –

“O’Leary,” Beckett says warningly, which has no effect on the mountainous hulk next to her or on his mischievous smile.

“Used to be, that if we got a witness who might be a suspect – this was when she was in uniform with me, we were in the Sixth together for a bit – they’d send us in for a little time. Mix things up some.  So this one time, we picked up a lowlife” –

“He was a pimp, O’Leary.”

“Yeah – an’ the detective thought he needed a little bit of – er – warming up. So – wasn’t exactly procedure, but… I got told to look scary” –

“They meant stop smiling that sappy grin you’d always got on,” Beckett interjects, grinning herself.

“ – an’ Beckett here got told to look cute.” Castle snickers at the thought.  “So we did.  But the lowlife didn’t have much in the way of smarts,” he digresses for a moment,  “so how he was running girls I don’t know – an’ he took a look at Beckett an’ decided he’d hit on her.”  Castle’s eyes fly open wide.  Beckett nods, and lets O’Leary carry on.  “So he – er – made a few comments” –

“He suggested I’d quadruple my take-home if I was turning tricks for him,” Beckett puts in dryly.

“Yep – but he hadn’t banked on Beckett an’ me payin’ attention to the Detectives and their work. So Beckett started playin’ along a bit, an’ I stood there behind her like I’d heard it all before an’ I was inclined to go with it for some of the take” –

“You pair pretended you were both corrupt and would go along with the arrangement? And this guy had seen you and believed that?  In a recorded interrogation room?”

“I said he was dumb.”

“You got that right. It sounds like if he were any dumber he’d have forgotten how to breathe if someone didn’t remind him.”

O’Leary carries on. “So anyways, we played along for a bit, an’ I thought that we were being left with him for a pretty long time but it’s not uniforms’ place to argue with the detective’s strategy, so we carried on, an’ suddenly the detective came in with this shit-eating grin an’ says ‘Palermo, you’re under arrest for the murder of Cara O’Flynn and for compelling and promoting prostitution.’  Takes him away, an’ we dunno what to do so we go back to the bullpen.  Ten minutes later the detective’s back an’ thanking us for getting the story outta him.”  He stops for a second, and the iceberg range of his teeth appears.  “First time she brought someone down.”

“She is sitting right here,” Beckett says indignantly.  O’Leary ignores her.

“Not the last. We had a lotta fun, didn’t we?”

“Yeah. Then I got posted to the Twelfth and you went to Central Park and we couldn’t do it any more.”  She smiles a little wistfully.  “Good times.  Everyone used to expect that O’Leary would be the scary cop and I’d be all sweet and nice.  When they found it was the other way round they were usually so surprised that they admitted things before they’d even realised they’d opened their mouths.  Of course, the detectives never let us loose on anyone important, but it was good fun and good practice.”

“Sounds like it. I’ll get another round in.  Same again?”

Everyone agrees, and Castle goes to get more drinks.