He knows it's a bad idea, but well into his third glass of scotch, Rick is just buzzed enough that he doesn't care when he retrieves the photo album from the bookshelves in the living room and tosses it onto the coffee table. The move sends his case files — correction, he tells himself, his former case files — scattering across the area rug and onto the hardwood floor and though he knows he should take the time to pick the photos and the reams of paper up, he doesn't bother.

Instead, he settles back onto the couch, opening the thick album that had been so painstakingly put together.

The album is mostly for Alexis' benefit; a way for his daughter to get a glimpse of the mother she never properly knew and what their family had been like before a third of it was removed. He has other items, too, Meredith's wedding dress, her engagement and wedding rings and some other mementos stored away for when Alexis is older, but the photo album and a box of home videos are the tangible reminders that accompanied the stories he shared.

Usually, Rick doesn't bother with the album. Meredith had put it together, insistent in how she captured almost every facet of their life pre and post-Alexis, telling him that one day he would be happy to have it. As usual, Meredith had been right. He was grateful, grateful that his wife had been so proud and so enamored with her husband and her daughter that she had spent hours taking photos, printing them out and neatly organizing them into an enormous book.

There are photos of their first apartment, the afternoon at the beach where he had blurted out he wanted to marry Meredith, and she had laughed and told him yes. From behind her camera, she had captured everything, but the moments where his wife had given in and let someone else snapshot her, those were the most precious.

It's one of those photos where he stops, ignoring pages of their wedding, moving into their first home, and Alexis' birth. The picture that grabs his attention is one of Meredith standing in a window, her gaze directed down at the tiny bundle with just a hint of fuzzy red hair and dressed in a bright yellow onesie. Alexis' tiny head is nestled against Meredith's shoulder, and his wife's head is bent to press a gentle kiss to the shell of her ear, happiness radiating in every line of her body.

He had taken the photo, shattering the moment seconds later with the click of the camera, but it hadn't mattered. Even now, the memory is as sharp as the day it happened, and when Rick lifts the glass to his lips for another sip, the burn in his throat isn't just from the alcohol he swallows. Since he's alone, he doesn't bother trying to fight the tears that prick at his eyes but merely gives in. The ongoing battle with his grief, the weeks of butting his head against it while working the Annalise Jenkins case, his daughter freezing him out, his suspension from work; he merely heaves a sigh and loosens the reins.

The tears that come don't pour out of him; they're more of a trickle than a flood, but the pressure eases enough that Rick finds he can suck in a breath that doesn't feel like he's drowning on dry land. Still, he tips the rest of the alcohol in his mouth, swallowing it down with a promise that he's done drinking for the night.

Losing himself in alcohol won't solve anything, just give him a miserable hangover.

"Richard, what are you doing up?" He glances up at his mother's voice, surprised to see her standing at the opposite end of the sofa still holding her handbag and wearing a spring-weight trench coat. It's coming up on 3 a.m., but that's not so unusual for Martha Rodgers on a Friday night. Fraturdays are a hallmark of Hollywood, with actors, directors and crew members pushing into the wee hours to wrap production for the week in order to stay on schedule.

"I, uh…." he sniffs away the remains of his crying jag, his brain scattered enough from emotion, the late hour and the scotch churning in his system that his mind can't come up with an explanation. Not that it matters, his mother has the uncanny ability to read through most of his evasion techniques, and he's sure from the worried look in her eyes that she's noticed the wet trail on his cheeks.

"What's wrong?" Martha asks, lowering her handbag to the floor as she takes a seat next to him. "What can I do to help?"

The worst part of the question is that there isn't anything to be done. Rick can't decide if its better or worse when his mother notices the album and extends a hand to trace the edge of a photo of himself, Meredith and Alexis during their daughter's first Christmas. A turn of the page reveals more Christmas photos, the only holiday where Meredith's parents had been able to join them to celebrate.

There's a larger print of the photo his mother's eyes gravitate to; it's framed, matted and hanging in the hallway upstairs. Meredith's parents sit on her right side while she and Rick wedge together in the middle of the sofa with Alexis on his lap, followed by Martha and Benjamin, the one man his mother had married that had stuck for more than a couple of years. In many ways, Benjamin had served as his father, helping him navigate the treacherous teen and early adult portions of his life.

Without question, he had been the love of Martha Rodgers' life, and despite the three years since his death, Rick knows his mother feels that loss as sharply as he feels his own.

"Have any tips for getting over grief?" he finally asks when she reaches out to grasp his hand and give it a big squeeze. "Cause I could use some."

It's a rhetorical question, one that he only says to try and lighten the mood. The last thing he wants to do is keep his mother downstairs commiserating with him after a long day on set, and he tries his best to avoid bringing up her own grief, all too aware of how painful it can be. But Rick finds himself surprised when Martha sits up straighter, turning the blue eyes he inherited directly on him with such a piercing look that he doesn't dare glance elsewhere. "You don't get over it," his mother says gently. "You learn to live with it."

"And you remember the good things," Martha adds, tapping a photo of Benjamin reading a book to Alexis while she balances on chubby legs to pull at his glasses. "You keep those memories, and the person you love, close to you, but you keep on living."

"Was it easier for you?" he asks, wrinkling up his nose at how awkward the question sounds. Losing a loved one is never easy, and Rick doesn't want to imply that it is, so he pushes against the fog hovering around his mind to explain himself. "I mean, when the doctor's said Ben had cancer, did having the information that he was sick and knowing what could happen help you prepare? Sometimes I wonder if it would have helped if that had happened with Meredith."

Martha doesn't answer immediately, and it's evident from the faraway look in her eyes that she's gone inward, caught in some memory from the year where Ben had gone through treatments and numerous hospital stays before he succumbed to the disease. "I think the time helped, not just because I knew what could happen, but in knowing that Benjamin had accepted it and was ready. His diagnosis woke us up, reminded both of us that we only have so much time here and it's best to make the most of it. So we did."

"Even with the doctor visits and the treatments and the pain that came from watching him go through it all, having that time together did make it somewhat easier," his mother says with a nod, glancing over at him with a sad smile. "But I have to ask what prompted such a question."

Years of deflecting from revealing the real depth of his emotions have Rick ready to shrug his shoulders and make some quip that he knows will have Martha scoffing at his silliness. But he remembers what Gates had told him hours before — to make peace with what had happened, words not so different from what his mother had just shared with him. Rick had learned to live with Meredith's death by deflection and burying the rawest parts of himself down so deep that he could generally pretend they weren't there, but he had never made peace with any of it. "I just miss her," he says softly, grateful that his voice doesn't break and the tears clogging his throat don't surge up and spill down his cheeks. "I've been working this case, and the victim reminds me of Meredith so much that I've had to stop and tell myself that this isn't my wife who was killed, this is another young woman. I haven't been able to sleep very much since we picked it up and it's just been eating at me. Finding the person who killed this woman is personal, and it's personal because I keep looking at her and seeing the mother of the teenager who is growing up and embarking on the part of her life that I have no idea how to navigate with her."

He blows out a breath then, taking a moment to pick up the photo album and settle the heavy book on his lap. "Captain Gates called Tom and me into her office to pull us off that case and onto another one, a homicide the department considers VIP, and I refused to take it," Rick continues, watching his mother lean over to pull Annalise Jenkins' driver's license photo from a stack of other paper. Martha studies it for a long time before she places the glossy print onto the coffee table and then turns to envelop him in a hug. "Since I refused a direct order, she had to suspend me for a week," he adds quickly, feeling his mother stiffen in reaction to the news, only to draw her arms tighter around his shoulders.

It takes him ten minutes to explain the case from beginning to end, including the serial killer angle and his request to go to New York and coordinate with the NYPD. Martha listens without comment, keeping one of his hands firmly clasped in her own until he tells her about Alexis and Ashley's dalliance being the surprise ending to an already terrible day.

"I don't know how to do this," he admits, running his free hand through his hair. "The months after Meredith died were the hardest in my life, and I don't think I would have made it without you and Ben helping us. But Alexis and I….we found our way; I figured out how to braid hair and tie bows, we survived the first day of school and the chicken pox. But dating? Lying about a boy? How do I deal with that? She's upset with me because I caught them kissing, but I was only upset because she lied."

"She's a teenager who is crazy over a boy, Richard," his mother replies, releasing his hand as she tries to hide a smile. He knows he's being a little dramatic about his daughter and this boy, but he can't help it. It's his daughter! "You can hardly expect Alexis to be rational at a time like this. To her, asking Ashley to leave means that you don't like him, even if that wasn't your intention."

"I said he could call her tomorrow!" This time his words come out defensive, but thankfully he keeps the exclamation from sounding like a whine. "I don't hate the kid; I don't know him well enough for that. I just…...she lied to me, mother. Did she ever tell you that Ashley was a boy? Did she mention she would be bringing him here to be alone with him? I can't just pretend that didn't happen and act like that isn't a problem; it's a very big problem."

"I remember a few times when I came home to find you with a pretty girl on the couch," Martha says.

"Exactly my point," Rick blurts out, lightly slapping his hand against the album resting against his thighs. "If you knew half the things I did with those girls while you weren't around….." He has to halt his own thoughts there, all too aware that if he goes down that path, he really will do something drastic like lock Alexis in her room until she turns 40.

"Richard," his mother sighs at him, reaching over to pat his shoulder with a kind smile. "I understand what it is like to parent a teenager. This is just the beginning of the conflicts you and Alexis are going to have. She's growing up, she's going to go on dates and kiss boys and have her first drink at some house party she told you she wasn't attending; but I also know that you raised a very responsible and level-headed daughter. She knows that if she needs you, she can talk to you."

"Then why won't she do that?" He had gone up hours ago and made an effort to talk to Alexis, but the silence from the other side of the wall had been deafening. "I went upstairs hours ago to try and talk to her, but she wouldn't open the door. We've always gotten through by sticking together, and I just feel like she's shutting me out."

"Give her time, darling," Martha replies. "I know it's hard, and I know it's going to be miserable, but whenever you were angry at Benjamin or me, what inevitably happened?"

Immediately, several situations across his teenage years spring to mind; each time he had sworn to himself that he would never talk to his mother or step-father again and each time his anger and embarrassment had eventually burned out. "I got over it," he answers with a nod of understanding.

Martha doesn't nod, but her eyes sparkle just a bit. "And so will she," his mother adds. "Give her time to get over her embarrassment, and she'll come talk to you. Once she does, we'll all go out together and celebrate your birthday."

"Alexis?"

Rick knocks on his daughter's bedroom door tentatively, not unlike how he has seen members of the LAPD bomb squad approach a device that could detonate at any moment. Realistically, he knows that an actual bomb is a much more severe and deadly situation — and one he hopes he never experiences firsthand — but he also knows that teenagers are explosions of emotion that need the slightest bit of prompting before they're ready to blow.

He waits for 15 seconds, lets it stretch into 30 seconds and then nearly to a minute before he knocks again, going so far as to twist the doorknob in the hope that showing his face might entice his daughter to come out and talk.

But when the handle doesn't give to the turn of his wrist, Rick gives a long sigh. He could tell himself that Alexis is still asleep, that maybe she's changing clothes and needed a bit of privacy, but he knows his kid. She's still freezing him out.

With a frown, he rests his head against the door, fingers squeezing against the brushed-nickel doorknob as if the action might entice Alexis to open up and talk to him. "Alright, I get it. You're still mad at me," he says to the wood. For all he knows, she's in her room with headphones on, or she really is asleep and oblivious to everything, but neither option serves as a deterrent. "That's fine, but you and I are going to talk about this one way or another, Alexis. You broke the rules; we don't have very many of them in this family, but you broke one of the big ones, and you and I are going to have a discussion about why….." Rick falters for a moment, words escaping him even as he tries to match this teenager with all her hormones and emotions with the seven-year-old girl that still lives in his head and would ask him if he would marry her when she grew up.

"I'm going downstairs," he finally manages. "Breakfast is already on the table and waiting. Come down when you are ready to talk."

He takes to the backyard for his meal, spreading out the reams of paper on the large patio table stationed a few feet from the pool to study while he eats. Though there's a television hanging above the outdoor fireplace and far more comfortable seating around it than the chair he's chosen, Rick makes no effort to move.

He needs a distraction from Alexis, and what better source than to dive headfirst into the case that has otherwise occupied his mind for the past three weeks?

Armed with his laptop, a notebook and several pens, Rick starts from the oldest case and begins working forward between bites of pancakes slathered in syrup and a side of fruit. Being placed on suspension meant he had been forced to leave his notes at the station for whoever took over the case, but he had broken a few rules by sending the LAPD files to his personal email account on his way out the door. If anyone discovered it, he would be reprimanded, just as he could face disciplinary action for carrying the printed pages from the FBI files Will had sent out of the station.

But he couldn't imagine anyone checking up on him or his email activity, not for a week-long suspension that hadn't been sparked by an Internal Affairs investigation.

He catches the flash of red hair as he pours over crime scene photos from the third case, glancing up to see Alexis standing on the opposite side of the table with her bright blue eyes locked on the pictures he's spread across the surface. "Alexis, hi," Rick stutters in surprise, reaching out to snag the photos and quickly stuff them back into the file.

"You don't have to hide them," his daughter says, placing her plate piled with fruit, one pancake, and a serving of avocado toast on the table before she pulls out a chair to sit across from him. "I've seen crime scene photos before."

"Only because you snooped to look at them," Rick replies with no heat to his voice. The first time he had caught Alexis studying photos of a crime scene she had been eight-years-old, and he had panicked, thinking his daughter was scarred for life after looking at them. Instead, his logical and rational kid had just accepted it as part of her father's job and taken to questioning Rick about how he caught the bad guys. He had responded by telling her the truth, at least as much as he was allowed to say without breaking departmental rules.

Alexis busies herself by nibbling on her toast until he's gathered the most graphic photos, closed the file, and given her his full attention. When she finally speaks, his kid doesn't disappoint. "I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry about last night ….and this morning," she says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. "Ashley is important to me, and when you walked in last night, all I could think was how he was going to hate me and never want to talk to me again because my dad caught us kissing."

It takes a considerable effort not to cringe at his daughter discussing kissing a boy in such a matter-of-fact way, but Rick keeps himself in check. He remembers how difficult it was to have an emotional conversation with an adult as a teenager, and though he's dying to react or to crack a joke to cut the tension radiating from his daughter, he knows better. "Embarrassing you wasn't the goal, Alexis. I asked Ashley to leave because you weren't honest with me or your grandmother about the fact he was coming here in the first place."

"I know that, and I -"

"Hold on, I'm not finished,' Rick says softly, cutting off Alexis' words. "Ashley seems like a nice boy, and if you like him then that's a great thing. But you cannot bring a boy to this house without telling your grandmother and me, nor should you be dating anyone without telling me that is what you are doing. I need to meet that person first."

"So you are saying you don't trust me?" Alexis asks, something heartbreaking in her eyes when she looks at him.

"No, I'm saying I don't trust teenage boys," he replies quickly. "I used to be one. I'm very aware of what they're like, and before I let my daughter spend time alone with one of them, I want to get an idea of the person she's going out with. I raised you to know that you can always call me if you feel like you are uncomfortable or might be in trouble or anything else. I trust you enough to let you go out on a date, or to a party with a friend, which is why I am not going to lock you in your room until you are in your mid-40s."

It does him good to see Alexis' lips twitch slightly at his joke, though there's a huge part of him that absolutely means it. If he thought he could protect her from the heartbreak and struggles that come with life, he would do it in a second. "You're growing up, Alexis," he adds before she can speak, feeling the importance of pushing out all his thoughts while he has his daughter's attention. "It's not easy for me to realize that you're old enough now that you want to go out on dates and go out to parties with your friends. This is a whole new world that you and I are stepping into. I mean it when I say that I trust you, but that trust comes with a caveat that you and I are always honest with one another."

"I know, dad," she replies with a sigh. "And I really am sorry I didn't tell you. I just….I didn't know how and I wasn't sure how you would react, so it was easier to keep it to myself."

"Next time, start with 'dad, I want to go on a date with a boy who has a girl's name,'" Rick says, grinning even when Alexis scowls at him from across the table. "That way, when I catch you kissing, I can do what your Gram did when I was your age — offer tips to improve your game."

He considers it a success when his daughter frowns, lowering her toast to her plate and delicately pushing it away — the same reaction he had decades ago. "Gram told me that you were suspended at work," Alexis says after a moment of silence, her eyes sweeping over the few crime scene photos he's left on the table. She lingers for a bit longer on the close up of Annalise Jenkins, something hard moving across her face that disappears when she swallows back whatever emotion the photograph prompts. "You could have talked to me about it," she adds softly. "About how she reminds you of my mom."

Every time Alexis says 'my mom' the fissures created by Meredith's death grow marginally deeper, cracking off small pieces of himself. He knows his daughter doesn't mean it negatively, that it's merely the impact of growing up with nothing more than photographs and home videos versus a living, breathing human.

Even a mother who only came around on holidays and special occasions would be better than a woman immortalized with paper, ink, and light.

"No, Alexis, I couldn't," he sighs. "You are too young for me to put that type of emotional baggage on your shoulders and this is something that I need to work out for myself. It's more than the case; it's…..it's dealing with a lot of things that I shoved deep down after your mother died. Things that I've ignored or avoided for years."

"I don't think that means you have to do it by yourself, dad," Alexis replies, her voice steady and her eyes piercing when he meets her gaze. "I want to help you."

Rick smiles at that, tipping his head up towards the sun as he releases a deep breath. "Just being here helps, talking to me, making me laugh; it helps," he says, leaning back so that his chair is balanced on its two back legs. "The rest of it will come in time, but it isn't anything you or your grandmother can fix. I have to work on this one myself, do you understand?"

It takes a moment before his daughter nods, moments where she uses that unflinching gaze to examine every inch of his face. Alexis is incredibly observant, and he's sure she's looking for any indication that he's lying or only telling her part of the truth, but she finally gives in, "Gram said we're taking you out for lunch to celebrate your birthday," she tells him with a smile.

"Oh, really?" He's genuinely surprised by that news, having felt certain that Martha would insist on dinner at one of the nicest restaurants in the city so she could both celebrate her son and see and be seen by all the important Hollywood players. "And here I thought we'd be dressing up for 9 p.m. reservations at Spago or Nobu."

Alexis merely shrugs at that, "She said we had to go for lunch because you needed to be on a plane to New York tonight to go meet with that NYPD Detective," his daughter says, popping a green grape into her mouth. "At first I didn't like the idea, I don't want you to be gone on your birthday, but this is important, and I think Gram is right. You should go to New York and talk to them, tell them what you know."

It's not often in his life that Rick finds himself speechless, but sitting across from his daughter as she casually eats grapes and informs him that he needs to jet across the country to solve a murder, he's completely stunned. Sure, in his less rational moments, he had told himself that was exactly what he was going to do; that the NYPD had no way to know of the connections to the LAPD's cases and it was his job to provide them with the information. Once his calmer side had kicked in, Rick remembered his suspension, not to mention the risks he would be taking by doing something so reckless.

If he got caught — and realistically, he knew the chances of that were very high — it would be much worse than a week's suspension. Rick could be stripped of his badge and kicked off the force. He felt sure it was only Gates' sympathy for his situation that she hadn't asked him to turn his shield over when he gave her his service piece.

"I know you want to go, dad," his daughter adds while he mulls it all over, shrugging her shoulders again.

"I do, but I….." Rick sighs, lowering his chair back to the ground with a small crash. "It's risky. I could lose my job."

"Aren't you always telling me that I should do the right thing, no matter the risk?"

It's so like his kid to throw his words back at him, and he's proud of the smirk that Alexis gives as she does it. She's proud of herself for that one, but she also isn't done. "How many people have died already?" she asks. "And how many more could die if you don't catch the person behind this? I don't want someone else to lose their mom or their brother or sister, not if you can help stop it."

Having drawn the weekend shift, Kate finds herself back at the whiteboard, heartened by the new information they've added in the past 48 hours but frustrated at the lack of evidence towards finding their killer.

Fernando Martinez had headed north when he exited the 125th Street Subway station, into an area of Manhattan where security cameras weren't frequently used because they often failed to deter anyone from whatever they wanted to do or were destroyed by the various gangs who used other means to protect their turf.

Still, the photo of their victim crossing the street across from the station was dutifully tacked to the border with 'WHERE DID HE GO?' written underneath it in red marker along with the three gangs that split up the neighborhood listed below the question.

The trouble was that no one seemed to know which gang Fernando would have chosen, and all of them had a penchant for murdering anyone that got in their way or didn't fulfill their end of a bargain.

Kate reaches for her coffee mug out of habit, grimacing at the cold liquid that passes her lips. She's been at her desk for nearly two hours, staring at the same information and trying to force the lead to come from what they've gathered, but she's willing to admit that it just isn't there. Not yet.

Placing the cup back on her desk, she grabs her leather jacket and all the other necessary items she needs, "Espo, I'm gonna drive up to Fernando Martinez's apartment, see if there's something there that we missed before," Kate informs the detective. "I'll bring back lunch."

"See ya," Esposito replies from his desk, head bent towards the Hudson River floater that he and Ryan were close to wrapping up.

It takes nearly an hour to get from the precinct to Martinez's apartment, though part of the delay was due to her need for another coffee fix. It's another ten minutes of Kate's time to rouse the super of the building and get the keys to enter the place. Naturally, the man grumbles about it, asking why cops are beating on his door on a Sunday morning.

Given that her watch tells her it is ten minutes shy of noon, calling it morning is quite a stretch.

Rather than wait on a rickety elevator, Kate hoofs it up the four flights of stairs, unlocking the door before she takes the time to pull on a pair of the blue gloves they all are required to use at crime scenes and other relevant locations like a victim's apartment.

Easing the front door open, she makes sure to turn on the lights. As small as the place is, like most apartments in New York City, there's no foyer, just a living area, a tiny closet, a cramped mini kitchen, and a door that leads to a bedroom and bath.

The living room is the most prominent space, and Kate begins there, carefully lifting cushions and feeling between the crevices of furniture. She even gets on her hands and knees, shining a light on the underside of the sofa, not really knowing what she's looking for but convinced that she needs to search anyway.

From there, Kate checks the coffee table and the end table, finding nothing but take out menus and extra batteries. The bookshelf that takes up most of the opposing wall is crammed with novels and movies, most of them either sci-fi or foreign films, which gives her an idea of what Fernando's interests and hobbies were.

She saves the bookshelf for last, checking both armchairs and the small desk that's littered with junk mail, bills, and other debris. Even though they've already gone over the victim's financials, Kate pauses to glance at a few of the statements.

It's when she's reading Fernando's latest credit card bill that she hears the rustle of something in the bedroom. Automatically on alert, Kate carefully drops the paper, reaching behind her to lift her gun from the holster at her hip. She wastes no time raising her weapon into the proper weaver stance, keeping her steps light and hugging the wall that leads to the bedroom door.

A quick glance into the bedroom shows nothing amiss, but the open door blocks her view, leaving her blind to the other half of the room. With her ears perked for more noise, Kate hears the distinct sound of a drawer opening, the shuffle of items being shifted around

Pausing long enough for a deep breath, Kate rolls out to fill the doorway with her body, gun at the ready.

The source of the noise proves to be a man standing in the far corner of the room, his hands full of paper. He's tall and broadly built, likely outweighing her by at least forty pounds. He also isn't stupid, immediately lifting his hands, scattering paper all over the floor and onto the bed. "Don't shoot!" he says quickly, automatically taking a step back when Kate takes one forward.

"NYPD, keep your hands up," Kate tells him, removing one hand from her gun to pull her handcuffs from her belt. This is one of those times where she wishes she hadn't come to a location alone, all too aware that if this man were to decide to attack, he'd likely win just from sheer size and strength. Without her heels, he'd have a good four inches of height on her. There's also the clear outline of muscles along his body, both in the way his jeans are hugging his thighs and how his jacket stretches across his biceps.

Kate tries not to notice the shadow of abs as she approaches, but there's a strip of skin on display where his shirt has ridden up on his stomach. Whoever this man is, he's definitely in shape.

"Look, there's no need for those," he's quick to protest once he notices the cuffs hanging from her left hand "I can explain…"

"Explain why you are in the apartment of a murder victim? One that clearly has crime scene tape across the door?" she replies with a roll of her eyes, keeping her gun trained to pin the man in place as she crosses the room. "I'm sure this will be good."

She doesn't expect him to smile at her reply, but the grin comes easily, displaying two rows of even, white teeth and a pair of dimples. There's no denying that with those sparkling blue eyes, the square jaw and thick brown hair, that her trespasser is attractive. Kate hates herself a little bit for noticing in the first place, but she would bet that he's used to charming his way out of trouble with those looks. There's just a little too much smugness in that crooked smile.

"In my defense, I came in through the window, so I didn't see the tape."

"And that makes it so much better," Kate scoffs, holstering her gun with one hand and grabbing his right arm with the other. He helps her out by lowering his left arm, only grimacing slightly when the cuffs latch around his wrists.

It's standard protocol after restraining a suspect to perform a pat down, and Kate begins at his shoulders. It takes one swipe of her hands over his arms to know that her assessment of his physical fitness was correct, the man is nothing but muscle, and she swallows down the little fizzle of hormones that pop up when her fingers reach his waist. It's there that Kate discovers the gun tucked into a holster at his back, the weapon easily hidden by the fabric of his jacket. "Well, look at this," she pulls the gun out, removing the magazine and dislodging the chambered bullet. "You brought me a present."

That makes him chuckle. "Too bad you've already got one."

Kate ignores that, moving further down his body to skim his hips. Her fingertips brush against the bulge of something in his front pocket that takes her aback. The man's chuckle immediately grows to a full-blown laugh.

"I assure you, that's not what you think it is, Detective," the man says before she can speak a word.

That retort has Kate narrowing her eyes, incredibly annoyed at the slight challenge that laces his words. He doesn't think she'll investigate, that she'll be too afraid, which is precisely why she dips her hand into his pocket.

Her fingers encounter the edge of something hard and round, and though her instinct is to remove her hand, she ignores it, tightening her grip to work the item out of his pocket. With a roll of her eyes at the smirk directed at her once it's free, Kate glances down.

"Is this a joke?" she asks, instantly recognizing the gleam of an LAPD detective's shield.

"About my job? Definitely not. Detective Rick Castle, LAPD," the cop says with a wink, "And if you want to check that, my wallet is in my back pocket. I promise you that the back is as good as the front."