The Crown Vic pulled out of the precinct garage with Beckett behind the wheel, Ryan riding shotgun, and Esposito in back. Castle and I followed in the Mustang, the rumble of the engine drawing appreciative looks from several uniformed officers in the parking lot.
"Your car is making people jealous," Castle observed as we merged into traffic.
"It has that effect."
"Does it make you feel powerful? The whole 'man and his machine' thing?"
I glanced at him. "It makes me feel like I have reliable transportation that can handle emergency situations. Everything else is just a bonus."
"That's the most boring answer you could have possibly given."
"Would you prefer I wax poetic about horsepower and torque?"
"Actually, yes. That would be way more interesting than 'reliable transportation.'" Castle settled back in his seat, watching the city flow past. "You know, you're surprisingly hard to read for a guy who looks like an action movie protagonist."
"That's the point."
"Mysterious. I like it. Very 'strong silent type.'" He pulled out his phone, presumably to take notes. "Do you brood? Please tell me you brood. That would be perfect for the character I'm already writing based on you."
"I don't brood. I think. There's a difference."
"Is there though?"
I couldn't help but smile. Castle was exhausting in the way puppies were exhausting—too much energy, too much enthusiasm, but ultimately endearing. "You're going to be a handful, aren't you?"
"Oh, you have no idea. Kate's been dealing with me for all of one case, and I'm pretty sure she's already planning my murder."
"Just one case?"
"Yeah, we worked together briefly on a copycat killer who was using my books. It was incredibly flattering and deeply disturbing in equal measure." Castle typed something on his phone. "But this is my first official day as her permanent shadow. Well, our first official day."
The Crown Vic ahead of us took a left, and I followed, the Mustang handling the turn with smooth precision. We were heading into Hell's Kitchen—gentrified in patches, still rough around the edges in others. The kind of neighborhood where million-dollar condos sat next to buildings that should've been condemned twenty years ago.
Beckett pulled up in front of a mid-rise apartment building that fell into the "seen better days" category. Patrol cars and CSU vans were already parked out front, uniformed officers keeping the growing crowd of curious onlookers behind barriers.
I found a spot across the street—legal parking, miracle of miracles—and killed the engine.
Castle and I climbed out just as Esposito emerged from the Crown Vic. He stopped mid-step, staring at the Mustang with an expression that could only be described as longing.
"Holy shit," he breathed. "Is that a Boss 429?"
"Yes."
"Original?"
"Externally. Modern under the hood."
Esposito walked around the car slowly, reverently, like he was in the presence of something sacred. "Bro, this is... this is *art*. What's she got under there?"
"Custom 500 horsepower, reinforced chassis, bulletproof glass, racing suspension." I locked the car with a chirp. "She handles like a dream."
"She," Esposito repeated, grinning. "Man's got it bad for his ride. I respect that." He looked at Castle. "Your bodyguard just got way cooler than you."
"I'm aware," Castle said dryly.
Ryan joined us, giving the Mustang an appreciative once-over. "Nice ride, Bennett."
"Thanks."
Beckett appeared, looking impatient. "Are we going to stand around admiring cars, or are we going to work a crime scene?"
"Can't we do both?" Esposito asked.
"No." She turned and headed toward the building. "Come on."
We followed her inside—the lobby was cramped and smelled like old carpet and someone's attempt to cover it up with pine-scented air freshener. An elevator that looked like it predated the Reagan administration sat with its doors open, but Beckett headed for the stairs.
"Third floor," she said. "And Castle? Bennett? Remember—you're observers. That means observe, not touch."
"Scout's honor," Castle said, holding up three fingers.
"Were you actually a Boy Scout?"
"No, but I played one in a commercial once."
Beckett sighed in a way that suggested this was going to be a very long partnership.
The third-floor hallway was narrow, wallpaper peeling in places, the kind of worn-down atmosphere that spoke of transient tenants and landlords who did the bare minimum. Yellow crime scene tape blocked off apartment 3C, and a uniformed officer stood guard.
"Detective Beckett," she said, flashing her badge. The officer nodded and lifted the tape.
Inside, the apartment was small—studio layout, one room serving as bedroom and living area, tiny kitchen in the corner, bathroom probably the size of a closet. CSU techs were moving through the space with practiced efficiency, photographing, dusting for prints, collecting evidence.
And in the center of the room, sprawled on the floor between the unmade bed and a coffee table covered in takeout containers, was the body.
Male, early thirties, jeans and a t-shirt, single gunshot wound to the chest. Blood pooled beneath him, soaked into the cheap carpet. His eyes were open, staring at nothing. The metallic smell of blood mixed with the stale air of the apartment.
I'd seen death before. Too many times to count. But it never got easier—just familiar.
Castle, on the other hand, went pale. Not green, not like he was going to throw up, but definitely pale. He swallowed hard and looked away.
"First body?" I asked quietly.
"In person? Yeah." He took a breath, steadied himself. "The copycat case, I showed up after... after. This is different."
"It usually is."
Beckett was already kneeling by the body, studying it with the focused intensity of someone who saw past the horror to the evidence. Ryan and Esposito fanned out, Ryan checking the kitchen area while Esposito examined the door and windows.
And then a voice called out from the doorway, rich and warm with a hint of the South in it. "Well, well. Who's the new eye candy?"
I turned, and there she was.
Dr. Lanie Parish was exactly like I remembered from the show and exactly different in person. Dark skin, natural hair pulled back, sharp cheekbones, and eyes that were assessing me with the kind of clinical appreciation that suggested she both liked what she saw and was already cataloging details for later gossip. She wore a CSU jacket over stylish clothes and carried herself with the confidence of someone who knew she was good at her job.
"Lanie," Beckett said without looking up, "meet Richard Castle, mystery writer and our new observer. And Mr. Bennett, Castle's security consultant."
"Security consultant." Lanie's smile widened as she walked into the apartment, her gaze fixed on me. "Mmm-hmm. And does this security consultant have a first name, or should I just keep calling him 'eye candy' in my head?"
"Frank," I said, offering my hand.
She took it, her grip firm and her touch lingering just a beat longer than strictly professional. "Dr. Lanie Parish. Medical examiner, truth-teller, and the only reason Kate solves half her cases."
"I'm standing right here," Beckett said.
"I know, girl. I'm just making sure the new guy knows how things work around here." Lanie released my hand but didn't step back, studying me with the kind of open appraisal that would've made most people uncomfortable. "So, Frank. Military?"
"Army. Special Investigations."
"And now you're babysitting writers." Her eyes sparkled with amusement. "That's either a major career upgrade or a tragic downgrade. I haven't decided which."
"Little bit of both," I admitted.
She laughed—genuine and infectious. "Oh, I like you. Kate, I like this one. Can we keep him?"
"He's not a puppy, Lanie."
"More's the pity." Lanie finally turned her attention to the body, her demeanor shifting instantly from playful to professional. She knelt beside the victim, pulling on gloves with practiced efficiency. "Alright, let's see what we've got."
Beckett stood, giving Lanie room to work. "Castle, Bennett—stay behind that line." She pointed to an invisible boundary about six feet from the body. "Lanie needs space."
"What's the initial assessment?" Ryan asked, coming over from the kitchen.
Lanie examined the wound, then checked the body's hands and arms. "Male, I'd say early thirties. Single GSW to the chest, looks like it caught him center mass. Based on lividity and rigor, I'd estimate time of death somewhere between ten PM and midnight last night."
"Cause of death?" Esposito asked.
"Barring any surprises? The bullet." Lanie gave him a look. "But I'll confirm once I get him on my table. No defensive wounds on the hands or arms, which suggests he either knew his attacker or didn't see it coming."
"Or both," Castle said quietly.
Everyone turned to look at him.
He shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. "What? It's possible. Someone he trusted, maybe sitting right there—" he pointed to a chair near the coffee table, "—pulls a gun. He doesn't have time to defend himself because he's not expecting it."
Beckett studied him for a moment, then looked at the chair. "Esposito, check that chair for prints."
"On it."
Castle blinked. "Wait, was I actually helpful?"
"Don't let it go to your head," Beckett said, but there was the faintest hint of approval in her tone.
I moved closer to the doorway, careful to stay out of the way but positioning myself where I could see the whole room. Sherlock's mind was already cataloging details—the takeout containers all from the same restaurant, suggesting regular patronage. The lack of personal touches in the apartment, no photos or decorations, indicating either a recent move or someone who didn't put down roots. The TV was on when they found him—patrol said the neighbor reported hearing it all night—but there was no cable box, just an antenna, which meant limited channels and probably financial constraints.
"Frank."
I looked up to find Lanie watching me, a knowing smile on her face. "You're observing."
"That's what I was told to do."
"Uh-huh. And what are you observing?"
This was a test. I could feel it. Lanie was curious about me, yes, but she was also protective of her friend. She wanted to know if I was going to be a help or a hindrance.
I glanced at Beckett, who was watching me with that same neutral expression that gave nothing away.
"Someone who didn't have a lot of money," I said carefully. "Recent move or transient lifestyle. Creature of habit—probably ate at the same restaurant multiple times a week. And whatever happened, he wasn't expecting trouble. No signs of struggle, no defensive positions. He was relaxed when he died."
Lanie's smile widened. "Military intelligence, huh? That tracks." She looked at Beckett. "Kate, I'm amending my earlier statement. We're definitely keeping this one."
"He's not—"
"Not a puppy, yes, I heard you the first time." Lanie stood, stripping off her gloves. "I'll have preliminary results for you by this afternoon, full autopsy by tomorrow morning. In the meantime, you might want to canvass the neighbors again. Someone had to have heard the gunshot."
"Already on it," Ryan said from the doorway, phone in hand. "Uniforms are doing door-to-door now."
Beckett nodded, then turned to study the room with the kind of focused intensity that made it clear why Montgomery called her one of his best. "No wallet, no phone. Either our victim was robbed, or the killer took them."
"Or he didn't have them to begin with," Castle offered.
"Someone living in a walk-up in Hell's Kitchen doesn't have a phone?" Esposito sounded skeptical.
"Not impossible. Burner phone, maybe. Or no phone at all if he was trying to stay off the grid."
That got my attention. "Running from something?"
Castle met my eyes, and I saw the writer's mind working. "Or someone."
Beckett pulled out her notebook. "We need an ID on the victim. Lanie, can you rush the prints?"
"Already bagged them. I'll run them as soon as I get back to the lab." Lanie headed for the door, pausing next to me. "Frank, you ever want a tour of the morgue, you just let me know. I give a *very* thorough tour."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"I bet you will." She winked at Beckett. "Call me when you get something interesting."
After she left, the apartment felt somehow larger. Beckett was issuing instructions to the CSU techs, Ryan and Esposito were conferring about the canvass, and Castle was standing near the window, staring out at the street with that thoughtful expression that suggested he was already building a narrative in his head.
I stayed where I was, watching, observing, and trying very hard not to solve the case before Beckett had a chance to do her job.
Because Elizabeth was right. My hero complex and Sherlock's brain were a dangerous combination.
And this was only day one.
—
We were back at the precinct, waiting for Lanie's preliminary results, when Captain Montgomery appeared in the doorway of his office with an expression that said our day was about to get more complicated.
"Beckett. My office. Bring Castle and his shadow."
Beckett's eyebrows rose, but she stood immediately. "Ryan, Espo—keep working the canvass results."
"On it, boss," Ryan said.
Castle and I followed Beckett into Montgomery's office, where two new players were waiting.
The first was a man in his early forties—average height, solid build, with the kind of steady presence that came from years of federal law enforcement. He wore a suit that said "FBI" before he even opened his mouth, and his expression was professional but wary. Classic fed—competent, by-the-book, and probably not thrilled to be here.
The second man made me stop in my tracks.
Neal Caffrey stood next to the FBI agent, wearing a tailored three-piece suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, looking every inch the reformed con artist playing at being respectable. He was exactly as I remembered from the show—6'0", lean and elegant, with the kind of classic good looks that belonged on a 1940s movie poster. Matt Bomer's face, charming smile, blue eyes that missed nothing even when he was pretending to be casual.
My twin brother. Somehow.
Because ROB had a sense of humor, Neal and I looked nothing alike beyond our height. Where I was built like a tank—6'1", 220 pounds of muscle courtesy of military training and Frank Martin's physical conditioning—Neal was built like a dancer, all lean grace and economical movement. His face was refined, aristocratic almost, while mine had the harder edges of someone who'd spent time in combat zones. We both had dark hair and blue eyes, but that's where the similarities ended.
Anyone looking at us would assume we were brothers in the sense of "same parents, different genetic lottery."
Neal's eyes widened fractionally when he saw me, but he recovered instantly, that practiced smile sliding into place. "Frank. Didn't expect to see you here."
"Neal." I kept my voice neutral, aware that everyone in the room was watching this interaction. "Small world."
"Getting smaller by the minute, apparently." He turned to the FBI agent beside him. "Peter, this is my brother, Frank Bennett. Frank, this is SSA Peter Burke, my handler—sorry, *consultant supervisor* at the White Collar division."
Peter Burke extended his hand, and I shook it. Firm grip, direct eye contact, assessing me the way cops did when they were trying to figure out if you were going to be a problem. "Mr. Bennett. Your brother's mentioned you."
"Nothing good, I hope."
"Actually, he speaks very highly of you. Military service, security consulting, generally being the responsible twin." Burke's expression remained neutral, but I caught the hint of dry humor. "It's a nice contrast."
"I'm standing right here," Neal said mildly.
"We know," Burke and I said simultaneously.
Montgomery cleared his throat. "Now that we've established the family resemblance—"
"What family resemblance?" Castle interrupted, staring between Neal and me. "They look nothing alike. Are you sure you're twins?"
"Fraternal," Neal and I said in unison.
"*Very* fraternal," I added.
"Genetics are weird," Neal finished.
Castle looked between us, clearly trying to reconcile how two people who looked so different could be twins. "But you're both—I mean, you're each—this is very confusing."
"Welcome to our childhood," Neal said cheerfully.
Beckett, who'd been watching this exchange with barely concealed impatience, turned to Montgomery. "Sir, why is the FBI in our house?"
Montgomery gestured to Burke. "Agent Burke, you want to explain why your case just intersected with our homicide?"
Burke pulled out a tablet, tapping the screen before turning it to show us. "Your victim—ID'd through fingerprints as Marcus Sheldon, age thirty-two—has been on the FBI's radar for the past six months. We believe he's connected to a sophisticated art theft ring operating out of the tri-state area."
"Art theft?" Beckett's expression sharpened. "What kind of art?"
"High-end pieces from private collections. Museums. Corporate offices." Burke swiped through images—paintings, sculptures, artifacts. "Total value of what's been stolen in the past year? North of fifty million dollars."
Castle whistled. "That's a lot of art."
"And Marcus Sheldon was part of this?" Beckett asked.
"We believe so. He was a logistics guy—handled transportation, storage, occasionally helped with the actual thefts when they needed extra hands." Burke pulled up another image, this one showing Sheldon with two other men. "But he was small-time compared to the people running the operation."
Neal leaned forward, studying the image with the kind of focus that suggested he was seeing things the rest of us weren't. "The storage locations—you said he handled those?"
"According to our intelligence, yes."
"Then whoever killed him either wanted the art he was storing, wanted to silence him before he could talk, or both." Neal glanced at Burke. "And since we haven't recovered any of the stolen pieces, I'm guessing option one or three."
"That's our working theory," Burke confirmed. He looked at Beckett. "Which is why the FBI would like to work this case jointly with the NYPD. Your homicide investigation could lead us to the art, and our investigation into the theft ring could help you solve the murder."
Beckett's expression suggested she was less than thrilled about federal involvement, but she was too professional to let it show beyond a slight tightening around her eyes. "And Neal Caffrey's involvement?"
"Consultant," Burke said firmly. "Neal has expertise in art theft and forgery that makes him uniquely qualified to help with this investigation."
"He's a convicted felon," Beckett pointed out.
"A *reformed* convicted felon," Neal corrected with a charming smile. "And technically, I'm working off my sentence through the FBI's consultant program. Very official, very legal, complete with an ankle monitor and everything." He lifted his pant leg slightly to show the tracking device.
"How reassuring," Beckett said dryly.
Montgomery leaned back in his chair. "Beckett, I know you don't like working with the feds, but this is coming from above my pay grade. The FBI wants joint jurisdiction, and the Mayor's office agrees. You'll maintain primary on the homicide, but you're sharing information with Agent Burke's team."
"Understood, sir." Beckett's tone was professional, but I could see the frustration in the set of her shoulders.
Castle, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with excitement. "This is amazing. Art thieves, murder, FBI consultants, twin brothers who look nothing alike working the same case—this is like something out of a movie."
"Please don't turn my life into one of your novels," Neal said.
"Too late. I'm already outlining chapters in my head."
Burke checked his watch. "We should head to Sheldon's storage unit. We got the warrant approved this morning, and CSU is meeting us there in an hour." He looked at Beckett. "Your team is welcome to join us."
"We will," Beckett said. She turned to Montgomery. "Sir?"
"Go. Keep me updated." Montgomery's gaze shifted to me. "Mr. Bennett, I assume you're going with them?"
"Where Castle goes, I go."
"Wouldn't have it any other way," Castle said happily.
As we filed out of Montgomery's office, Neal fell into step beside me, his voice dropping to a murmur that only I could hear. "So. Security consulting for mystery writers now? That's quite the career pivot."
"Says the art forger working for the FBI."
"Consultant," he corrected. "Big difference. Much more respectable."
"Your ankle monitor says otherwise."
"Details." Neal's smile was easy, but his eyes were serious. "Lunch this week?"
"Thursday. Elizabeth already told you."
"She did. But I wanted to confirm." He paused as we reached the bullpen. "And Frank? Try not to show off too much. Peter's good people, but he gets twitchy when civilians are more competent than his agents."
"I'll try to restrain myself."
"Liar."
We emerged into the bullpen to find Ryan and Esposito waiting, both of them staring at Neal with unconcealed curiosity.
"That's your brother?" Esposito asked me.
"Unfortunately."
"Hey," Neal protested.
"You look nothing alike," Ryan said, echoing Castle's earlier observation.
"Fraternal twins," Neal explained again. "Frank got the brawn, I got the beauty."
"Pretty sure it's the other way around," Burke muttered.
Beckett was already grabbing her jacket. "Alright, let's move. Ryan, Esposito, you're with me. Castle, Bennett—you're riding with us this time. Agent Burke and Caffrey can take their own vehicle."
"About that," I said. "I'd prefer to drive Castle myself. Security protocol."
Beckett studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. Follow us to the storage facility." She looked at Burke. "Address?"
Burke rattled off a location in Queens, and Beckett pulled out her phone to map it.
As everyone started moving toward the elevators, Neal caught my arm, pulling me aside. "Frank. Seriously. This case—it's more complicated than it looks."
"They usually are."
"I mean it." His expression was uncharacteristically serious. "The people running this theft ring? They're not small-time. And if they killed Sheldon to protect their operation..."
"Then they won't hesitate to kill anyone else who gets in their way," I finished. "I know, Neal. I've dealt with worse."
"In war zones. This is different."
"Not that different." I squeezed his shoulder—a brief gesture that said *I've got this* better than words could. "Trust me. I know what I'm doing."
"That's what worries me. You always know what you're doing, right up until you're diving in front of bullets for someone else." Neal's voice dropped even lower. "Peter's good people. So's his team. But if this goes sideways—"
"It won't."
"Frank—"
"I've got Castle. You've got your investigation. We'll both do our jobs and compare notes over Thai food on Thursday." I managed a smile. "Besides, you're the one who should be careful. I know how you get around priceless art."
"That was the old me."
"Neal, that was literally six months ago."
"Ancient history." But he was smiling now, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Okay. Thursday. And Frank?"
"Yeah?"
"Try not to make me look bad in front of Peter. He already thinks you're the golden child."
"That's because I am."
"Debatable."
We headed for the elevators, where Castle was waiting with barely contained glee.
"Your brother is a con artist," he said as soon as we were alone in the elevator. "A *con artist*. Working for the FBI. This is the best day of my life."
"He's a reformed con artist."
"Is there really such a thing?"
I thought about Neal—about the choices he'd made, the path he'd chosen, the fact that he was currently wearing an ankle monitor because he'd gotten caught forging bonds. "Honestly? I'm still figuring that out."
"Well, for what it's worth, he seems to care about you. That brotherly concern thing was genuine."
"Neal's a lot of things, but he's never lied about caring about family."
The elevator doors opened, and we headed for the garage. Esposito was already drooling over the Mustang again.
"Man, I'm gonna need you to let me drive that thing someday," he said as we approached.
"Not happening."
"Come on. Five minutes. Just around the block."
"Esposito," Beckett called from the Crown Vic, "stop hitting on Bennett's car and get in the vehicle."
"It's not hitting on if it's true love," Esposito muttered, but he climbed into the back seat.
Castle and I got into the Mustang, and I started the engine. That beautiful rumble echoed through the garage.
"Your brother seems nice," Castle said as we followed the Crown Vic out into traffic.
"He's a menace."
"Says the guy who looks like he could bench-press a Volkswagen."
"That's different."
"How?"
"I use my powers for good."
Castle laughed. "And Neal doesn't?"
I thought about that—about Neal's complicated relationship with right and wrong, about the FBI consultant deal, about the fact that my brother had spent years living outside the law because our father had taught him that's what Bennetts did.
"Neal uses his powers for Neal," I said finally. "And sometimes that aligns with good. Sometimes it doesn't."
"But you love him anyway."
"He's my brother. I don't have a choice."
"Sure you do. Plenty of people walk away from family."
I glanced at Castle, catching the edge of something personal in that statement. "Not the Bennetts. We're stuck with each other, whether we like it or not."
"I think you like it more than you're letting on."
Maybe I did. Maybe despite everything—despite our different paths, despite Neal's criminal past and my military record, despite looking nothing alike and having almost nothing in common—I was glad he was my brother.
But I wasn't about to admit that out loud.
"Focus on the case, Castle. We've got art thieves and a murder to solve."
"And a mysterious storage unit to investigate," Castle added eagerly. "This is going to be amazing."
I followed the Crown Vic through Manhattan traffic, hyperaware of the FBI vehicle somewhere behind us with Neal and Burke inside. My twin brother and I, working the same case from different angles.
ROB's sense of humor was really something else.
This was going to get complicated.
But then again, when had my life ever been simple?
—
The storage facility in Queens was exactly the kind of place you'd expect for hiding stolen art—bland, forgettable, the type of building you'd drive past a thousand times without noticing. Chain-link fence, rolling metal doors, security cameras that probably only half-worked. The kind of place that asked no questions as long as the monthly fee cleared.
We pulled into the parking lot behind Beckett's Crown Vic, and I watched as Burke's FBI sedan arrived moments later. Neal emerged first, adjusting his suit jacket with the kind of casual elegance that made even stepping out of a car look choreographed. Burke followed, all business, already on his phone coordinating with someone.
A CSU van was already parked near unit 147, techs unloading equipment with practiced efficiency.
"This is exciting," Castle said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "I've never been to a real storage unit raid before."
"It's not a raid. It's a search pursuant to a warrant."
"You say tomato, I say dramatic story opportunity."
I climbed out of the Mustang, and Esposito immediately wandered over, still giving my car appreciative looks. "Man, I'm telling you—you ever want to sell her, I got first dibs."
"Not happening."
"Come on. Name your price."
"There isn't one."
"Everyone has a price," Neal said, walking up with that trademark smirk. "Frank's just too sentimental to admit it."
"Says the guy who once traded a Monet for a date," I shot back.
Castle's head whipped around so fast I thought he'd give himself whiplash. "I'm sorry, what? You traded a *Monet*?"
"Allegedly," Neal said smoothly. "And it was a very good date."
"It was also fifteen years ago," Burke added, joining us. "Before my time, thankfully. I don't have to include it in my reports."
Beckett emerged from the Crown Vic with Ryan, both of them looking less than thrilled about the federal presence. "Agent Burke, are we doing this or are we standing around discussing art theft's greatest hits?"
"Right. Let's move." Burke gestured toward the storage unit, where a manager was waiting with keys, looking nervous about the police presence.
We approached as a group—Beckett and her team, Burke and Neal, Castle and me bringing up the rear. The manager, a skinny guy in his fifties with thinning hair and a name tag that read "Gary," fumbled with his key ring.
"Unit 147, right? Rented by Marcus Sheldon six months ago. Paid in cash, always on time. Seemed like a nice guy." Gary found the right key. "Is he in some kind of trouble?"
"He's dead," Beckett said bluntly.
Gary paled. "Oh. That's... that's terrible."
"The key, please," Burke said, extending his hand.
Gary handed it over and quickly backed away, clearly wanting no part of whatever was about to happen.
Burke unlocked the padlock, and Ryan helped him roll up the metal door. It rattled and screeched, the sound echoing through the facility.
Inside, the unit was packed.
Not hoarder-level packed, but organized—wooden crates stacked against the walls, some labeled with shipping information, others unmarked. A workbench in the corner with tools neatly arranged. Drop cloths covering several larger objects. Everything arranged with the kind of careful precision that spoke of someone who knew what they were doing.
"CSU, you're up," Burke said, and the techs moved in with cameras and evidence markers.
Neal stepped forward, but Burke caught his arm. "Look, don't touch. Not until they've processed everything."
"I know the drill, Peter." But Neal's eyes were already scanning the space, cataloging details with the kind of focus that came from years of professional theft. "Those crates—the ones with customs labels? Those are fake. The stamps are wrong."
"How can you tell from here?" Ryan asked.
"Because I used to make fake customs stamps." Neal pointed. "See the font on the date? It's Arial. Customs uses a proprietary font that's slightly narrower. Small detail, but it's a tell."
Beckett exchanged a glance with Burke. "So these pieces were smuggled in using false documentation."
"Most likely. Or they're legitimate crates being repurposed to hide stolen art." Neal took a careful step closer, staying behind the crime scene tape the CSU techs had already strung up. "The real question is what's inside them."
One of the CSU techs—a woman in her thirties with short dark hair—approached with a crowbar. "Detective Beckett? We're ready to open the first crate if you want to see what's inside."
"Do it," Beckett said.
The tech wedged the crowbar under the lid and pried it open with a screech of nails pulling free from wood. She carefully removed the top, revealing layers of protective foam and bubble wrap.
Neal leaned in as far as the tape would allow. "Careful with that. If it's what I think it is..."
The tech pulled back the wrapping, and everyone went silent.
Inside the crate, nestled in custom-cut foam, was a painting. Even under the fluorescent lights of the storage unit, it was stunning—rich colors, masterful brushwork, the kind of piece that belonged in a museum, not a storage unit in Queens.
"Oh my god," Castle breathed. "Is that real?"
"It's real," Neal said quietly, his voice taking on a reverence I rarely heard from him. "That's a Degas. *Dancers in Blue*, if I'm not mistaken. It was stolen from a private collection in Boston eight months ago. Estimated value around twelve million."
"Twelve *million*?" Esposito stared at the painting. "That's sitting in a storage unit?"
"That's sitting in *our* storage unit," Ryan corrected. "Evidence in a homicide."
Burke was already on his phone, presumably calling the Boston field office to confirm the identification. Beckett moved closer to the painting, studying it with the same intensity she'd given the crime scene.
"If one crate has a twelve-million-dollar painting," she said slowly, "what's in the others?"
"Only one way to find out," Burke said, lowering his phone. "CSU, let's open them all. Carefully."
What followed was like the world's most expensive, most illegal unboxing video. Crate after crate revealed treasures—paintings, sculptures, artifacts. Each piece more valuable than the last. The CSU techs photographed everything, documented positions, maintained chain of custody with the kind of meticulous attention that came from knowing they were handling millions of dollars worth of stolen property.
I stayed back with Castle, watching the organized chaos while keeping one eye on the perimeter. Because if this much valuable art had been stored here, someone was going to be very unhappy that the FBI had found it.
"Frank," Castle said quietly, "are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"That whoever killed Marcus Sheldon is going to be very motivated to keep this quiet?"
"That, and also that we're standing in a storage unit full of stolen art with minimal security and a lot of potential for someone to show up with bad intentions."
"Already thinking about it." I scanned the facility again—too many sight lines, too many places for someone to set up observation. "We should—"
My phone buzzed. A text from Elizabeth: *Just got an interesting call. Apparently someone's been asking questions about Castle's new security consultant. Specifically, who you are and what your military background is.*
I showed the text to Castle, whose expression immediately shifted from excitement to concern.
"Someone's checking up on you?"
"Seems like it."
"Is that bad?"
"It's either very bad or completely routine background checking." I typed a response to Elizabeth: *Source?*
Her reply came immediately: *Anonymous inquiry through one of my information brokers. Whoever's asking has money and connections. Be careful.*
"Okay," Castle said, reading over my shoulder, "now it's definitely bad."
Neal appeared beside us, and I angled my phone so he could see. His expression hardened. "Frank, if someone's digging into your background..."
"Then they're worried about who Castle hired to protect him," I finished. "Which means they're paying attention to this investigation."
"Which means they might already know we're here," Neal added.
We both turned to look at the storage facility's entrance simultaneously—twin instinct, maybe, or just mutual paranoia.
Nothing. No suspicious vehicles, no obvious surveillance.
But that didn't mean we weren't being watched.
"Peter," Neal called out, his voice casual but with an edge that made Burke's head snap up. "We might have a problem."
Burke was beside us in three strides. "What kind of problem?"
I showed him Elizabeth's text. His jaw tightened. "How reliable is this information broker?"
"Very. Elizabeth doesn't work with amateurs."
"Alright." Burke's hand moved to his hip, resting near his service weapon in that unconscious way cops did when they were suddenly alert. "Let me get more units here. If someone's watching us, I want backup close."
As Burke moved away, making calls, Beckett appeared. "What's going on?"
"Possible surveillance," I said. "Someone's been asking questions about me. Could be routine, could be the people who killed Sheldon getting nervous about the investigation."
Her expression shifted immediately into cop mode—alert, assessing, ready. "Castle, Bennett—get back to your vehicle. Now."
"But—" Castle started.
"*Now*," Beckett repeated, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I didn't argue. I grabbed Castle's arm and started walking toward the Mustang, my other hand dropping to my ankle where my Glock rested in its holster. Not drawing it—that would cause panic—but ready.
Behind us, I heard Beckett issuing rapid instructions to Ryan and Esposito, her voice crisp and professional.
We were halfway to the Mustang when I heard it—the distinctive sound of a vehicle approaching fast.
Too fast for this location.
"Castle," I said quietly, "when I say run, you run for the car. Don't stop, don't look back. Understand?"
His eyes went wide, but he nodded.
The vehicle—a black SUV with tinted windows—came around the corner into the parking lot.
And didn't slow down.
"Run," I said.
---
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