Title: Kate & Richard

Author: Doppelganger472

Rating: T

Summary: Someone's killing up-and-coming young professionals in NYC in a throw-back to murders of aristocrats in 18th century NYC. The crime scenes are shockingly similar, and details are coming out that were never released to the public. As Beckett and the team chase down leads, could it be that their murderer is a man out of time? Completely A/U, there's some Caskett-y goodness coming up, and probably Lanie/Esposito, Ryan/Jenny.

A/N: Welcome to my first fanfic! I have no idea if anyone's even going to read this, but I hope that anyone who does finds it enjoyable. I'm not a fiction writer – ZERO experience in that department – but I feel like I've read so many good stories on here, I know just how the best ones should go. That said, if I screw this up royally, please feel free to tell me. Any ideas, suggestions, and questions are welcomed. Love it? Hate it? Need a tutor? Leave a review and let me know! (I used to tutor almost every subject, but I'm kidding about tutoring you. Unless you really want to hire me as your tutor. I need a job!) Also, on the off chance that you want to submit this to some other site or something, please ask first.

Oh yeah, the story … a few quick notes. This is loosely based on the movie Kate & Leopold, so if you've seen the movie, you have an idea of what might happen in this story. Maybe. Like I said, the key words are "loosely based on" – you'll recognize some plot points along the way, and hopefully be pleasantly surprised by new twists. Also, I've seen this done in a few other TV show genres – if it's too close to something you've read/written, please tell me! I work in the law, and thus I feel the need to disclaim EVERYTHING, so here goes: if you recognize it, it's not mine! I have no money, so please don't sue me. I just take the characters out and play with them for a while, and then put them neatly back in their boxes. I don't have any rights in Castle, Kate & Leopold, or anything else remotely recognizable. No infringement is intended. Only the random plot ramblings and dialogue are mine. Well, most of the dialogue, anyway …

Enjoy!

New York City, 1876

Richard was bored. It wasn't uncommon for him; as a general rule, those of his social class were masters of genteel leisure. It was a kind way to say that they kept busy doing nothing of importance. Frankly, he found the charade tiring. His mind was constantly whirring, contemplating new things to write about – for he was a chronic note-taker with years of filled journals to show for it. The idle chatter of those around him, of the news and the people in their wide circle of acquaintances within New York's upper crust, often made his mind veer wildly off track in flights of fancy about their tragedies, secrets, and joys. Richard preferred happy, satisfying conclusions in the tales he wove, but often his thoughts dead-ended on the tragedies. He wrote about these things as a way to settle his swirling thoughts. However, as the fifth Duke of Cambridge, Richard was expected to be the consummate gentleman, which meant that writing could not be part of his public persona. His mother said that working as a common author was below his station, but Richard was convinced that productivity had to be worth more than the idle chatter that currently surrounded him.

"…and certainly, it's appalling! I suppose it's only to be expected in a city this size, but it is always shocking to hear. Wouldn't you agree, darling?" The question fell on deaf ears. She tried again, "Richard!" Irked, she tapped him on the shoulder, calling his name again.

He jumped. "Yes, Mother?"

"The murders. There was another one, you know. Yesterday, the family's butler discovered the Earl of Westover, murdered in cold blood, in the wine cellar. Imagine! How frightening, to think that the son of the Duke of Sussex should meet such an unexpected end. In his own home! It's enough to give one the vapors, that your own home is not safe from intrusion!"

"Mother, try not to let your imagination carry you off. Whatever will people think if they hear you carrying on so?" He smiled gently at his mother, to show her he was only teasing her for her breach of "Martha's Rules of Etiquette." She believed in an unruffled public appearance, and her emphatic reaction indicated that she was unsettled by the recent events.

"Richard, I'm just worried about you. What if the rumors are true? What if someone is murdering royal titles? Have you forgotten that you are a Duke?"

On his mother's other side, he heard a soft snicker from Alexis. Despite Martha's iron hand in grooming Alexis, his daughter retained wit and mischief in equal shares. That Richard had forgotten he was a Duke was preposterous, and they all knew it.

"A Duke, you say? Me? Can't say I remembered that." He sobered at the icy sparks in her crystal blue eyes. "I can't imagine why someone would care to murder me, Mother. I don't produce ideas or products that compete with anyone, I do not publish incendiary opinions in the newspaper, and am rarely noticed by the public for any reason beyond that I throw a splendid dinner party. They'd have absolutely no motive to murder me, unless the cakes at tea were lopsided, or the silver did not glow. You'd never stand for that, so I'm not going to worry."

"Richard, your charming manner with the well-bred women in this city, and probably less refined ones as well, is enough for a hoard of displeased fathers and husbands to chase you down with pitchforks like vigilantes." His mother's tone left no question as to how his romantic escapades measured up against Martha's Rules. Alexis graced the room with a real laugh that chimed like bells. It stopped abruptly when Martha set her stern glare on the girl.

"Women aside, I'm sure there's nothing for us to fear. I'd wager the butler did it. In fact, the butlers all across the city are colluding to remove their exacting employers because they still carry a grudge over the 'War of the Insurrection.' They're eliminating New York City aristocrats so that they can sell their employers' heirlooms and be free of English tyranny! It's their own form of reverse gentrification – bettering their society by eliminating the gentry. It's … it's …"

"Preposterous! And you know it. Honestly, Richard, can't you take this seriously?"

Soberly, Alexis spoke up. "Grandmama, times are trying with the thought of a murderer loose in the city. He's simply trying to bring some levity to the situation."

"Your father has always suffered from an overly-vivid imagination. Before coming here from England, he tormented me for weeks with tales of savages and uprisings of the masses, and all manner of outlandish things. He could have a little respect, as America offers an excellent opportunity for you to find a gentleman of means to marry, and is perhaps his last chance to find a suitable wife."

Alexis, ruffled at the thought of marrying, quickly decided whose side she favored in this argument. "Father, you forgot to mention that it's a shame only the industrious younger sons in noble families are being murdered. Last week you said that had the murderer preyed on the idle, dilettante eldest sons, he would be doing New York a public service to be rewarded with a hero's parade."

Martha huffed indignantly, and flew out of her seat. Tersely, she muttered that Richard grew more unmanageable with each day, and that Alexis was aging her beyond her years, as she marched stiffly out of the room.

Turning to her father, Alexis smiled gently and received a real grin in return. She loved her grandmother, but Alexis showed a clear preference for her doting father, and repaid his kindness by bucking Martha's Rules and acting as her father's coconspirator. "Do you really think there's a murderer targeting titled families?"

"I don't know, Alexis. I hope not, because wanton waste of life is a crime, literally and figuratively. I've been unable to think of much else lately, because the crimes are so insidious and the murderer is like smoke in the breeze. The police are unable to move forward in each new case because there simply isn't any evidence to start with. But are you implying that I should be more nervous, given the situation?" At her small nod, he said, "I promise you, there's nothing to worry about. I'm monitoring the newspapers and checking daily with the staff to make sure that they are as vigilant as I that nothing should happen in this house." Richard took his daughter's hand and softly kissed the back of it, his proof of the promise that she was safe because her father would protect her.

Alexis sighed softly and nodded. "I think I'll look for Grandmama. Perhaps she's settled down by now. It's almost dinner time, and you know how much it pleases her to issue orders in the kitchen. Do you know what the staff calls her?"

Richard was well aware, but shook his head in response, just to see what Alexis would do. Her eyes darted around, as if to be sure that her grandmother wasn't hiding behind a potted plant or wing-back chair, and whispered with wide eyes, "They call her 'The Grand Damn.'"

Richard chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he recalled his mother's antics. Lightly chiding his daughter's language, he agreed that it was indeed an appropriate title for the feisty red head who ruled the family's brownstone. She certainly had a flair for the dramatic. Richard shook his head, hoping that his daughter would retain the sparkle currently in her eye as he excused himself to put his latest musings on the murders into his journal.

New York City, Present Day

Kate Beckett cursed her timing as she struggled with her purse, an umbrella, her cell phone, and an oversized latte. Normally, she was awake at 5 am and managed to get her first cup of coffee when the city's coffee houses were blessedly empty. Today, however, she was running an hour late after oversleeping, and the torrential rain was not helping. It seemed like every person in the city had sought shelter in this particular coffee shop. She told the barista to keep the change and turned to look for a path to the exit. Cursing herself again, she knew if she hadn't stayed at the precinct until she dozed off over her files around 3am, she wouldn't have overslept after finally heading home.

As a New York homicide detective, Beckett had seen her fair share of the gruesome, senseless, and truly puzzling things humans do to one another. Even she had to admit, this particular case was Beckett-flavored. She always gave Esposito a hard time whenever he pulled out that term, but she took pride in the fact that she (almost) always got her man. Her team had the highest case closure rate of any in the city, and their creative crime solving had become something of a legend in the Force. The Twelfth Precinct was consulted routinely in bizzare cases. The qualifying murder du jure was one of a larger pattern across the city, and because of that, the whole stack had landed on her desk. With her thoughts already on her whiteboard, Beckett never saw the wall in front of her until it was too late.

Dropping her umbrella and fumbling with her phone, Beckett managed to only splash half of the front of her blouse when she collided with the tall man. Looking up, Beckett almost grimaced, but settled for a rue smile. The wall she'd just hit was her former boyfriend. Of course, today of all days… it wasn't as if she didn't see Demming around the office. She did. It wasn't as if she didn't care about him while they dated. She did. And it wasn't as if there was someone else who'd rushed in and swept her off her feet. There most certainly wasn't. Beckett couldn't put her finger on it, but for as much as she liked Demming, she felt like she was missing some golden opportunity by dating him. He was hurt and puzzled by her sudden about-face, but was too much of a gentleman to demand why she was breaking up with him. Gentleman that he was, he began to apologize profusely as she reclaimed her errant possessions.

"Becks, I'm sorry! I tried calling your name, but you didn't hear me. There was nowhere to go…" he finished lamely, as she tucked her phone into her purse. "Let me get you another drink, Kate." He looked at her hopefully, as if physically running into him were going to somehow knock loose old feelings for him. On any other day, Beckett might have been inclined to apologize for not watching her step, or let him buy her coffee, but she was at an impasse in the case and her tardiness grated on her nerves. Now she had to go home and change, and would be both under-caffeinated and late to the precinct. Fantastic.

"Demming, maybe some other time. I'm late. I gotta go." She shrugged her trenchcoat closed over her stained blouse, and turned on her heel. The look on her face told him that her mind was already back on a case, leaving Demming to wonder whether he'd ever have another chance to win over the detective who'd just stamped out into the rain.

On the street, Beckett's thoughts whirled as she took a second to contemplate how Demming could still want to date her. She'd told him she wasn't interested in being anything more than friendly coworkers. Shaking her head, she decided not to dwell on it and instead focus on the task at hand. Clean up, get to the precinct, solve this murder.

She knew the day was only going to get worse when Esposito and Ryan didn't razz her for being uncharacteristically late. Javier Esposito and Kevin Ryan, her team, were the epitome of cop partners, and tag teamed her with their sarcastic humor almost as often as they breathed. They were a solid, intuitive partnership, and often used their humor to keep a tough job from becoming overwhelming, but not today. They were so engrossed in trying to make leads appear out of thin air, they barely even looked up to say good morning. The team was starting to wear out, and Beckett was beginning to question whether they'd get a lead before reaching their breaking point.

Beckett gripped her coffee cup in both hands and took a long draught as she moved toward the white board. Esposito tapped a file on the desk beside her. "We've gone through the cases so many times, the papers are starting to shred. We got nothin'. Did you find anything last night, while you were absorbing the files by osmosis?" The hint of humor brought a fleeting smile that only reached the corners of Beckett's mouth as she recalled waking up face-down in a file on her desk at 3am.

"I did, in fact. I figured out that I shouldn't steal your leftover Chinese out of the fridge – it gives me vivid dreams of actually solving this damn case!"

"Hey, that was my lunch for today!"

"It wasn't that good, anyway. You'd be better off grabbing a sandwich somewhere."

"Sure, spot me a ten?"

"In your dreams, Esposito. You owed me after eating my bear claw the other week. Don't' think I didn't figure out that it was you."

Esposito shrugged his shoulders and put his hands up. "Yeah, yeah, sure you did. Ryan's such a snitch! Bro can't even count on his own partner…" She shook her head in mock sympathy, and stepped back from the white board. "I'm gonna see if Ryan's got anything." Esposito sauntered off to find the better half of his Bromance, as Beckett called it.

Beckett relaxed a little. The caffeine was starting to enter her bloodstream, and the heckling from her teammate gave her mood a boost. Ready to dive in, she flipped open the file and scanned the documents from the first of six murders they were handling. This had been the case that threw her team into the purgatory through which they now wandered. Two weeks ago, they'd been called to a scene that left them puzzled. It wasn't gruesome or depraved; it was uncharacteristically neat, and had obviously been very carefully staged. It was almost like looking at a dollhouse, except it was full size and they could stand in the middle of it. The victim, Charles Carpenter, was a 34 year old accountant at a large financial firm in Manhattan. He'd graduated from Wharton, and quickly climbed his firm's ladder to become their youngest associate partner by consistently outperforming his peers and superiors. He came from old New York money, and his family was splashed across Page Six on a semi-regular basis. As the stable and practical youngest son of three children, Charles managed to keep himself out of the paper, but Beckett had immediately connected him to his older sisters' shenanigans by his name.

The sisters may have been party animals, but one look at the crime scene was enough to tell anyone that their brother was the polar opposite. The most interesting thing about the crime scene was how everything screamed "normal." The body itself was sitting upright in a leather executive chair behind a massive walnut desk. She was no expert, but Beckett knew that the understated grace in the hand-worked design of the desk made it a highly valuable antique, probably over 100 years old. It smacked of wealth and prestige. Mr. Carpenter sat at the desk in death as in life – pen in hand, calculator at the ready, financial documents spread across the blotter. His employer confirmed that the documents were for Mr. Carpenter's current client, and thus far did not seem to be relevant in the case. Trace had swept the entire house, and all that they had come up with was an unidentified fiber and a smudged partial print. Although Mr. Carpenter was single, his household staff knew his routine and told the team that their employer lived a quiet life, was dedicated to his work, and that they had observed nothing out of the ordinary in the days prior to the murder.

"Maybe the butler did do it…" Beckett muttered to herself. The butler had come back clean in the investigation they'd done, but it hadn't kept Ryan from quipping that in high society murders, the butler was always the one who did it. She'd silenced him with a level gaze, and reminded him that they were NYC homicide detectives, and he could save his 'Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick' theories for his own time.

Ryan popped up at her shoulder with a grin, obviously remembering the same conversation, and deadpanned, "But Carpenter wasn't offed in the library with a candlestick. He was strangled in the study!" Beckett swatted him with the file and turned to the murder board. Or rather, multiple murder boards. Since the Carpenter case, they'd had 5 other murders that they determined were connected because of the victim profiles and scene setups. As her eyes swept the boards, she asked Ryan, "So what do we have?"

"Like Esposito said, we got nothin'. At least, nothing new today. As of yesterday, we've got 6 vics, all young and talented professionals, all found strangled in their homes, posed as if they were in the middle of their daily routine.

"First is Christopher Carpenter, 34, workaholic accountant at a downtown firm, found strangled and posed at the desk in his home office, with a pen in his hand and his work in front of him. Second is Julia Thorndale, 29, up-and-coming real estate broker who catered to the wealthy and famous, also strangled and posed on the living room couch like she was rearranging pillows. Her clipboard of houses to show the next day was on the coffee table in front of her, briefcase on the floor beside it, and she was still dressed in a suit and heels. Third is Sarah Flemmington, 33, CEO of a small green technology start-up in Manhattan, found strangled and propped against the controls for her penthouse's solar power panels. Fourth, Henry Lawrence, 37, successful day trader, despite the market problems, found strangled and posed with a glass of wine in hand and the stock section of the Times open in front of him in his den. Fifth, John Powell, 27, rising star in the D.A.'s office, two years out of Columbia Law and already sizing up a political run in the next few years, found strangled and seated on the floor of the living room in front of the fireplace, case files spread around him. Finally, sixth victim is Natalie Blakewell, 32, director of marketing and sales for Dior, found strangled and posed in her home studio at a drafting table to look like she was working on mock-ups of ads for Dior's fall line."

"So what commonalities do we have, besides young, successful, and dead?" Beckett rubbed her temples as Ryan continued.

"They were all strangled, but there were no significant fibers or trace to indicate what the killer used, and the marks aren't like anything we've seen before. The tox panels all came back negative for sedatives and the like, but Lanie's post-mortem reports the lack of defensive wounds indicates that the victims knew the killer, and although they struggled, they were taken by surprise, from behind most likely. Each person had a net worth of at least $3 million, with the exception of Powell, who was a trust fund kid getting a hefty annual stipend. Every one of them has household staff who knew them better than their families. They all lack significant others, are not particularly close to their families, and are typically described as "workaholics" by friends and acquaintances. There seems to be no motive for killing any of them, though. It's bizzare, it's like someone killed them because they were hard-working rich guys. We haven't found any reason in their work lives that suggests a career-related motive for any of them. So basically, the overwhelming similarity between crime scenes and the strange strangle marks are why we're 99% sure they're related."

"Good job, Ryan. Thanks. I know we've dug into their financials already, but let's take a closer look at them and see if there's any questionable banking history, or whether there might be some other financial motivation to murder these people. Greed would make sense here; maybe someone stood to benefit from their deaths. Check everything you can find, as far back as you can."

"On it, boss." Ryan headed toward Esposito's desk to fill in his partner and start reexamining bank statements. Beckett also headed to her desk, and put Carpenter's file on top of the other five already there. She knew they were missing something here – but what?

A/N: Whew! First chapter done! Confession: I picked Duke of Cambridge as Castle's title before I found out it was the title Queen Elizabeth gave to Prince William upon his marriage and decided not to change it. Funny story, I was once in an honor guard for QE2, so I have a great fondness for her…but that minute brush with royalty aside, I know nothing about royalty, so mistakes in the story on that front are mine. I researched a bit about how they are given, and the appropriate ways to address them, but like Kate & Leopold, I'm going to use made-up titles. Please correct any errors you see if you know more about this than me!

I'm going to try to post chapters as fast as I can write them (Ch. 2 is almost finished), but it's finals time, and I have a ridiculously hard summer ahead. I've heard that reviews can help coax timid muses, so if you enjoyed the chapter, you know the drill :) Thanks for reading!