THIRTY

Dave had heard the Harley (no missing that distinctive purr), had heard the front door slam open, had heard boots climb the stairs, but he’d thought it was just Castle with a new ride. He decided to check it out later, because right now he was working on eBay’s firewall, trying to get past it and get into their system; he was so damn tired of losing auctions at the last second. He wasn’t going to do anything illegal, not exactly, he just wanted a fair shake at—

He frowned; the boots had stopped in front of Joan’s door, and the guy, suddenly screaming at the top of his lungs, did not sound like Castle.

Dave pushed back from the computer and got to his feet. He cracked open his door.

A guy in a biker jacket was standing in front of Joan’s apartment.

“C’mon, Joanie,” the man yelled. “Open the fuck up! You think I’d take that money for myself? Oh, right, Mike is selfish, Mike only thinks about himself, Mike never scores for anybody else, Mike never shares. No, no, and why should I share with you? You hurt my feelings!”

The guy reared back all of a sudden and kicked the door with all his strength. Dave heard wood splinter. He heard Joan scream.

Bumpo’s door cracked open, too. The two of them exchanged a look.

Joan yelled something inaudible from behind her door. Mike yelled back.

“Oh, yeah? I want to talk to you about how you hurt my feelings! Now open the goddamn door, you little bitch!”

Bumpo walked out into the hall, looking about as angry as Bumpo ever looked. Dave, not knowing exactly what he was going to do, walked out as well.

Mike paid them absolutely no attention. He was pounding on the door again with his fists.

Dave cleared his throat.

“Ummm . . . dude? It’s kind of late.”

Mike suddenly stopped pounding. He turned to Dave, cocked his head, and smiled this weird, look-at-me-I’m-a-loon kind of smile.

“Yeah? But what time is it in Hawaii?”

Bumpo stepped forward. “You should go right now.”

“Shut your face, lard ass,” Mike shot back.

“Or stay,” Bumpo said. “Whatever works.”

The guy smiled and turned back to Joan’s door. “Joan! Let me in!” He kicked it again.

This time, Dave heard wood splinter. Okay. Enough was enough. “I’m gonna call the cops,” he announced.

“Yeah?” Mike turned on him again, and this time he started walking forward. “You are?”

Before Dave could respond, Mike slapped him on the head.

“Ow.” Dave started to back up, out of Mike’s range. He hadn’t been in a fight since second grade, when Mary Sue Martin beat the crap out of him for pulling her hair.

Mike hit him again, and smiled. “You fuckin’ geek,” he said. “I’m gonna give you a few tattoos to go with all your candy-ass piercings.” He drew back an arm then, clenched his hand into a big meaty fist.

Dave’s stomach rolled over.

The door at the end of the hall opened.

Six-eleven. He really didn’t have time for this.

But he opened his door anyway.

Bumpo and Dave were backing away from a junkie who was undoubtedly the source of the yelling he’d heard before.

Castle cleared his throat.

The junkie turned around.

“I’ll say this once. Get out.”

The junkie smiled. Sweat on his brow, eyes glazed over, hands twitching constantly . . .

Crystal meth, Castle guessed. Idiot.

“People think,” the junkie said, starting confidently down the hall toward him, “oh, Mike. He can’t do his tricks anymore, he doesn’t have the, the, the speed anymore. But watch this.”

The junkie drew a knife, quicker than Castle would have thought possible, given his condition. Butterfly knife—he twirled it in the air, jabbing this way and that, darting around Castle with remarkable speed, eyes gleaming with savage, primitive glee.

Castle punched him square in the face.

The junkie screamed.

“My nose! You broke my nose!”

“Really?” Castle ripped the knife out of the man’s hand, and rapped him on the bridge of the nose with it.

The junkie howled again, even louder.

“You could be right,” Castle said. “I’d see a doctor, if I were you.”

Then Castle broke one of his ribs, and then a finger, and then he kicked the man down the stairs.

Six-twelve.

Dave and Bumpo looked on, wide-eyed.

Joan’s door creaked open. She looked at Castle, at Dave and Bumpo, and then shook her head.

“You stuck up for me.” Grayson was staring at him with undisguised admiration. “Nobody ever stuck up for me before.”

The look in his eyes reminded Castle of something. It took him a second to figure out what.

Will. His son used to look at him like that.

Dave’s nose was bleeding. Bumpo stepped up next to him and pressed a kerchief to his face.

“Let’s put some ice on that.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Dave smiled at Castle. “Thanks again, man.”

Castle nodded. He had nothing to say to them; he’d seen a problem and solved it. Done. No more contact necessary. He moved to go, too.

Joan stood in the middle of the hallway, blocking his path back to the apartment.

It was the first really good look he’d had at her. She was tall. Five-eight, maybe even five-nine. Taller than Maria had been. Same color eyes, though. Blue. Just like Maria’s.

He had to go.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said. “About Mike. I met him . . . it doesn’t matter where I met him. I made a mistake one night. I mean,” she sighed, “he’s pathetic now, but a few years ago, he was . . . anyway, now he’s my latest ex-boyfriend.”

“Good. Excuse me.” He moved past her.

“You’re Castle,” she called after him.

He turned to face her again. “I used to be.”

“We saw you on TV.”

“I don’t have one.”

“I’m Joan. Dave’s the guy with all the umm . . . metal, and Bumpo’s the large guy.”

“I know who you are.”

“I don’t know how to say this,” Joan began, “so I’ll just . . . anyway, we’re really sorry.”

“About what?”

“Your family.”

She did indeed look sorry. Sympathetic. But he really didn’t have time.

“Did you know them?”

“No.”

“Then there’s no need to be sorry. I’m over it.”

Joan looked over his shoulder then, and he realized he’d left his apartment door wide open. He knew what she was seeing. The bare room. The whiskey bottle on the table. The half-empty glass.

“Don’t let your memories kill you,” she said softly.

“They won’t kill me.” How could they? Like he’d told Weeks, he was already dead.

He picked up the duffel, shut his door, and left the building without looking back. Without speaking another word.