Guardian Angel

Chapter 1

"What am I going to do with you, Beckett?" Roy Montgomery asks, shaking his head. "Every spare minute you have, you're poring over your mother's case file looking for clues you know aren't there. Do I have to bar you from the cold case archives?"

Kate stands with her hands behind her, twisting her fingers. "No, Sir. We both know that I have the best homicide case closure record in the precinct, possibly the city. As my experience grows, something may jump out at me I didn't see before."

Montgomery swipes his palm over his rapidly thinning hair. "But sometimes there's nothing more to see. As hard as we try, only 30% of the murders in this city get solved. You know that. Random violence is the hardest thing to get a handle on. Considering the limited life span of gang members, your mother's killer is probably dead by now himself. You're not just a gifted detective, Kate, you're a smart and talented woman. You need to give yourself a break. Take up needlepoint or beer brewing. Sing karaoke — anything besides driving yourself crazy over a mystery you'll never solve."

"Is that an order, Sir?"

"It's a very strong suggestion. I hate to see my best detective burn out, and that's what's going to happen if you keep on this way."

Kate squares her shoulders, drawing herself to her full height. "I'm fine, Sir."

"No, you're not, Kate, but I can't help you if you won't help yourself."

Rafael looks up as Johanna approaches his station. "The Father told me to expect you. You've been worried about your daughter."

"As the Father knows, my death opened a gash in Kate's soul. I watch her every day, hoping she'll get better and start moving on with her life, but she's getting worse. You're the angel of healing. There must be something you can do."

"Johanna, you've been well instructed in the rules of free will," Rafael replies. "There is evil and pain in the world. You know that as well as anyone. If you hadn't chosen to fight it, the world would be a worse place, but you might have walked the earth longer. Kate makes her own choices, as you did. Eventually, she will be freed from her bonds, as you were."

"But she is suffering!" Johanna protests. "My husband is suffering too. You hear his prayers every day, for the strength to stay away from the bottle."

"His prayers are good, and they're working, Johanna. With the support of others, including Kate, he has some measure of earthly peace."

"Kate can help him, but she can't help herself. There must be something you can do, something the Father will allow."

"Perhaps," Rafael considers, stilling and closing his eyes in prayer. He opens them after a moment, looking down at Johanna. "He will not permit my direct intervention, but he will allow yours. You'll be given a chance to guide your daughter, but not control her or the way any events unfold. You can deliver your messages, but Kate must choose her own path."

"How will I do that?" Johanna wonders.

"You'll receive what you need to open the door, but Kate must walk through it on her own. So says the Father."

"I hear his words," Johanna acknowledges.

Esposito points to the flower-covered body. "Beckett will like this one. It's weird enough."

Ryan sneezes into his elbow. "I hope she likes it fast. My allergies are killing me."

"Then go canvass, Ryan," Kate suggests from the doorway. "Someone should have seen the killer come in here with sunflowers and rose petals, a killer who reads Richard Castle."

"Who's Richard Castle?" Esposito asks.

Ryan rolls his watering eyes. "He's a mystery writer, Bro. Not as good as Sue Grafton, but not bad to read on a plane. I got through one of his books when I went to visit my seanmháthair in Ireland."

Esposito snorts. "Your what?"

"His grandmother," Kate injects.

"Anyway," Ryan continues, "it was about a guy named Derrick Storm, but," Ryan sneezes again, "it didn't have anything like this setup in it."

Kate stiffens. "This scene was from one of his earlier works. Get out of here, Ryan, before you contaminate the whole crime scene. Esposito, wait for CSU. I'm going to hunt down Castle."

The sunglasses Rick is wearing against the bright lights at his book party contribute to his bad-boy persona, but he wishes that someone would turn down the music, or better still, turn it off. His head has been pounding since his conversation with his publisher and ex-wife, Gina Cowell. She's pissed that he killed off Derrick Storm, not because she loves the character but due to her fear of falling sales. Hell, she never liked Rick's avatar, the taller, stronger version of himself. Castle's not sure Gina ever liked him, either. He's a profit center, one that looks like it might become a little shaky. Well, screw Gina. He's no longer inspired by her or anyone else. He invested his royalties well. Alexis' trust and college fund are solid. His mother will be fine too. Maybe he'll just … what? A writer is all he's ever wanted to be. What the hell will he do with himself?

A woman approaches giggling and pulling at the buttons on her blouse. "Will you sign my chest?"

"All right, here we go," Rick mutters under his breath, pulling a marker out of the pocket of his jacket. "Of course. What would you like me to use to dot the 'i'?"

Invisible to the living unless she wishes to be otherwise, Johanna gazes at Castle. Her favorite author — and Kate's — is in bad shape. Too bad Kate has to see him like this, but she's determinedly making her way across the room. Johanna only has permission to help her daughter, but every stone in a pond creates ripples. The Father willing, Richard Castle may be caught up in the tide.

Rick involuntarily shrinks back as Kate shoves her badge in front of his face. "Richard Castle, I'm Detective Beckett. I need you to come with me. I have questions about a murder."

"Detective, I assume that you aren't referring to a fictional one. To tell the truth," Rick confesses, "I'd like nothing better than to get out of here and be grilled by you. But I'm obligated to stay for," he consults his watch, "20 more minutes. You wouldn't want me breaking a contract, would you? I also need to make sure that my mother and my daughter make it into a cab to take them home. After that, I'm all yours. The hors d'oeuvres are free, and the mini quiches aren't half bad. You can help yourself while you wait."

"No, thank you, Mr. Castle. Police officers aren't allowed to accept gratuities, but we don't encourage people to violate contracts or strand their families, either. I'll wait."

Rick stares at Detective Beckett across the metal table in what he assumes is an interrogation room. She plops an 8 X 10 photograph in front of him. "Do you recognize that?"

"Of course I do," Rick responds indignantly. "It's an imitation of a murder scene in 'Flowers for Your Grave.' It's not a very good one, though."

Kate pulls the picture back and examines it. "Sunflowers on her eyes, rose petals covering her naked body. What's wrong with it?"

"The murderer in my book respected the modesty of his kill. It was a vital element of his psychology. He covered her with petals from head to toe. This one wasn't nearly so considerate. Most of the victim's legs are bare. Also, it looks like the killer used the wrong kind of rose petals. These are solid red. In my book, they were tinged with pink, more for a friend than a lover. I only implied as much, but it was an important detail. As a detective, I'm sure you know that the tiniest things can be clues. Your killer was sloppy, and he didn't think much of his victim. To screw up like that as a copycat, he most likely didn't think much of the police, either. When you find him, he'll probably turn out to be an arrogant asshat."

Kate springs to her feet, leaning into Rick's face. "Are you arrogant, Mr. Castle?"

"If you ask my ex-wife, perhaps. But arrogant or not, I can account for my whereabouts pretty much every minute for at least the last 24 hours. I'm not the murderer, Detective, but I'd be fascinated to find out who the psycho jerk who tried to steal my work is. How can I help?"