Richard Castle felt pain unlike anything he'd experienced before. Looking at his wife, he could see his agony mirrored in her eyes. He tried to speak but found he couldn't.

And then he heard it. A voice. Just outside the door.

"Rick? Kate? It's me, Hayley. I know you're probably … um … celebrating, but this is important. There's something about Caleb's death that made me wonder, and I think ..."

Castle stopped listening and put all his strength into moving his left leg. As he shifted, he felt his foot connect with something solid, and then there was the satisfying noise of pots crashing to the floor. Moments later that sound was echoed in a loud bang as the apartment's door was kicked in.

He was dimly aware of Hayley's face wavering above him. He could hear the sound of her voice but was unable to make out words. His last thought before he gave in to the alluring darkness beckoning him was whether he was letting go of Kate's hand or she of his.

September

"How about matching tattoos?" Castle called out.

"What are you talking about?" asked Kate. She came into the bathroom and found her husband examining the bullet mark on his shoulder in the mirror. "You're joking, right?"

"Well, I thought about something meaningful, like LOVE, with the holes representing the Os."

"I don't know. To me, it sounds more kinky than meaningful."

"Which would certainly add to its charm. But I see what you mean, it would look like we shot each other as a bizarre statement of our feelings."

"That's not what I meant, though it definitely contributes to my reservations." She put her hand on his shoulders and turned him around to face her. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, sure," he answered and forced a smile, "it was just an idea. I should have asked you that, this being your first day back on the job. Speaking of which - you haven't changed your mind about me accompanying you to lend moral support?"

"As much as I will miss your company, I still think I should do this on my own." She kissed him lightly. "But I will call you as soon as I've settled in."

Castle pulled her towards him and for a moment they just held each other tight. He was about to say something, but the spell was broken by Alexis calling from the kitchen. "Come on, the pancakes are getting cold!"

Kate and Rick drew apart reluctantly.

"Come on, get dressed," she said softly, "it's time to rejoin the world."

Entering the precinct Beckett was momentarily taken back to the day five years ago when she had returned for work after being shot at Roy Montgomery's funeral. Just like then the men and women of the Twelfth greeted her with applause, cheers and hugs. Less hugs this time, embracing the captain was something only Ryan and Esposito dared to do.

Two tall African American men waited for her at the door to the captain's office. Her office, she mentally corrected herself.

"Welcome back, Captain Beckett," the older of the two greeted her with a smile, "looks like your people can't wait to get rid of me."

"Thank you for stepping in, Captain Cathcart," Beckett replied, "and whoever I talked to these last weeks were full of praise about the way you steered this ship."

"It was an easy task. You have a good ship here, Captain, which was one of the reasons Vicky Gates was able to talk me out of retirement. The other one was, of course, that I could bring Mal with me. Best Lieutenant I've ever had."

"Well, I'm looking forward to working with you, Lieutenant Dean," Beckett shook hands with the muscular man who'd replaced Lieutenant Dawson, whose long coveted and well-deserved transfer to Major Crimes Captain Gates had sped up considerably. She motioned both men into her office. "You like it here, I hope?"

"As Captain Cathcart said, it's a good place," Dean answered levelly, "so I'm confident that it will work for both of us."

Beckett managed to hide her surprise at the slightly ambiguous reply and recalled what she knew about Malcolm X Dean. Thirteen years ago, at age twenty-two, Officer Dean had been run over by a drugged-up college kid he and his partner had tried to stop for driving erratically. Losing both legs below the knee he declined to retire on disability and put his considerable energy and focus into the bureaucratic aspects of police works. Under Cathcart's tutelage at the 116th in Queens, he rose through the ranks to his current position. She decided to keep an eye on him until she was sure he had no hidden agenda, or if he did had found out what it was.

Shortly afterwards Captain Cathcart left and Beckett made her round through the bull pen to have a quick word with everybody, in between taking a call from the deputy chief of detectives, welcoming her back or maybe checking up on her.

Returning to her neat and organized desk, she immersed herself in paperwork, reading incident and arrest reports, occasionally making notes of details to be checked or further action to be taken. All in all, things seemed to be running smoothly. When Esposito and Ryan knocked on the frame of her open door, they found their captain examining Dean's impeccable duty roster.

"Yo, Cap, we're off. Got a call about a suspicious death," Esposito informed her. He was about to leave but was stopped by Beckett.

"You know, guys, I'll come with you. Need to get my groove back in the field, too."

"You sure?" Ryan clearly had his doubts. "For all we know it's a suicide or an accident. Could be a total waste of your time."

"And you don't really need a refresher course on field work," Esposito chimed in.

"Maybe, maybe not," Beckett allowed, "but I'm coming anyhow. Um, do you mind if Castle joins us?"

Both detectives clearly minded but came to an unspoken agreement to humor her. "Sure. Go ahead."

Castle sat at his desk staring at his notebook's screen without taking anything in. His mind was replaying scenes from the past months.

Coming to in the ambulance, Hayley at his side, reading in his face his panicked question. "Kate's right behind us in the second ambulance. She's in good hands, both of you are."

Waking up in ICU, hurting like hell, with Alexis and his mother holding his hands, wearing big smiles on worn out faces. Trying to speak, getting out a painful croak, panicking again. "Shhh, Dad, Kate's right there. You both made it." Finally catching a glimpse of his wife in the bed just a few feet away, dead white, but breathing, her father giving him the thumbs-up.

The doctor explaining their injuries to Kate and him both. "Your right lung got nicked, Mr. Castle, and you suffered extensive internal bleeding, but if you don't smoke and aren't planning a career as an opera singer or high school teacher, you should be able to live normally. Ms. Beckett, you lost a piece of your liver and the bullet grazed your large intestine, but the former will grow back to about its original size and we managed to repair the latter. In short: when you celebrate your release from our palace of health, skip the cigars and go easy on the champagne."

Seeing for the first time the replaced hardwood floor in the apartment, debating with Kate whether to move or not, finally deciding to stay, at least for now ...

"Dad?" Alexis' voice brought him rather abruptly back to the present.

"Yes, Sweetie?"

"Isn't that Kate's ringtone?"

Castle realized his cell was jingling in a familiar way. The ringing stopped the moment he reached for it, and, swearing under his breath, he waited for the ping announcing that a message had been left. Listening to it, his face brightened. "That was a 'meet me by the corpse' call," he explained, put on his jacket and reached the front door in time to collide with his mother coming in. "Sorry, mother," he pecked her cheek. "got to run." And gone he was.

"What's up with him?" Martha inquired.

"Kate called him to a crime scene," Alexis replied. "Did you see how happy he was? I just don't get it – if I'd been that close to death, I wouldn't want to be near it, even if it's someone else who died."

"It ain't dead bodies as such he's looking forward to," Martha explained. "It's being with Katherine that elates him. And he's always been somewhat morbid. How is he doing so far?"

"He planned to write but I don't think he got much done."

"Let's have a look then," Martha strode purposefully towards Castle's office.

"Grams!"

"What? It is our duty to check on him, don't you think?" With that, she brought the notebook to life and stopped short.

"What is it?" Alexis stole a glance. "Oh."

Only fourteen words had appeared on the screen: 'Nikki Heat had no idea how she would ever get over the loss of'

"Should we be worried?" she asked tentatively.

Martha bit her lip. "I sincerely hope not."

Castle's arrival at the crime scene was heralded by warm greetings and slaps on the back as he passed uniforms and CSU personnel. Entering the study of a, by Manhattan standards, large apartment, the first things he noticed were the well-shod feet at eye level. The second was the slight man just getting off a stepladder planted next to the dead man, who the feet belonged to.

"Ah, Mr. Castle's back, too," Perlmutter exclaimed, "and irksome as ever, I presume."

"Seriously? 'Irksome'? You've done better than this in the past, Perlmutter," Castle retorted.

"Is it a suicide, Doc?" Ryan interrupted the banter with a wink at Castle.

"It certainly looks like one to me," the M.E. replied. "Of course I can't be sure without some further tests, but the markings around his neck fit a self-hanging."

"Great, then let's get him down," Esposito suggested.

"Wait a sec," Kate intervened, "what's that on his right shoe?"

Castle took a closer look. "Fibers, I'd say."

Esposito shrugged. "So? All the room I've seen so far are carpeted."

"Any of them in red?" Beckett inquired and stood aside for a CSU tech to pluck the small strands from the tip of the victim's loafer. "And look at the soles, they're completely clean, not a speck on them."

"And there's something else," Ryan pointed at a smaller stepladder lying on its side about four feet from the body. "He must have given it a mighty kick to have it land over there. I mean, it's possible, but unusual."

"There's no letter or note either," his partner commented. "I'll check the carpeting."

"Who is this guy?" Castle asked, "Or should I say 'was'?"

"His name is, or was, Lewis Grover," Ryan checked his notes. "Would have turned sixty-two in a couple of weeks. He owned a chain of luxury car dealerships throughout the tri-state area, which he sold a year ago. Married for some years, widow's in the living room down the hall. That's as far as I got before the housekeeper broke down. Has worked for Grover for more than twenty years."

"See if she's recovered enough to talk some more, but don't let on that it could be something other than suicide," Beckett told him. "Castle and I'll take the widow."

The Grover's living room had the comfortable air of being used the way its name suggested. The furniture was of good quality, though the majority of it had certainly been bought in the last millennium. Shelves were filled with books which had clearly been read, CDs, and some knickknack, probably souvenirs and other mementos. Books next to two armchairs placed at right angles, magazines and the New York Times crossword on a low table together with a half-finished knitted sweater on the sofa completed the overall feeling of a happy home. It made the quietly weeping woman sitting in one of the armchairs look completely out of place.

Beckett nodded to the uni who'd stayed with the widow and now silently left the room.

"Mrs. Grover, I'm Captain Beckett," she introduced herself and found a seat on the sofa, careful not to use the other armchair that was so obviously Lewis'. "This is Mr. Castle. I am very sorry for your loss, but I need to ask you some question. Do you think you're up to it?"

Mrs. Grover nodded and dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

"Has your husband been especially worried lately? About money maybe? Or was he having health problems?"

"Yes, he was diagnosed with Parkinson's eight months ago," Mrs. Grover's voice was strangled and barely audible, "but his symptoms were relatively mild, and he responded well to the medication. It troubled him, of course, especially not knowing how fast it would progress. But take his life over this? His birthday was coming up and our tenth anniversary's less than four months away. We got married on New Year's Eve, you know, and we made plans ..." Her voice broke and she gave up any effort to hold back her tears.

"Is there someone we can call for you?" Castle offered her another tissue. "A relative maybe or a friend?"

"There's Alice," Grover answered between sobs, "but she and Jules are on their way to see their daughter in Philadelphia and I really shouldn't bother them."

"They'd want you to call them, believe me," Castle assured her. Looking around, he spotted a cell phone, handed it to the widow, and followed Beckett out of the room.

Just outside the door, Beckett stopped. They could hear Mrs. Grover's voice but not what she was saying.

"Hope I didn't interfere," Castle uttered sotto voce.

"You did, but it was the right thing to do," Beckett replied likewise. "We wouldn't have gotten anything out of her right now."

"Am I interrupting a private moment?" Esposito stage-whispered behind them. Beckett and Castle jumped.

"Yes, Mrs. Grover's," Beckett hissed, "she's calling a friend."

The trio stepped away from the door to the living room.

"Find anything the fibers could have come from?" Beckett asked.

"Nada. Carpets are all beige or blue or gray or something in-between. There's a piece of tapestry in the dining room that has some red in it, but unless the vic walked up the wall, I don't see how it got on his shoe."

"Suspicious but inconclusive," Castle opined.

Beckett nodded her agreement. "Let's see if Mrs. Grover has recovered somewhat."

She gave a discreet knock on the living room door and entered, followed by Castle. Mrs. Grover was still on the phone but ended the call immediately.

"Alice and Jules are coming," she told them. "Thank you for convincing me to call them."

Talking to her friends seemed to have calmed her a little.

"You were asking if there was any reason for Lewis to … do this," she continued hesitantly. "Does that mean he didn't leave a note?"

"We haven't found one," Beckett told her, "but we're still …," she almost said 'working the scene', "... looking. Maybe he left it on his notebook. Do you know his password?"

Mrs. Grover colored slightly. "Yes, it's 'Lottie4ever'."

"That's sweet," Castle said with a smile.

"Is it alright with you if we take a look?" Beckett asked her, the widow nodded.

"Before we do that, can you go over what you and your husband did and talked about this morning?"

"Why do you want to know what we did?" Grover looked suspiciously at Beckett, "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"It's just a matter of being thorough," Beckett sidestepped the question, "to get a complete picture."

Looking unconvinced, Mrs. Grover closed her eyes and stated. "We got up around eight thirty and had breakfast. We talked about who to invite to our anniversary, and what to have for dinner. It was just another morning." Tears trickled down her face again. "Afterwards, Lewis went to his study and I took off for my walk. I looked in on him before I left, and he was sitting at his desk as usual. There'd been a letter from the bank in the mail and I think he was just opening that one. I got back just after eleven as usual and went straight to our bedroom to change."

Suddenly her eyes flew open and she paled even more. "O my God," she whispered, "if I'd checked on Lewis, perhaps I could have saved him. Been there in time to talk him out of it. If I ..."

"Don't go there, Mrs. Grover," Beckett interrupted the desperate woman, "there was nothing you could have done for your husband."

"You can't know that! Maybe he didn't really want to die, and it was just a cry for help! What if deep inside he counted on me to be there in time to stop him!"

"I do know," Beckett lied, "according to our doctor, he had already passed away when you came home." She paused. "We'll go now, though my people will be here for a while. I'll leave you my card so you can call me if you have any questions. An officer will stay with you until your friends arrive."

Mrs. Grover didn't react. She just sat there and stared into space. Beckett put her card on the table next to the box of tissues and exchanged a look with her husband. They both knew that in the weeks to come, Lewis Grover's widow would go over this morning again and again in her mind, playing the 'what-if' game. And both of them heard that little voice in their heads adding 'unless she killed him'.

"Since when do you lie to the victim's next of kin?" Castle asked his wife as they left the building.

"She might become a suspect," she answered, "and we don't know that he wasn't beyond help when she returned from her walk."

"True, but you told her we knew, so ..."

"So I lied. Trying to keep her from wondering about us asking her for an alibi."

"Yeah, I think she caught on to that. We've got a sharp one here, not to be underestimated. What's our next move?"

"My next move is to go back to the Twelfth and do my job as a captain. Perlmutter will do the postmortem first thing tomorrow and I've no idea when the lab's report on the fibers will come back."

"But what about this case?"

"Right now there is no case. I can barely justify Espo and Ryan working it. They'll finish up here and go on to the next case. There will be one."

"And what shall I do?"

"How about going home to get Nikki Heat and Jameson Rook out of the latest mess you got them into?"

"Is this an order, Captain Beckett?"

"Since you're not under my command, it's more like a suggestion."

"You'll call if something turns up on this case?"

"Will do."

"Great. I have a feeling that there's far more to this than meets the eye. 'The Clue of the Red Fibers'! That alone lends an air of Agatha Christie or Erle Stanley Gardner."

Beckett and Dean stood in front of the two-way mirror and watched the burly man burst into tears as Esposito explained to him that the fingerprints found on the baseball bat used in the killing of a high-class call girl proved him to be the murderer. "I don't mind her working as an escort," he wailed, "that's her job. But last night she said she'd had a last-minute date. A DATE! She'd never said 'date' before! I don't know what happened next, my mind went kind of foggy, and then she just stared up at me from the kitchen floor."

Beckett shut off the intercom as Ryan started to mirandize the desolate killer. "Another one off the street," she said, "at least for a while."

"First-time offender, Man One, might get three years, be out after eighteen months," Dean gloomily replied.

"At least with this kind of evidence his lawyer can't plead down to second degree manslaughter," Beckett amended."

"I've met enough lawyers who have the ball ... boldness to try," Dean caught himself just in time, though Beckett would have preferred him not to. She wondered if he watched his mouth around her because she was the captain or because she was a woman.

The sight of the M.E. entering the bull pen cut her musings about her new lieutenant short.

"Dr. Perlmutter, what brought you out of the morgue?" she asked, and, introducing their rare guest to Dean, led the way to her office.

"The careful, precise, and thorough way I do my work," Perlmutter answered rather pompously, "which led me to the discovery of something surprising as well as suspicious concerning the presumed suicide of Mr. Grover."

He went for a dramatic pause but faltered under the sober stares of both Beckett and Dean.

"I found small traces of scopolamine in his system," he declared gruffly. "Probably just enough to make him easy to control."

"Could he have taken it to calm himself down?" Beckett wanted to know.

"That's anyone's guess," Perlmutter handed her the file containing his report. "Well, not mine, since I deal in facts, not guesses. But it would be unusual, since there are many other substances that are more effective and far easier to come by."

"Anything else of note?" Dean inquired from the M.E.

"It's all in my report." With this Perlmutter left Beckett's office, almost colliding with Ryan and Esposito.

"What's he doing here among the living?" the latter asked with a frown.

"He found scopolamine in Lewis Grover's system," Dean explained, "and for reasons unknown he wanted to deliver the news in person."

"Oh no, not again," Ryan muttered.

"He wanted to see our faces when he told us about it." Esposito stated, "We had a case involving scopolamine before."

"Involving zombies, too," Ryan added, "had to interview dozens of them."

"Perlmutter had one of them on his table and he came back to life just seconds away from having his chest opened up," Esposito upped him.

"And they'll tell you all about it later," Beckett cut in. "As of now we treat Lewis Grover's death as a homicide. Put everything we have on the murder board. Espo, call the lab and try to get them to give the red fibers priority. Ryan, run a quick check on the Grovers' finances. Dean, read Perlmutter's report, just in case something else sticks out."

The three men left her office and Beckett took out her cell to make good on her promise.

'Nikki Heat had no idea how she would ever get over the loss of …'

Castles hands rested on the notebook's keyboard, his eyes fixed on the blinking cursor. On and off, on and off, at a rate a little faster than his own heartbeat.

Now he was back in the ambulance with Haley. Blinking lights there, too. Pain pulsing through his body, fear overwhelming his mind.

This time the phone's ringing registered with him right away and he was out of the door in less than a minute.

At the Twelfth, Castle found his wife conferring with Esposito and Ryan in front of the murder board.

"So I was right, it was murder," he remarked, "and the victim had a dose of the zombie drug. Now that brings back memories."

"I think we can nix the zombie connection," Ryan declared. "As we all know, you have to destroy a zombie's brain to kill him, so hanging wouldn't do the job." He and Castle high-fived. Beckett rolled her eyes.

"We still can't rule out suicide," she cautioned them. "Ryan, what did you get out of the housekeeper yesterday?"

"Mrs. Newman. She came in at eleven, went straight into the kitchen without seeing either of the Grovers. She comes in twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays, does the laundry, shops for groceries, cleans the apartment. The title of 'housekeeper' is somewhat honorary, a leftover from Mr. Grover's bachelor years. Anyway, she'd started cleaning the kitchen when she heard Mrs. Grover scream. Found her in the study and, quote 'almost had a heart attack seeing poor Mr. Grover swinging and Mrs. Grover about to faint', unquote. Luckily, she kept her head and called nine-one-one immediately. Has no idea why Grover would commit suicide."

"We need to talk to her again," Beckett decided. "Any red flags on the finances?"

"Not so far, but I've just started digging."

"Keep at it. Espo, did you get anywhere with the lab?"

"They promised to have a preliminary report within the next two hours, provided I come by in person with a selection of bagels from that place on twenty-fifth. Meyer's."

Castle took out his wallet and pressed some green into Esposito's hand. "Treat them to the good stuff. And get some for us too. Meyer's bagels are the epitome of holey bread. Pun intended."

Esposito glanced at Beckett who nodded.

"In the meantime I'll check …," he was interrupted by a phone call, "Esposito … yeah, we're on the Grover case …right, send them up."

Replacing the receiver he announced: "That was the front desk. There's a couple claiming to have information on the Grovers."

"Now that's intriguing," Castle stated. "We … you haven't officially declared Grover's death a homicide and already people come in to give statements."

"Might be friends who had the suicide note in today's mail," Esposito teased.

Castle was saved from countering that by the elevator doors opening. A couple in their mid- to late thirties entered the bull pen. The man was tall, probably six one or six two and held himself stiffly erect as if he had to remind himself not to slouch. The horn rims of his glasses were of the same light brown color as his hair and moustache. His conservative three-piece suit was of good quality, though definitely not in the same league as the clothes worn by the woman beside him. The string of pearls on her neck looked genuine too, and if the carefully coiffed blond hair wasn't her natural shade, her hairdresser was worth his or her weight in gold. Four-inch heels elevated her to almost her companion's height.

The officer accompanying them directed them towards Esposito, and Beckett hastily rose from her perch on Ryan's desk to intercept them before they could get a glimpse of the murder board.

"I'm Captain Kate Beckett," she said. "Thank you for coming in."

"Andrew Bishop, and this is Amanda Lane," the man replied. "Can we talk somewhere a little more private?"

"Of course," Beckett led them to a conference room, introducing Esposito, Ryan, and Castle on the way.

"You're here with information on the death of Lewis Grover," she began when everyone was seated around the table, "but before we get to that, I'd like to know your relationship with the deceased. Are you friends of his? Neighbors?"

"We've never met him," Amanda Lane spoke for the first time, "but we know he was murdered. By his wife."

"And how do you know that?" Castle asked.

"Because she's done it before. She killed our fathers."

A moment of stunned silence ensued. Finally Castle cleared his throat. "I think we need coffee."

"Did I get this right – your fathers? Plural?" Beckett repeated. Lane and Bishop nodded.

"She was married to them," Bishop elaborated. "After murdering my dad she moved on to Amanda's and killed him too after a few years. And she already was a widow when she met my dad."

"After my father's murder, I dug around a bit," Lane added. "That's when I found out about Andrew's dad. I contacted him and we've been trying to get justice for them ever since."

"And she wasn't convicted?" Ryan asked.

"Not even arrested. Both our father's deaths were ruled 'accidental'," Lane answered, making air quotes.

"You'd better start at the beginning," Beckett took out her reporter's notepad. "Mr. Bishop, when did your father marry Mrs. Grover?"

"In 1986. She was Mrs. Wade then. My parents had been divorced for almost two years when she started working as a nurse at the hospital where my dad was a doctor, and they got married less than six months later. I was seven at the time and lived with my mother in Trenton, but I saw my father every other weekend and on vacations. We were as close as we could be under the circumstances. He even managed to see some of my school plays. She tagged along once or twice but kept in the background, which was fine with me since I didn't care for her very much. After some years, the marriage turned sour. They tried to hide it from me, but I knew what was going on, I'd seen it all before when my parents split up. And then the brakes of my dad's car went out and he crashed into a bridge pile on the New Jersey turnpike. He died the next day."

It took Andrew Bishop several moments to regain his composure.

"The police decided that a fox had bitten through the brake line," he continued as Castle quietly entered with a tray of steaming mugs, "but the line was severely damaged in the accident and they couldn't really examine it. Everybody but me accepted their conclusions and I was only fourteen, so nobody listened to me. She cashed in on his life insurance, got her half of everything and left Linden in a hurry. I never thought I'd hear of her again till Amanda called me up almost ten years later."

Esposito did the math. "Your father died in ninety-three, is that correct?"

"May twenty-fourth."

"And when did Mrs. Grover meet your father, Ms. Lane?"

"February of ninety-seven. I was away at college and met her for the first time when I got home for spring break. They were seated at the same table at the wedding of one of my father's business partners. She was the 'plus one' of another guest and my father had taken a friend from the country club, but somehow he ended up driving her home. At first I liked her because she seemed to make my father happy, and when they got married the next year, I was one of her bridesmaids. All was well for, I don't know, three years, before things started to fall apart. It took me awhile to catch on because they tried to keep up the façade, but it was quite obvious in the end that the marriage was over. Even so they went on their annual hiking trip into the Blue Ridge Mountains, maybe she sold it to my father as a last-ditch effort to save their marriage. They went mushroom hunting, as they did every year, only this time a destroying angel got mysteriously mixed up with the puffballs. She survived, my father didn't."

Again nobody spoke for the next few moments until Beckett broke the silence. "That certainly is something we need to take a closer look at," she said diplomatically. "Ms. Lane, Mr. Bishop, I know it is a lot to ask from you, but would you be so kind as to repeat what you've told us, so we can get in down in writing? Or would you be more comfortable writing it down by yourselves?"

Lane and Bishop exchanged a look and opted for the latter.

"Mr. Castle will stay with you if you need anything," Beckett continued, confident that her husband, who at the moment was skimming through her notes, would keep his eyes and ears open for any sign of these odd visitors being attention seekers or just roving mad. She didn't believe either to be true, but a captain could always hope.

She made to leave when Castle stopped her in her tracks by putting forward a question she should have thought of herself. "May I ask how you found out about Lewis Grover's death?"

"A PI I'd employed before called me up this morning," Bishop answered. "How she knew I've no idea."

"You had someone watching the Grovers?" Ryan immediately picked out the relevant part of the statement.

"Not exactly 'watch them', more like checking up on them," Lane amended. "After she'd left Greenwich, we hired a local PI to find her. He located her here in New York, so we hired Maria Ortega to keep an eye on her."

Hearing the PI's name, Esposito started almost imperceptibly but carried on smoothly. "Did you ever try to contact Mrs. Grover?" he asked.

"Not her," Bishop replied scornfully, "but when her engagement to Lewis Grover was announced, we wrote to him and warned him about her. We never got an answer. I wonder if he thought of it when he died."

"How did she do it by the way?" Lane wanted to know.

"Sorry, this is an ongoing investigation, so I can't tell you any details," Beckett retorted. "I'll get you some pens and paper and we'll leave you in Mr. Castle's care for the moment."

She left the room followed by the detectives.

"Wow!" Ryan exclaimed as soon as they were out of earshot. "What a story! Sounds like something your hubby would make up."

"Fabricated," Esposito agreed, "and far-fetched to boot. For a moment I even wondered whether they might be reporters doing undercover research for some rag or other."

"It did feel a little like being on Candid Camera," Beckett admitted, "which means we've got to check their stories ASAP. Start by running their names through the computer, Ryan. Espo, you'd better keep your date with your friends in the lab. But first tell me about the PI Lane and Bishop used. Her name seemed to mean something to you."

"We went out a few times about two years ago," Esposito reluctantly allowed, "nothing serious. I haven't seen or heard from her since."

"That is going to change in the very near future," Beckett prophesied, "but fibers first."

As Ryan hit the computer and Esposito went on his way to exchange food for findings, Beckett checked in with the other detectives working on three assaults, one near fatal domestic incident, three robberies of varying proportions, eleven cases of grand larceny, and the latest in a string of burglaries into pharmacies. Combined with the dozen or so misdemeanors a day the uniformed officers had to deal with, it was all in a day's work.

Keeping a close eye on the door to the interview room, she was able to meet Amanda Lane and Andrew Bishop coming out and steer them away from the murder board towards the elevator. Thanking them again, she even rode down with them to make sure they didn't try to pump anyone for information, though in all fairness she had to admit that they showed no inclination to do anything of the sort.

Back upstairs Ryan was busy adding information to the board with Castle looking on gleefully. "A black widow," he crowed. "I can already see the headlines! 'Black widow brought down by red threads'. No, that doesn't sound right. 'Black widow caught in net of red threads'. I love it."

"Could you love it a little less, please," his wife requested, "or at least more quietly?"

"You're asking a lot, but I'll do my best," Castle promised, still beaming.

Beckett had to suppress a smile. These days Castle didn't get enthusiastic over things as easily as he used to, except in private where she had absolutely no reason to complain.

"Is there anything in Lane's and Bishop's statements that they omitted before?" she asked.

"Not at first glance, but, man, they really don't like Mrs. Grover. They never once refer to her by name, it's always 'she' and 'her'."

"I noticed them doing it when they talked to us," Beckett recalled, "very unusual. And weird. Ryan, your digging didn't by any chance expose them as frauds?"

"Sorry, Beckett, but Andy and Mandy are exactly who they claim to be," Ryan had to disappoint her. "She's a partner in a law firm in Greenwich, Connecticut, that does mostly real estate and tax work for the wealthy. Bishop is an administrator at the Trinitas Regional Medical Center in Elizabeth, New Jersey. She's divorced, no kids, he's married to a high school teacher, they have two sons."

"And the fathers?"

"Stories pan out, too. According to the few newspaper articles I found online, Jeffrey Bishop was severely injured in a single car accident near Hightstown on May twenty-third, 1993. He died the next day at the University Hospital in Hamilton. He was a surgeon at the Kindred Hospital New Jersey in Rahway and lived with his wife, our Mrs. Grover, in Linden. The fox damaging the brake line theory was mentioned in a follow-up story, but since the accident didn't make it past the local newspapers, that's all I got. Not so in the case of Ronald Hunt, Amanda Lane's father. His death made it into the New Yorker papers because he was an investment banker with Mcdonald Gordon on Madison Avenue."

He pointed to several printouts pinned to the board, almost all of them showing the same studio portrait of a tanned man in his late forties or early fifties.

"According to the papers, the Hunts had their fatal meal on October twelfth," he continued, "Mrs. Hunt … Grover … called nine-one-one in the early hours of October thirteenth and they were taken to a hospital in Gatlinburg. He died in ER."

"Was there any police investigation into the matter?" Castle asked.

"Absolutely, and apparently Gatlinburg PD took it seriously. They announced their findings ten days after the incident, which indicates thoroughness on their part."

"No wonder, with such a rich and powerful victim."

"Talking of rich and powerful," Beckett interjected, "what about Lewis Grover's finances?"

"There isn't much on public record," Ryan shrugged. "He made a bundle selling his dealerships and served on the board of several charitable organizations, as does Mrs. Grover. But that doesn't really tell us what he was worth."

"Seems like he had enough money for cashmere," Esposito proclaimed walking up to them with a file in one hand and an enticing bag adorned with the Meyer's emblem in the other.

"I take it that the lab identified the fibers," Beckett commented dryly, "anything more specific?"

"They identified it as apple red Nepalese cashmere, which I assume is expensive ..."

"Very expensive," Castle affirmed, shuddering slightly.

"... and was probably used for a shawl or sweater."

Four pairs of eyes wandered to the picture of Lewis Grover's dead body hanging in his study.

"Not a stitch of red cashmere on him," Ryan voiced their collective thoughts.

"Is that enough to get a search warrant?" Castle grunted through a mouthful of bagel.

"It's thin," Beckett declared reluctantly, "but we have to try."

"Maybe I can help with that," Dean appeared from out of nowhere, startling them, "as it happens Judge Fentiman is on duty."

"Who is Judge Fentiman?" Esposito inquired mystified, "never heard of him. Or her."

"He's new, sworn in about three weeks ago, replacing Judge Reyes," Beckett explained.

"Reyes is gone?" Castle exclaimed with astonishment. "What happened?"

"His arthritis got a lot worse recently" Ryan informed him. "He resigned in July."

"And what's so special about this new guy, Fentiman?" Esposito asked Dean.

"I know him from his time at the criminal court in Queens and we had a very good working relationship. So if you sent him my regards, he might need a little less time to warm to us."

"I take any help I can get," Beckett announced. "Ryan, it's your turn to get some air. Good luck with the judge. Espo, call the PI, Ortega, see if she's inclined to talk to us. I'll contact New Jersey State Police and the PDs in Gatlinburg and Trenton. And for what it's worth those in Greenwich and … where was it? … Linden, too."

"What about me?" Castle piped up, "and don't say 'go home and write' 'cause first, you just said you'd take any kind of help, and second, this is far too good to miss!"

"Well, since you're offering, you surely know someone you can hit up for information on the Grovers. Discreetly, of course."

"Of course. I'm on it."

Half an hour later, Castle knew a lot more about the Grovers than before and was supremely bored by it. He ambled over to Esposito, who was busy on the phone and shooed him away. Normally he wouldn't be deterred by that, quite on the contrary, but he'd just seen his wife's new lieutenant entering the break room and decided to follow him.

Dean had sat down and was just opening his lunchbox when Castle took the seat opposite him.

"Hi, I'm Richard Castle, member of the auxiliary police force, sometimes consultant, and the captain's spouse."

"Malcolm Dean," the lieutenant answered sparingly.

"Nice to meet you, Dean. Or do you prefer Lieutenant? Loo? Loot?"

"Dean will do. And we've met before."

"Really? Did you come to one of my book signings?" Castle perked up. "I'm sorry that I don't remember you but there are dozens of faces each time."

"Actually, I arrested you," Dean explained, his face unreadable, "you'd been caught trespassing on the New York Times distribution building."

"That was twenty years ago! And I was doing research for 'A Last Supper of Libel'."

"So you said."

"No charges were pressed."

"Only because the Times' people were too embarrassed by the whole thing."

"And with good reason," Castle leaned back with a reminiscent smile. "I'd been openly walking all over the place for almost three hours before they cottoned on to me."

"Wouldn't work nowadays, I guess."

Castle just nodded and hoped that Dean was referring to his popularity rather than assuming a loss of his ability to blend in – which of course he hadn't.

"I'll leave you to your lunch then," he announced a little lamely and retreated to the bull pen. There he watched the elevator doors close with Ryan and Esposito waving goodbye from inside.

"Hey, L.T., where are the guys headed?" he asked a uni passing him.

"On their way to execute a search warrant on the hanging case," he was told. Slightly miffed, he went over to Ryan's desk and helped himself to the folder on the death of Ronald Hunt.

"Did you talk to your PI friend?" Ryan watched his partner out of the corner of his eye.

"Yep. I'm meeting her for drinks after work."

"Drinks, uh?"

"It's a business meeting. She wouldn't tell me anything without checking it ahead with Bishop anyway, so why not keep it relaxed?"

"Sure, why not. How did she sound?"

"Friendly. Professional. A little crazy maybe."

"Crazy as in 'I see dead people' or crazy like 'I only go to places where the cocktails come with pink straws'?"

"Hey, the boy wasn't crazy, he did see dead people. And not that kind of crazy. Just … she answered the phone pretending to be her secretary. Said she was developing a number of different characters to conduct phone interviews without letting on that she's a PI."

"Uh-oh. What if she's working on characters for real-life interviews and meets you in disguise?"

"Believe me, I'd recognize her in whatever she might be wearing. But right now I'm gonna focus on red cashmere."

Castle sighed and put the Hunt file down. He'd read nothing of importance that they didn't already know, unless the jersey number Hunt wore playing college football would turn out to be crucial to the case. Or the fact that he'd started to take piano lessons at the age of fifty. Unless he played so badly his wife was driven to kill him.

Just as he'd decided to visit the captain's office, the door to the very room opened and Beckett gestured him to follow her to the elevator.

"Mrs. Grover wants to meet with us," she explained. "She's on her way up, with a lawyer."

"Either the streets of Manhattan are miraculously empty today, or she has missed just Espo and Ryan," Castle noted.

"Don't let on about the warrant unless she brings it up," Beckett warned him, "ah, there they are."

Mrs. Grover was dressed in black, though her skirt and cardigan were obviously not meant to be worn together. She'd probably put on the first black items in her wardrobe, steered by an ingrained regard for convention but without really caring. Her face was ashen and her lawyer whose motherly appearance belied what Beckett and Castle knew, respectively, to be one of the sharpest minds in criminal court and a poker player who could have made waves in the World Series, had her hand firmly placed under her client's elbow. Beckett led them to the same interview room Amanda Lane and Andrew Bishop had surprised them in with their accusations against the woman now sitting down slowly, appearing to have aged twenty years overnight.

Beckett excused herself and Castle for a few minutes.

"We'll let Mrs. Grover and her lawyer do the talking," she declared. "Maybe she just wants to find out what we know, and maybe it's a preemptive maneuver."

Castle cast a glance towards the interview room.

"You know, with all that black widow stuff, I'd completely forgotten the real widow," he said, "the one crying in her living room."

"That could be a good thing," Beckett commented, "we need to keep an open mind."

"Do you really think it's all an act? She'd deserve an Oscar."

"We've been duped before."

"Yes, notably by Caleb Brown," Castle murmured bitterly.

Beckett rested her hand on his arm for a moment.

"Among others," she replied, "and Caleb was very good at it."

"Luckily for us, he was better at acting than aiming," he managed to strike a lighter note.

They looked at each other in silent understanding.

"I'll make coffee," he finally broke the silence.

"And I'll tell Dean to let us know when Ryan and Espo return."

"What brings you here, Mrs. Grover," Beckett asked in an even voice. Before Grover could answer, Karen Ferguson, her lawyer, held up her hand.

"Before we start, I'd like to make sure my client is aware that Mr. Castle isn't here in any official capacity," she remarked, "and that she has the right to speak with you without him being present, Captain Beckett."

"Mr. Castle consults with the NYPD on occasion and ..."

"He is your husband!"

"Those two aspects aren't mutually exclusive, counselor."

"It's fine, Karen, I don't care what his exact role is," Mrs. Grover's halting voice stopped the exchange. "Captain, I am here because I want to tell you something about me … my life before you hear it from somebody else. It has nothing to do with Lewis' death, but it could be misinterpreted. I've been widowed before, you see, three times."

She paused, waiting for Beckett or Castle to react. When they did not, she took a deep breath and continued.

"My first husband, Bryan, and I were high school sweethearts. We got married at twenty, I went to college to get a degree in nursing, Bryan had enlisted with the navy. He was stationed in Norfolk on the 'Dwight D. Eisenhower', an aircraft carrier. In August of 1983 a fighter jet returning to the carrier developed engine troubles and crashed into the island, killing six, including Bryan. I was devastated, as you can imagine. I stayed in Norfolk where I'd found a job, but it was hard with all the navy people around, especially if they were my patients. When a college friend told me about a job opening at the hospital she was working at, I took the chance and moved to Rahway. That's in New Jersey. At the hospital I met Jeff. At first I was just flattered that he had noticed me - a surgeon asking me out! But as I got to know him better, I fell head over heels in love. After three months he proposed, and we got married another three months later. It lasted for seven years, until he died in a car accident."

Again she stopped.

"Please, go on," Beckett invited her, but before Mrs. Grover could do so Ferguson put a hand on her arm.

"Wait a minute," she said, her eyes narrowing with suspicion, "something's wrong here. I don't know you well enough, Captain, but I've played poker with your husband a couple of times and I know his tell. You know about my client's misfortune already, don't you?"

"Does it matter what we know or don't know?" Beckett shot back. "Your client came to us to tell her story, and we want to hear it."

"Who told you about it?" a perturbed Mrs. Grover demanded. "Was it Drew? Andrew Bishop, Jeff's son from his first marriage? His parents' divorce hit him hard, he was only five years old at the time and on top of Jeff and Andrea splitting up, he had to move to Trenton, and leave his friends behind. As kids do, he kept hoping his parents would get back together and I destroyed that dream. In his eyes I was an intruder and whatever I ... we tried, he never wavered in his rejection of me as his father's new wife. Andrea was no help either, she was very bitter ..."

Two sharp knocks on the door interrupted Grover's protest. Beckett and Castle excused themselves and met Ryan and Dean outside the interview room.

"We found something," the former told her, "a red cashmere sweater. I swung by the lab and they took a quick peek through the microscope. Unofficially, it's the same kind of fiber we found on the vic's shoe. Espo's still at the scene, just in case there's more red cashmere."

"Where's did you find the sweater?" Castle inquired.

"In a laundry bag, ready to go to the dry cleaners."

"Okay, let's confront Mrs. Grover with it," Beckett decided, "maybe we'll get something out of her."

"I don't think Ferguson will allow her to say anything at all," Castle cautioned.

"Neither do I, but I'd like to see Grover's face when we tell her about the fibers."

Armed with a photo of the sweater and with Castle in tow, Beckett returned to the interview room. She had barely entered when the lawyer got up from her seat.

"Following my advice, my client is going to leave now," she announced, "if you have further questions, call my office."

Beckett did not hesitate.

"Charlotte Grover," she said firmly, "you are under arrest for the murder of Lewis Grover. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you."

Esposito had never been to the bar Maria Ortega had suggested as a place to meet and he instantly liked it. For one thing, it was clean and didn't smell of spilled beer. The lighting was toned down just enough to give the room a homey feeling without creating shadowy corners. Located in a lower middle-class neighborhood, the bar drew a mixture of blue and white collar workers with a number of retirees thrown in, and though mainly Hispanic the crowd would have done the UN justice.

He spotted Maria in a booth, tapping her foot to the rhythm of the jazz number emanating from the music system, and making short work of the bowl of nachos in front of her. Being on the petite side and with her long, dark hair gathered into a ponytail, she looked younger than her thirty something years from afar, but Esposito remembered her eyes showing her years of experience living and working in the meaner streets of the Big Apple.

He made his way towards her, ordering a beer and nachos from the passing waitress. Maria looked up and smiled when she saw him, greeting him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Good to see you," Esposito said, meaning it, "you're looking great."

"Thank you. I heard you passed the sergeant's test. Congrats."

"Thank you, too. Nice place, by the way. Is it new?"

"Opened almost a year ago. My cousin Carlos runs it."

"'Con Man' Carlos? How did he get a license?"

"Uncle Jose owns it, Carlos runs it. And he hasn't been in trouble for years."

"I still think that Jose's taking a big chance here. A bar of all places, where there are so many opportunities to rip off the owner. Even if he's the father ..."

"Not that Uncle Jose. He is Carlos' father-in-law, which gives him all the weight he needs to make Carlos toe the line. But you didn't come just to bad-mouth my family, did you?"

"No, of course not. I'm sorry, Maria. I was just ..."

"... thinking of the night you took me home and my brothers hassled you about being a cop?"

"Now that you've brought that up, it was you who broke up with me the very next day."

"But not because of my family! I'd just realized when we ran into your ex that evening that you weren't over her."

"Oh."

Fortunately the waitress chose that moment to deliver Esposito's order. Maria lifted her bottle and clinked it against his in a silent toast.

"I talked to Amanda Lane and Andrew Bishop and they authorized me to share my observations regarding the Grovers with you," she changed the subject, all business now. "There isn't much, actually. They led a pretty regular life, even boring from an outsider's point of view. She walks every day except on weekends for about an hour, he played chess at Union Square Park now and then. They went to exhibitions or concerts, visited with friend or had them over. Shopped at farmers markets at least once a week. I stood next to them once at a veggie stall and eavesdropped on their discussion about what to cook for dinner." She grinned. "I charged Lane and Bishop thirty dollars worth of asparagus and potatoes I bought to justify my hanging around."

"You said 'from an outsider's point of view', does that mean that you have insider information?"

"I love it when a man pays attention. The so-called housekeeper, Mrs. Newman, has her own routine. Mondays and Thursdays on her way home from work she detours into a small bar and has a couple of beers with two girlfriends. I followed her in one evening and heard her talking about the Grovers, so I started to drop in once in a while and listened to her rave about them. He often brought his wife flowers and she got him funny cuff links occasionally. They loved to cook for their nice friends. Never a loud word. And so on. And on."

"She wasn't around that often," Esposito objected, "they could have fought five days a week without her being any the wiser."

"That's true, but there's also what I saw. They held hands, Xavi, and they talked and laughed. Are you sure it was murder?"

"Who said anything about murder?"

"The fact that a homicide detective is asking questions? Well, my clients called it murder, too. But isn't it possible that it was an accident? Or maybe an assisted suicide?"

"Okay, between us, and that means 'don't tell your clients', either," Esposito answered in a low voice, "murder seems likely and we can rule out an accident. You know about Mrs. Grover's former husbands, right?"

"Yes, Lane and Bishop told me all about them. But I still can't see Mrs. Grover as a cold-blooded killer."

"Either she's a female Job or in the same league as Meryl Streep., with a star on the Walk of Infamy. Speaking of movies, shall we try to catch 'Morgan' at the AMC Empire?"

"I don't know ..."

"Or we could go to a club."

"Xavi, it was nice seeing you again, but I just don't think it would work."

"If it's about Lanie ..."

"It's about us. You're a cop and I'm a PI who has to cut corners sometimes. And besides I have to drive up to Hudson tomorrow and would like to get an early start. Here, I've got something to read for you, copies of my notes and reports. But be warned: these are the perfect cure for insomnia."

Maria Ortega kissed Esposito on the both cheeks and was lost within seconds among the growing number of patrons.

"You arrested her because she owns a red cashmere sweater?" Alexis asked in disbelief. "She'll be out tomorrow morning, probably without bail."

"I know it's flimsy," Kate acknowledged, "but I didn't have much of a choice. If I'd let her go, she would have gotten rid of the scopolamine CSU found after we got the extended search warrant."

"They found medication for stomach cramps," Alexis wasn't satisfied. "There must be any number of women in Manhattan having that and something made of red cashmere at home."

"But the other women don't have a dead husband with scopolamine in his system and cashmere on his shoe," Hayley reminded her. "What about her alibi?"

"Ryan and Espo will be talking to people along her usual route tomorrow morning, though it doesn't really matter if anybody saw her 'cause she could have killed her husband earlier."

"It would be pretty cold to go for a walk after committing murder," Martha chimed in and shuddered a little."

"Cold and calculating," Castle agreed, "but not unheard of."

"Did you get anything useful from the police departments that investigated the deaths of the other husbands?" Hayley asked.

"The official line is that if there was anything to indicate foul play, charges would have been brought," Kate took a sip from her wineglass, "but they'll take a look at their records and call back. With New Jersey the problem is the time lapse, the files from 1993 aren't digitalized, and likely nobody who was on the case is still around. After all it was an accident and according to the chief of Trenton PD, they have about ten fatal car crashes a year, so 'excuse me for not remembering one from over twenty years ago'. Same with State Police."

"But a death by mushroom poisoning must have stuck in people's mind."

"It did," Castle said dryly, "not the least due to the stink the deceased's daughter raised."

"The chief of Gatlinburg PD worked the Hunt case herself as a detective," Kate added, "she remembered it very well but wanted to check the records before telling me more. In Greenwich the detective I talked to remembers Amanda Lane demanding they re-investigate her father's death after Gatlinburg had ruled it accidental, but there was really nothing they could do, of course, though they send a detective to Tennessee anyway. He seems to have been quite the diplomat and got access to everything Gatlinburg had, but nothing came off it."

"But three dead husbands in a row should have raised some red flags," Martha protested. "To lose one husband is unfortunate, but to lose three starts to look like carelessness."

"Since when are you quoting Sherlock Holmes, mother?" Castle inquired.

"Did I? Damn, I was hoping I'd come up with that line by myself!"

"Actually, you misquoted him, he was talking about wives, not husbands."

"But you're probably right about the red flags," Kate remarked, "as I said the chief in Gatlinburg was rather reticent, but I got the impression that they took a long, hard look at Mrs. Hunt aka Mrs. Grover. However, the most interesting conversation I had was with the chief of Linden PD – Linden is where Dr. Bishop lived. After my experience with his counterpart in Trenton, I fully expected him to say 'Dr. Who?' but he knew exactly who I was talking of, due to all kinds of rumors flying around after Bishop's death, especially when Mrs. Grover packed her bags and left soon after. Quite a number of people got it into their heads that it was murder, being neatly divided between the widow, the ex-wife and a former colleague as the culprit."

"If it was a Nikki Heat novel, either the ex-wife or the widow would turn out to be in cahoots with the colleague," Alexis teased.

"If I'd written it, the two women would've been in it together."

"Strangely enough, that would have been more likely as the colleague in question was in Guinea," Kate continued deadpan, "he'd lost his license after a botched operation and Bishop's refusal to cover it up, but found work as a lab technician with a humanitarian NGO fighting the Ebola epidemic in West Africa. Anyway, Trenton PD and New Jersey State Police considered the rumors nothing more than the usual small-town gossip, not least because a couple of non-fatal incidents with foxes damaging cars had happened in Linden in the weeks prior to the Bishop incident."

"Which might have served as an inspiration for the murder," Castle pointed out.

"The guy in Linden seems to have been a fountain of information," Hayley noted wryly.

Kate absentmindedly rubbed her ear. "I thought he'd go on forever."

"Well, it's always nice to talk about multiple murders," Martha reluctantly got up from the couch, "but it's time for me to be on my way. Would you call me a cab, Richard?"

"Let's share one," Hayley suggested, "I'll drop you off."

"Thank you, my dear."

"I've got a lecture at eight a.m.," Alexis got up too, "'Criminal Investigations' of all things."

"Very fitting," Martha declared, "but one of these days I will be driven to shoplifting by this family's predilections for law and order."

"Alexis was a little hard on you," Castle commented after Martha, Hayley and his daughter had left for their homes and bedroom respectively, "not that I'm not happy she found something she really loves doing, and I'm proud as I can be that she got accepted at Columbia, but one year of law school doesn't mean she has the right to criticize your decisions like that."

"Why not?" Kate responded, "I don't mind her doing it. On the contrary, it's good to be challenged now and then. I just hope we'll never end up on opposite sides in court if she sticks to criminal law."

"I never even thought of that possibility," Castle exclaimed in a shocked voice, "it would be absolutely dreadful!"

Kate grinned. "I'm calling it a night, too," she announced, "what about you? Going for another round with Nikki Heat?"

"With my head filled with images of you and Alexis in a battle of wits in a court room? No way I can concentrate on writing."

In her dream Kate was alone. She stood in her husband's office staring at the bare walls. Gone were the books, the framed rejection letter, even the picture of the staircase. There was no furniture either, just empty space. When she heard footsteps behind her, she turned around, knowing she would see Alexis and Martha, standing side by side, looking at her with accusing eyes. Only this time Martha spoke, something she'd never done before in the two months since the dreams had started. "Shouldn't you be wearing black?"

As usual Kate didn't wake up with a start, she had to fight her way out of her dream and back into consciousness. In a way she was grateful for it because not waking up Castle meant she didn't have to tell him about the nightmare that crept into her sleep two or three times a week. Listening to his regular breathing, she closed her eyes, accepting that whilst she might doze off from time to time for a few minutes, she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep.

The following afternoon, a scowling Beckett entered the interview room where Castle, Esposito and Ryan had settled with the files law enforcement agencies from three states had overnighted. "I just had the ADA on the phone," she told them, "he talked for thirty minutes, and twenty-nine of those were a complete waste of time."

"And the one minute that wasn't?" Esposito asked

"That with the evidence we've given him he'd be lucky if Mrs. Grover accepts a deal, and if we can't find something more convincing, maybe we could prove that she murdered one of her former husbands."

"Good luck with that," Ryan grumbled, "solving cases that other agencies have closed years ago should be a piece of cake."

"Did you find anything that might cast doubt on the accident ruling?"

"Mr. Speed-Reader here," Esposito nodded in Castles direction, "has stumbled upon an inconsistency."

"A minor one," Castle modified, "in her first statement Mrs. Grover … Bishop …, you know who told, the police that she'd left home at four p.m. to meet with a friend before driving to work, but a neighbor claimed to have seen her returning between six and six thirty p.m. When questioned again, she claimed that she'd forgotten a birthday present for another nurse and came back to pick it up before driving to Rahway."

"And that means what?"

"According to the experts there were some small drops of brake fluid in the Bishop's driveway," Esposito explained, "this combined with the time span between Bishop and his son leaving Linden and the accident led them to the conclusion that the damage to the brake lines must have occurred within forty-five minutes before their departure."

"If not for the neighbor, she'd have an alibi," Beckett recapped. "Did the State Police follow up on this?"

"They did," Castle nodded. "The friend she'd met with was vague about Grover mentioning a gift or forgetting something at home. Neither could she pinpoint the exact time she and Grover parted ways."

"Was this friend sure about anything at all?"

"Oh yes," Esposito answered with a satisfied smile, "she was adamant that not only our suspect was the one asking to meet, setting up time and place, but that it was at short notice, too."

"As in …?"

"The evening before. And before you ask, it wasn't exactly a matter of life or death."

"Only it seems that it was," Ryan muttered.

"Mrs. Grover wanted to discuss an idea for the church bazaar," Esposito ignored him, "which took place six weeks later."

"The part about the birthday and the present was true, though," Ryan offered, favoring his partner with a dirty look.

"Probably her plan B," Esposito shot back.

"It isn't what the ADA hoped for, but it will give him something to work with," Beckett declared. "What about the third husband, Ronald Hunt?"

"Not much there, I'm afraid," Castle beat Ryan to the answer. "Grover barely made it herself. She was in critical condition for four days."

"Maybe she underestimated the toxicity of the meal." Ryan suggested, "She had to eat something too if she wanted it to look like an accident."

"What exactly did they have for dinner?" Castle asked.

"Mushrooms," Esposito replied sarcastically.

Castle rolled his eyes. "In what form? Risotto? Soup? Pie?"

Ryan leafed through the file from Gatlinburg. "Here it is. They had cream soup, a mixed salad and garlic bread. Looks like Hunt ate nearly twice as much as his wife. What are you getting at, Castle?"

"If you put, say, eight small slices of destroying angel together with twenty slices of puffball in a risotto or pie, how can you be sure you won't end up with too many of the deadly ones on your own plate?"

"Whereas in a soup you'd have an even level of poison," Esposito concluded.

"Especially if she put the mushrooms in a blender," Castle added. "Do we know whether she did that?"

Ryan shook his head.

"It is still another piece of ammo for the ADA to get Grover to agree to a deal," Beckett said.

"But why would she?" Esposito objected. "What evidence we have against her is circumstantial at best, even for the murder of Lewis Grover."

"You're forgetting 'opportunity'," Beckett countered, "who else could have killed Grover?"

"The housekeeper has a key," Esposito replied stubbornly.

Ryan pulled a face. "I really can't imagine her as the killer." he declared, "She isn't exactly the brightest candle in the chandelier."

"Someone could have waited for Mrs. Grover to leave for her walk and then either tricked or forced her husband to let them in," Esposito wasn't giving up.

"That's possible," Castle conceded, "but what for? It wasn't a robbery or a kidnapping gone wrong. And why make it look like a suicide instead of just bashing Grover's head in? If you have the means to make him take scopolamine, why not another, more effective drug like strychnine or cyanide? It just doesn't make sense for an intruder to arrange the scene in such an elaborate ..." He stopped abruptly. "Unless ..."

"Unless what?" Ryan and Esposito demanded as one.

"No, that's ridiculous," Castle muttered.

Beckett frowned at him but suddenly she understood. "You're thinking ...?"

The two of them looked at each other, lost to the world.

"Do you have any idea what they're talking about?" Esposito murmured.

"Not the slightest," Ryan admitted in an equally low voice. "Probably something like the first husband didn't die and kills his wife's husbands out of revenge."

"Don't tell me: you've been watching 'Temptation Lane' again!"

Ryan's cheeks turned pink. "I've told you before, there are reruns right after the news, and sometimes the kids wear us out so much that we're just too tired to pick up the remote!"

"So you've said." Esposito's tone of voice made it clear that he didn't believe a word of it.

Ryan glared at him, then raised his voice. "Earth to Captain Beckett, are you still there?"

Beckett and Castle turned back to the detectives.

"Guys, we need be very careful and discreet," she told them, "and where we can't be discreet, we must be quick."

"Good morning Ms. Lane, Mr. Bishop," Beckett greeted Mrs. Grover's stepchildren, while Castle opened the door to the interview room for them. "Thank you for coming in again."

"Whatever we can do to help," Amanda Lane said graciously. "Do you have news for us?"

"Yes, we do have news," Castle assured her.

"You've arrested her?" Andrew Bishop asked hopefully.

"We arrested Mrs. Grover two days ago," Beckett answered, "she posted bail the next morning and today all charges against her were dropped."

"What?" Bishop exclaimed, "why did you do that?"

"Because Captain Beckett is about to arrest the two of you," Castle replied with a polite smile.

"What?" Bishop repeated, "I don't understand."

"There must be a mistake," Lane cut in. "Why would you arrest us?"

"Because we know that you murdered Lewis Grover," Beckett explained, "and we can prove it."

"You never imagined we'd think of you, did you?" Castle took over, "or you'd have been a lot more careful. It was quite easy once we suspected you. Photographs from the toll booths on the morning of the murder prove you'd come to the city. A security camera three doors from the Grover's apartment house shows you walking towards the crime scene at twelve past ten, and passing it again thirty-six minutes later going in the opposite direction. Your purse looks quite heavy on tape, Ms. Lane. Not the exquisite little number you're carrying today, but the one big enough to lug your late father's forty-five around in it. I guess you used the gun to gain entry and to force Mr. Grover to take the scopolamine."

"We called Trinitas Regional Medical Center in Elizabeth and had them check their supplies," Beckett informed them, "and they found that they are a little short of scopolamine tablets. Or maybe not just a little short, since you took far more than you used on Mr. Grover. Did you get rid of the rest of the tablets or will we find them in your car, which is being searched this very moment? Your home, too, by the way."

She turned her head to regard Amanda Lane.

"We also had a chat with your former husband. He told us all about the 500,000 dollars you owe him after you lost his money as well as your own at the stock market, and that you might be forced to sell your father's home. When he mentioned your promise to pay back everything within twelve months, naturally we asked ourselves how you planned to do that. We got our answer when our colleagues from Greenwich PD executed the search warrant looking for the gun and scopolamine in your house. Since you've been nice enough to leave the draft of your lawsuit lying in plain sight on your kitchen table, they were within in their rights to take a closer look at it."

"Did she tell you about her plan file a civil suit against Mrs. Grover for murdering her father?" Castle asked Andrew Bishop, whose face had turned an unhealthy shade of gray. "Your Dad isn't mentioned at all, by the way. She's obviously convinced that it would be enough to have Mrs. Grover convicted of the murder of her fourth husband to persuade a jury to rule in her favor."

"She hasn't said a word about a lawsuit," Bishop blurted out, "I didn't do it for money, and I had no idea Amanda had anything else in mind than justice for our fathers!"

"Justice?" Beckett echoed incredulously. "You murdered an innocent man!"

"We only expedited the inevitable," Bishop argued. "How long do you think he would have had anyway?"

"Shut up, you moron!" Lane hissed.

"He was in an early stage of Parkinson's." Castle was completely aghast. "He still had years, maybe decades to live!"

"Not under her 'care'," Bishop retorted angrily. "She'd have done away with him rather sooner than later. We did him a favor. At least he never had to face the fact that he'd married a monster!"

"I'm calling my lawyer," Lane announced and got her cell out of her small and elegant purse.

"Get a really good one," Castle advised. "But if you're thinking of Karen Ferguson, well, I don't think she'll represent you."

"Lane's still not talking," Castle handed his wife a cup of coffee. "Bishop, on the other hand, is telling poor Ryan his life story. His lawyer's imploring him to stop but he either can't or doesn't want to."

"Thanks for the coffee." Beckett signed a report and dropped it into her out-box. "I needed that. All this paperwork's making me drowsy."

"You could be in the box with Esposito, grilling Lane," Castle said, "why did you ask Dean to do it?"

"I've got a precinct to run," Beckett answered, "some tasks I can't delegate if I want to stay on top of things. Besides, I wanted to know how good Dean is at interrogation, and how well he works with others. You've been watching him, what do you think?"

"He and Espo are certainly not us," Castle stated. "That said, they seem to play to each other's strengths. Dean is totally impassive, but when he talks, he makes an impact."

"That's my impression, too, though I only took a peek now and then. I'm curious to hear what Espo's going to say." She took her purse out of one of her desk drawers and got up. "But first I need to visit Mrs. Grover. She has a right to hear from me who killed her husband."

"I knew that Andrew never liked me, but I never thought he hated me that much." Mrs. Grover stared at Beckett and Castle in total disbelief. "And Amanda, I can't believe her capable of such cruelty."

She was dressed in a black suit so new it didn't seem to belong to her. Her hands shook as she reached for a picture of Lewis and herself on a beach, smiling into the camera.

"Lewis made me laugh," she said, "he was kind and generous and loving. He didn't deserve this. Not him."

The tiny devil on Beckett's left shoulder whispered 'did your other husbands deserve to die the way they did?', while the miniature angel perched on the other cautioned 'keep your trust in other people's goodness'.

"Learning why your husband died is bound to be painful right now," she told Mrs. Grover, "but I can promise you that in the long run it will help you find closure."

The widow's answer made her wish she could take her words back. "Yes, I know. I'm becoming quite the expert." Even Castle was at loss for words for once.

"Thank you for coming to tell me in person," Mrs. Grover got up from the couch. "I'll see you to the door."

As Beckett and Castle stepped into the hallway, Grover stopped them with a question. "Do you believe in curses?"

"No," said Beckett.

"Yes," Castle simultaneously replied.

"I wish I could, too, Mr. Castle," the widow allowed herself a sad little smile to flit across her face. "A curse can be lifted." With that she closed the door.

Castle cleared his throat. "Spooky."

Beckett nodded. "Let's get out of here."

Back on the street, both of them took a couple of deep breaths.

"I need to go back to the precinct," she said, "and I'll be home late."

"Ah, yes, you're seeing Dr. Burke this evening," Castle acknowledged. "You'll find me at my desk, since as you know, writing is my therapy."

"See you at home then," Beckett blew him a kiss and got in her unmarked cruiser. He waved and let his eyes follow the car until it turned the corner.

Castle sat down at his desk, lifted the lid of his notebook and opened a file.

'Nikki Heat had no idea how she would ever get over the loss of …'

Fingering the scar on his chest he tried to dispel the memories of pain and fear and focus on the reality of having survived instead.

"So the return to your job went well but you're still having this recurring dream or a variation thereof," Dr. Burke recapped. "Has anything else changed?"

Kate shook her head.

"It is a very good sign that your ability to work is not influenced by your brush with death."

"I didn't expect it to be so easy," Kate admitted, "and I am aware that it might not always be that way. But I am getting a lot of support from my cop family."

"Speaking of family, have you talked with your husband?"

"The time just is never right."

Dr. Burke let the silence grow.

"Okay, I dodged the issue, but I need to be sure that I don't want a baby for the wrong reasons before I broach the subject with Rick."

"What wrong reasons are there for having a child?"

"I don't know … hoping someone will pay for your nursing home?"

"I've never known you to be a cynic, Kate."

"What if I'm just selfish?" Kate asked after a pause. "Maybe I want a child out of fear of being alone one day. Does that qualify as a wrong reason?"

"Do you really think your wish is rooted in fear?"

"I don't know what I'm thinking. That's why I'm here."

"But I can't tell you what you're thinking either. All I can say is that I don't believe you to be a selfish person. What I do believe is that it would help you to tell Richard about your doubts."

Kate looked away for a moment, but then returned Burke's gaze steadily. "And what if he has changed his mind?"