Nocturnal Read online

  Castle knew his best way to his boss’s good side was through his stomach. They walked towards the front doors.

  “You make much headway last night?” Horn asked.

  “Not much,” Castle replied.

  “Me neither. I tried, but I fell asleep.”

  Castle looked at his boss, concerned. Horn did not look well. When was the last time this guy had gotten a checkup? When was the last time he’d gone on vacation? Hell, when was the last time he’d gotten laid, for Christ’s sake?

  “You probably needed the rest.”

  “Probably.”

  Horn and Castle walked up the sidewalk and alighted a short flight of steps that deposited them at the front entrance to the Station. Castle grabbed the handle, depressed the latch and swung the door wide. He held it open as Horn passed through, then allowed himself to enter.

  The main waiting area was quiet. During the week, a certain level of noise, confusion, and conflict was considered normal as detectives and uniformed police dropped off suspects, processed paperwork, and interviewed witnesses. Compared to that, the place was practically deserted.

  The Desk Sergeant, an older cop with a crew cut, a thick handlebar moustache and a thicker torso, looked up from his computer logs. He gave them a perfunctory salute, then went back to his duties. Horn nodded back. He remembered the old cop’s name was Jenson, and was waiting for his retirement papers to be approved. Jenson’s shift was almost over, his weekend about to begin. He wanted to get done and gone, with everything wrapped up neat and tidy, by Change of Shift.

  Horn could not blame him for that.

  Castle’s dark, all seeing eyes darted around the room. He saw the large biker, all tattoos, long hair, and beard, handcuffed to a bench that was bolted to the floor. Wearing his club’s colors with pride, he sat still and glared straight ahead, unblinking, unseeing, silently daring anyone – ANYONE! – to try and fuck with him.

  Castle noticed the hooker, all attitude and indignation, and all of sixteen years old. She argued with an arresting vice cop who had busted her for solicitation.

  She was not a hardcore hooker. She was too clean, too well nourished, and too talkative. She was no street urchin. Street urchins don’t have French tipped nails and Brazilian blowouts. More likely she would prove to be some spoiled rich girl who decided to get back at Daddy and the trust fund. So she went slumming with Daddy’s Beemer and Visa card, crashed face to face with what the rest of the world liked to call “reality”, and found herself in over her head.

  She saw him looking over. She snapped her head around, trying to be tough, auburn hair and baby fat in the cheeks and chin.

  “What the fuck you looking at?”

  Castle grinned as the girl turned back to her Arresting Officer, who had just told her to shut her fucking mouth and wait for Daddy. Castle smiled more broadly as he walked on. Sometimes, you just had to laugh at the stupid shit in life, or it really started seeping into your core, your soul, fundamentally changing you as a person. Castle had seen it happen with a lot of cops. He’d seen it happen with Horn over the years. No way he was going to let it happen to him.

  That was why he wore his hair longer, way past the tops of his ears. That was why many of his friends away from the job were not cops. They had nothing to do with law enforcement, and he rarely talked about his job away from the precinct. And it was why he rode his motorcycle whenever he could. These were things he had enjoyed prior to becoming a cop, and these were the things he would enjoy long after he retired.

  Castle and Horn pushed open the double doors that opened onto a smaller hallway leading to back offices and interrogation rooms. They quickly turned left at Horn’s office door. Horn shoved his key in the lock, turned it as he simultaneously turned the knob. The door pushed back and in, then they were inside.

  Castle immediately headed for the coffee maker, which stood, waiting to perk, on a small table off to the side along the far wall. As he passed Horn’s desk, he tossed the bag of pastries onto its surface.

  Horn rounded the desk and sat down in the worn, comfortable leather high-backed chair. He tossed the file folder on the blotter in front of him. He watched in silence as Castle got the coffee maker filled with water.

  “You know,” Castle opened as he put a paper filter into the basket, “you should consider buying a ten-dollar coffee grinder and keeping a decent quality whole bean coffee up in here.”

  Horn thought about this as Castle closed the lid on the coffee maker and hit the ON button.

  “You’re serious?” Horn asked.

  “Why not?” Castle replied, dusting his hands off in front of himself. “Rank has its privileges, Captain. You deserve to drink a decent cup of coffee, not this cheap-assed, Government – issue, mass market swill.”

  Horn jutted his lower lip out in thought as Castle sat down on the other side of the desk. Horn nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”

  Castle grinned. “Of course I’m right.” He pulled his onion bagel and cream cheese packet out of the bag. “That’s why I’m a Detective Sergeant, on the move to make Lieutenant.” He shoved the bag towards Horn. “Bon appetit!”

  “Ahhhh,” Horn sounded. “You have high hopes for yourself.”

  “Nothing wrong with upward mobility,” Castle said.

  Horn opened the bag and peered inside just long enough to glimpse two large pastries with tell tale red jelly and yellow custard fillings juxtaposed in the middles.

  “You know me all too well,” Horn said.

  Castle shrugged. He spread cream cheese across the inner surface of his bagel with a small plastic knife. “I’m a cop. I’m supposed to notice the little things, subtle things. Pay attention to the details.”

  Horn nodded absently, pulling a Danish out of the crumpled white bag in front of him. He bit into the pastry, chewing thoughtfully.

  “And what details of our case are you paying attention to?”

  Castle smelled the coffee brewing. “All of them,” he stated with surety.

  “Your conclusions, Sergeant?”

  “Only one, sir.”

  “And that is?”

  “That Reggie’s account of events is one hundred percent true and accurate. There was only one wild card on the pier. And whoever he was, he killed them all by himself, by hand, as it were, without conventional weaponry as we understand it. And, he spared Reggie’s life.”

  Horn stared at Castle a moment. He knew Castle was completely serious. Castle never showed much humor on the job. He also knew Castle’s intuition was seldom off target.

  “But why would anyone do that?” Horn asked, thinking out loud. “Why would anyone in the drug trade knowingly save a cop’s life?”

  “You’re assuming whoever did this was in fact in the drug trade,”

  This brought Horn’s train of thought to an abrupt halt.

  “Fact is, Cap, we don’t know that. Since we don’t know who he is, we have no idea what he is”

  “What are you thinking?”

  Castle thought a moment longer, then gestured with his hand as he theorized off the top of his head, speaking as quickly as the thoughts formed. “It really kind of feels like something personal, doesn’t it? The killer’s efficient, effective, practiced at his craft. But these are not ‘traditional’ professional hits. The killer didn’t just kill them, he slaughtered them. Bloody. Brutal. Grotesque. Like he was sending a message.”

  Horn got up and poured two mugs of coffee, handed one to Castle. “And he not just let Reggie go, he made a point of letting Reggie go.”

  Castle pointed at Horn, his thumb and index finger in the classic gunpoint pose. “Exactly.”

  Horn turned this over in his mind. It actually made sense, even though there were still gaps to be filled. That was why he could not make any progress on his own the night before. He had gotten too hung up on filling in the gaps instead of looking at what conclusion the evidence supported.

  He sat back down behind his desk, scolding himself. He knew better
than that. He took a sip of his coffee to calm himself back down.

  “So this Mystery Man,” Horn started. “He moves in unnoticed, kills everybody dockside. He spared Rudy Valdez for some reason. By the way, any idea why he would spare Rudy Valdez?”

  Castle shook his head as he ate.

  “Okay. He gets aboard the ship, kills the rest of ‘em in the hold, saves Reggie, and then disappears. Thin air and shit. Makes good his escape under cover of darkness.”

  Castle nodded. “The timeline, the physical evidence and the forensics support the theory.”

  “Does the timeline, physical evidence or the forensics support any other theory? Like, say, multiple killers, a kill squad, attacking from multiple vantage points?”

  “Nope.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  Horn and Castle finished their breakfast in silence. Castle wiped his mouth and lips with a white napkin as Horn bit into his second raspberry cheese Danish. Horn truly enjoyed his raspberry cheese Danishes. It was one of the few pleasures he had ever seen Horn indulge himself in, and it made Castle smile.

  Sometimes, people treasure the simplest things.

  “So let’s assume you’re right,” Horn said at last. This time, he was speaking softly, not in his usual booming baritone. “Let’s assume this was personal. That means this Mystery Man knew Reggie.”

  “Makes sense to me.”

  “And yet, Reggie says he doesn’t know who he is. He never saw the guy’s face, just his shoes and part of a pants leg. He didn’t recognize the voice, and the guy stayed in the dark. Used the shadows to conceal himself. How do we reconcile that?”

  Castle thought for a moment before responding. “The guy obviously knew Reggie, knew who he was, what he did for a living” Castle supposed. “That does not necessarily mean that Reggie knows him.”

  “He’s got a stalker.”

  “More like a Guardian Angel.”

  Horn thought for a moment. “More like an Avenging Angel.”

  The old school black rotary phone on Horn’s desk erupted with a loud classic bell ring. He had the volume turned up so loud, the phone actually vibrated as it rang. The ring was ear splitting in the silence of the Saturday morning.

  Horn glanced at his watch. Not even nine yet. He reached out and grabbed the receiver, pressed it to his ear.

  “Horn,” he spat. He listened a moment, his forehead wrinkling as he did. “You’re sure about this?” He paused. “How the hell are they getting away with that?” He listened a bit more, rubbed his hand down his face, suddenly feeling very old and even more fatigued. “I’m on my way. Thanks for the heads up. I owe you.”

  Castle watched Horn slam the receiver down, all tension and anger once more. “What’s up, boss?”

  “We’ve got a problem over at Central Jail.”

  Rudy Valdez woke up in his cell at six o’clock, just like everyone else. He cleaned up quickly, combed his hair. He made his bed while his cellmate, a tattooed gang banger named Demetrius, brushed his teeth.

  At six twenty, the ringer buzzed, the electronically controlled doors on all the cells clanked open. Rudy and Demetrius stepped onto the line with everyone else on their block.

  Time for breakfast – such as it was. Rudy turned right when told to, fell into a slow ambling gait behind Demetrius, as the line of human baggage snaked its way to the dining facility. Rudy smirked at such a pretentious name for such a utilitarian place. His military mind thought of it as the mess decks.

  Rudy opted for scrambled eggs, potatoes, an unusually large and ripe orange, black coffee, and ice water. He had seen what they offered up in the jail, so he always stayed away from breakfast meats. Bacon and sausage, rarely ham. They were almost all high in fat, and the prison system bought its food supplies from the lowest bidder. When it came to meats, that meant even less real meat, and more added fat as filler. He had no desire to see his cholesterol go through the roof.

  He sat at a table off to the side, so he had a good view of the entire area. He ate his meal quietly. He kept to himself, minded his own business. His eyes continued to move around, though, looking for any danger headed his way. Currently, there was none. Demetrius was sitting with some of his gangland homies on the other side of the room, eating, talking laughing.

  Like jail was some kind of a vacation or something.

  Fuck that noise.

  Professional criminals did not get caught. They did not do time. That’s why they were professionals. They approached what they did with the same care and attention to detail as a Wall Street executive, a policeman, a doctor. Rudy considered himself a professional. As far as he was concerned, spending time in jail was a sign of failure on his part. He needed to learn from his mistake, and make certain it did not happen again.

  Rudy finished up. The powdered scrambled eggs and institutional potatoes that somehow appeared gray had been cooked up without seasoning of any kind. This was typical with institutional food preparation. Rudy had seen the same kind of thing in chow lines back when he was active duty. He assumed it was so no one eating the food had an allergic reaction to some spice. The only seasonings available were salt, pepper, and hot sauce. So salt and pepper it was.

  The highlight of breakfast was the orange. The coffee was bad, stale. The ice water was simply for hydration. The ice made the unfiltered San Diego water, full of sedimentation and minerals, more palatable. On the outside, Rudy drank bottled water when on the go. He had a filter on his kitchen spigot at home.

  Once his glass was drained, and his tray consisted of orange peels and a few grease smears from the eggs and potatoes, Rudy stood. He placed his plastic utensils across the middle of the tray, picked everything up and turned around.

  Rudy stopped short, momentarily startled as he nearly walked right into two guards walking up on him. One guard was older, heavy, but obviously someone who knew how to handle himself. A veteran corrections officer, his face seemed lined into a perpetual scowl.

  Hell, Rudy thought, if I did this for a living, I’d fucking scowl, too.

  The other guard was younger, tall but slim. With a smooth face and no evidence of razor burn, he did not look like he had a lot of time on the job, or a lot of meat on his bones. To Rudy, the kid looked like a cheetah cub that was just now losing his spots.

  They stood silently, looking at each other, a span of about three feet between them. Rudy’s eyes darted back and forth between the two. He knew the older bull, obviously in charge, would speak first.

  “Clean up your shit, inmate,” the older guard spat. “You’ve got an appointment this morning.”

  Rudy was instantly on guard. It was only around seven on a Saturday morning. “What kind of appointment?”

  “How the hell should I know?” the guard growled. “Just toss your trash and come with us.”

  Rudy glanced back and forth at the two. Something was not right. As the moments ticked past, he noticed the old guard’s fingers drifted to his can of mace. Rudy nodded without speaking, and moved deliberately towards the trashcans near the end of the “dining facility”. The two guards followed closely behind.

  Rudy threw away his trash, placed the reusable polyurethane food tray into the small window in the wall, where an inmate on the other side slid it away and pre-rinsed it with water heated to a scalding one hundred eighty degrees.

  Rudy turned slowly, looked at the guards again. He could tell the Youngster was a simple kid, just following orders, trying to do his job, and most importantly, trying to not screw up and avoid embarrassment. He was no threat to Rudy. The older bull was plainly the force of the operation, and had been around the job long enough for his disillusionment to sink into anger, loathing, a bit of self-hatred, and an overall sense of bitterness.

  “So. Where we going?” Rudy repeated.

  “Turn around, “ the guard grumbled. Rudy turned around. “Hands behind your back.” Rudy grimaced as handcuffs were applied, a bit too roughly. The guard grabbed Rudy’s wrists in order to control his di
rection and movement. “Let’s go.”

  Rudy found himself propelled from the dining facility the same way he had come in. Instead of turning to walk up the stairwell towards his cell, he was pushed past it, moving along on the same level, heading towards the interrogation rooms and administrative spaces.

  Rudy began to relax a little. At least they weren’t taking him anywhere near the kitchen, the laundry, or the showers. In any of those places, he was sure he would be killed. Punishment from Vargas or Oakley for the sin of getting caught, and a preventative measure to make sure he did not cut a deal and talk.

  They walked silently down the corridor, made a turn away from the admin offices and towards the interrogation rooms. The guards pulled Rudy up short in front of Interrogation Two. The youngster pushed opened the heavy grey metal door, and Rudy was manhandled inside and pushed down into a seat. The Old Bull removed the handcuffs, bringing a wave of instant relief, along with a tingly rush of blood back into Rudy’s fingers. As he sighed and relaxed his shoulders, the old guard cuffed his hands to a short chain that was bolted to the table in front of him.

  Rudy pulled against the cuffs, gently, not trying to really break free. He was just testing the strength of the chain. He realized the chain was much stronger than he. No reason to be an idiot about it. Then he watched as both guards simply turned around and left the room, closing the door behind them.

  The room became very quiet. Rudy could hear nothing, save for the soft sound of his own breathing. He sat back in the uncomfortable chair, obviously made by the lowest bidder and with little concern for quality. The room was rectangular, approximately ten feet by twelve. The walls were plain gray, and covered with a sound-absorbing material. Even at that, Rudy was certain there were microphones and video cameras hidden at various vantage points around the room, both in the walls and in the ceiling. And the oblong mirror on the far wall was nothing more than one-way glass, with an observation room on the other side.

  He wondered if anyone had come in on the other side yet. Probably not yet. It was still early. But they would, and he knew it. Rudy could see it now – two or three cops, maybe an assistant District Attorney, drinking their cheap-assed, overcooked, ineptly prepared, burned coffee while stuffing their mouths with day–old doughnuts, glazed sugar flaking off, dropping like snow, dusting white across their chins and their shirt chests.