Chapter 6: Dinner with the Devil
The warmth of La Cucina di Nonna was a physical relief after the sterile chill of the precinct. The air swam with the rich, comforting scents of garlic, simmering tomatoes, and roasting meat. Red-checkered tablecloths and flickering candles in chianti bottles cast a soft, golden glow, making the world outside feel distant and irrelevant.
They’d pushed two tables together, the clatter of cutlery and the low hum of conversation creating a buffer against the case. For a moment, it almost felt normal.
Castle raised his glass of Chianti. “To inter-agency cooperation. And to the lucky soul picking up the check.”
Jane clinked his mug of tea against Castle’s glass with a soft chime. He took a slow, appreciative sip. “You see, Lisbon? Civilization. It really does exist.”
Lisbon shook her head, but a small smile played on her lips as she speared a piece of mozzarella from the antipasto platter. “Don’t get comfortable.”
Beckett watched the exchange, her own glass of red wine cradled in her hands. She felt the day’s tension beginning to unknot in her shoulders. It was strange, sitting across from another woman who clearly understood the unique brand of exasperation that came with a brilliant, unpredictable partner. Lisbon caught her eye and Beckett offered a small nod. Lisbon returned it—an unspoken, you deal with one, you get it.
Castle leaned forward. “So, Jane—the whole reading-people thing. Is there, like, a checklist? Shifty eyes? Suspicious sweating? Hidden villain moustache?”
Jane placed his mug down with deliberate care. “It’s not about boxes to tick. It’s the things people don’t say. How they sit, how they hold a fork, what words they avoid.” He smiled, a faint, elusive thing. “For example—you’re trying to work out my method because you feel your role in the investigation has been overshadowed. You joke to compensate for feeling sidelined. Very common among clever people.”
Ryan choked slightly on his breadstick.
Castle’s smile tightened. “I’m a writer. Observation is part of the job. It’s not insecurity. It’s curiosity.”
“Of course it is.” Jane said amiably, turning his gaze to Beckett. “And you, Detective—you keep your left hand close to your weapon even here. You don’t ever really relax. You trust your team, but you keep the world at arm’s length. Must be exhausting.”
Beckett felt a flush of heat that had nothing to do with the candlelight. She forced her hand away from her hip and onto the table. “It’s called being responsible.”
“It’s called carrying the weight of everything you can’t control.” Jane corrected softly, his eyes holding a depth of understanding that was unnerving.
An uncomfortable silence settled over the table. Esposito stared intently at his plate of linguine. Cho ate calmly, unbothered.
It was Lisbon who broke the spell. “Jane,” she said, her voice a low, firm warning. “Eat your calamari.”
Jane immediately picked up his fork, the intense consultant vanishing back into the whimsical man. “Yes, ma’am.”
Castle let out a short, forced laugh. “Okay, okay, he’s observant. Big deal. Beckett’s the one who tied the forgery to the homicide. We were already on that trail.”
“Were you?” Jane asked softly. “Or were you following evidence until it stalled? The truth was always there. You didn’t listen to the emotional signatures—the artist’s precision versus the killer’s rage. Two different minds.”
“And you heard that from a photograph.” Beckett said, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice.
“I heard it from what wasn’t in the photograph.” Jane replied, his tone losing its playful edge.
The conversation lulled again, the sound of clinking plates and distant laughter from other tables filling the space. Beckett found herself looking at Lisbon, who was calmly slicing a meatball. “How do you live with that? All day, every day?” Beckett asked, the question out before she could stop it.
Lisbon finished her bite, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. She glanced at Jane, who was now enthusiastically describing the perfect way to steep tea to a bemused Ryan. A look of fond, profound exhaustion crossed her face, so fleeting Beckett almost missed it.
“You don’t handle him,” Lisbon said, her voice low enough for only Beckett to hear. “You point him in a direction and try to limit the damage. And hope he doesn’t talk you into a migraine. Most of the time he’s right. The rest of the time… well, property damage reports exist for a reason.”
Beckett gave a dry, humourless laugh. “I know that feeling.” She glanced at Castle, who was now trying to one-up Jane with a story about a misguided LARPing incident during one of his book tours. “Believe me.”
“At least yours is mostly housebroken.” Lisbon smirked, taking a sip of her water.
A genuine smile broke through Beckett’s reserve. “Questionable.”
For a few minutes, they ate in a companionable silence, two officers sharing a brief respite from the front lines. The food was good, the wine was better, and the simple, human act of sharing a meal was working its magic.
The food was good, the wine was better, and the simple, human act of sharing a meal was working its magic. The initial friction had smoothed into a weary, professional camaraderie. Esposito leaned back, patting his stomach, and looked across the table at the CBI agents with genuine curiosity.
“So—you CBI folks must’ve seen some seriously weird stuff out west.” He began, swirling the last of his wine. “What’s the strangest case you’ve had?”
Jane’s eyes lit up with theatrical delight.
“Oh, that’s easy. We once got coordinates in the desert. No body, no scene—nothing but sand. We stood there like idiots for an hour.”
He paused letting the suspense build.
“Then a man fell out of the sky. Literally. I must admit, it even surprised me.”
He jerked subtly as Lisbon’s foot made contact under the table. He glanced at her briefly, and then continued.
“Turned out someone sabotaged his parachute on a corporate retreat. Very metaphorical.”
Ryan stared, fork suspended mid-air.
“He fell out of the sky?” Castle repeated, his writer’s brain visibly whirring. “That’s… I’m absolutely using that.”
“His boss sent the note. Thought it’d be ‘team building.’ No parachute instructions included.” Cho stated flatly.
Jane nodded. “The irony was thick enough to wade through. A trust exercise turned murder—human nature never disappoints.”
Castle’s eyes widened appreciatively. “Thank you! Real irony! You’d be surprised how rare that is. Most people call it ‘ironic’ when they forget their umbrella on a rainy day. That’s not irony—that’s poor planning.”
Ryan snorted into his wine. Lisbon stabbed another piece of calamari without looking up. Jane looked faintly pleased with himself.
“There was also the state senator who planted a mole in our unit. Tried to derail an investigation into his daughter.” Cho took a slow sip of water.
“When we exposed the mole, he panicked. Tried to flee the parking lot. Died in a single-vehicle crash.”
Castle sat forward with interest. “Wait—he tried to escape in the parking lot?”
Jane leaned in, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh yes. And when we still needed a confession from the senator, we… adapted.”
Lisbon’s fork paused mid-air. “Jane.” But as always he ignored her.
“Rigsby propped the man’s body in a chair in the interrogation room—head tilted just enough to look lifelike from behind the glass. We told the senator his mole was in the next room, confessing.”
Beckett’s eyebrows shot up.
Cho nodded once, matter-of-fact. “He bought it. Confessed to everything in under ten minutes.”
Castle looked like Christmas had come early. “That is—horrifying. And also genius.”
Lisbon sighed, shoulders slumping ever so slightly as memory washed over her. Mortification and then defensiveness not far behind.
“For the record, our boss was… extremely unhappy.” She pointed out.
“Called it a ‘catastrophic breach of protocol.’” Cho added like he was delivering the weather.
Jane grinned, “Actually I believe he referred to it as potentially causing a crapstorm that would blot out the sun.”
Lisbon lifted her chin, adopting the stubborn practicality that had gotten her through a dozen impossible cases.
“Look, I told him the same thing I’ll tell you—“
She spread her hands, exasperated.
“—it’s not like we killed him.”
Ryan sputtered into his wine. Esposito stared at her like she had just confessed to sorcery. Beckett blinked, torn between horror and reluctant admiration.
Castle sat back, grinning broadly. “That is such a good line. I’m absolutely stealing that.”
The table was still vibrating with residual laughter when Beckett’s phone buzzed a second time—long, insistent, the tone that meant not optional. The sound cut cleanly through the warm chatter and clinking plates. Her expression shifted instantly, the easy camaraderie draining from her face like someone had flicked off a light switch. Castle straightened. Lisbon’s fork stilled. Even Jane’s gaze sharpened with quiet alertness, the whimsical mask slipping just a fraction.
Beckett checked the screen. Her breath caught.
A video message. No caller ID. Same as earlier.
She swallowed hard and tapped it open. The table fell silent as the shaky image flickered to life.
Marcus Crowe—alive, barely. Tied to a metal chair, head slumped forward, blood tracking from his temple.
Behind him stood a figure in gloves and a painter’s smock, their face shadowed, the silhouette steady and deliberate. Then a gloved hand lifted Crowe’s chin, revealing a fresh mark painted along his jawline—
The Scream visage. Small. Precise. Mocking.
A distorted voice filled the restaurant’s quiet.
“Your conservator wasn’t careful.
Your courier wasn’t loyal.
Your forger wasn’t useful.
Find the original.
Or the next body won’t be salvageable.”
The message ended abruptly.
Lisbon exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled. “They’re escalating. I hate serial killers.”
Castle leaned forward, voice low. “This isn’t just art theft. This feels… ritualistic.” Then he turned to Lisbon, “Just how many serial killers have you come across?”
Lisbon ignored the question.
Esposito frowned, “They’re taunting us. Testing us.”
“Or giving us a deadline.” Ryan added looking up at Beckett.
Jane stood up from the table, serene but with an unmistakable spark of excitement—like a man who’d suddenly spotted a corner piece of a massive puzzle. “They’re telling us exactly what they want. We’ve been chasing copies.” He tapped the phone gently. “Now they want us to chase the original.”
Lisbon pushed back her chair with purpose. “Check, please.”
Castle blinked. “But—I haven’t even tried the tiramisu!”
“Looks like your dessert has to wait. We’re up.” Beckett added dryly picking up her suit jacket and bag.
Jane offered Castle a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Ironically, so is Marcus Crowe. For the moment.”
Castle groaned. “Oh great. He uses irony right twice in one night.”
Lisbon was already moving. “Everybody out. We have a hostage, a message, and a clock that just started.”
Beckett headed for the door, adrenaline washing away the warmth of the restaurant.
The hunt had officially changed.