Chapter 1108 Clue to the Mysterious Man (Patreon)

While Calderón was explaining his alibi, Jack’s gaze shifted to the open bedroom door.

The carpet there, though it had a similar gray pattern, was made of high-quality wool—completely different from the nylon fibers found on the victim. He gave Beckett a subtle shake of the head, silently indicating that Dr. Monroe most likely hadn’t been killed in this suite.

However, when the female detective pulled out the surveillance screenshot and asked Caesar Calderón whether he recognized the man in the photo—presumably the last person to see Monroe alive—they got an unexpected lead.

It didn’t come from the drug lord himself, but from his quiet brother, Manuel, who had been standing silently behind him the whole time.

“I’ve seen that man before. A few times, when I drove Valerie home, she’d ask me to drop her off in front of a nearby restaurant. One time, I saw that man waiting for her right there.”

Manuel’s face also carried traces of sorrow as he spoke. Apparently, as the county hospital director had said, Dr. Monroe was indeed a warm and likable woman.

With the restaurant’s name in hand, the trio stood up to leave.

Outside the Faircloss Hotel, Beckett called Kevin and had him verify Calderón’s alibi with hotel staff, then set off with her two sidekicks toward the restaurant named "Amelia."

“You’ve got such a unique fan in your readership now. I expected you to be bragging about it nonstop,” Jack said, puzzled by Castle’s uncharacteristic silence during the ride.

Sitting in the front passenger seat next to Beckett, Castle glanced back at him and replied, “I know you hate drug dealers. Even if he’s retired, he’s still living a life of luxury built on blood money.

To be honest, the moment I stepped into that room, I started worrying—if you suddenly pulled your gun and took him out, I was already thinking about what kind of story I’d need to make up to cover for you.”

“Thanks, but maybe correct your impression of me—I’m a law enforcement officer, not a vigilante,” Jack shot him a side-eye rather than being flattered.

Clearly, ever since that Paris trip, Castle’s view of him had completely shifted—from a by-the-book FBI agent to a justice-obsessed superhero, or perhaps a top-secret operative like his old man, who moved in shadows and took no prisoners.

At the wheel, Beckett gave the two of them a sideways glance. When Castle had returned from Paris with the two rescued girls, he’d told her a wildly implausible story—something about storming a human trafficking compound solo, gunning down bad guys like an action hero, and rescuing the girls at the last second.

The savvy detective had long suspected there were many details too sensitive to share. The vague, ambiguous headlines that came out of Paris around that time hinted as much.

Castle might have a vivid imagination, but he wasn’t that capable. Now, if you swapped him out and inserted Jack as the main character in that story—it all made perfect sense.

Still, Beckett didn’t share Castle’s relentless curiosity. Even Castle himself had never asked what Jack and his father had done after he left Paris with the girls.

“I’ve been thinking,” Castle suddenly said, “what if their relationship wasn’t romantic, but familial? What if Dr. Monroe was Calderón’s daughter?”

He presented the theory like it was a groundbreaking twist, growing more convinced as he spoke.

“Think about it—Calderón, desperate to protect his wife and daughter, sends them into hiding. Years later, they reunite by chance. He wants to tell her the truth but can’t… and then an enemy discovers the connection and kills her in revenge for his past crimes.”

“Valerie Monroe was a fair-skinned, blue-eyed Northern European. The chances of them being biologically related are nearly zero,” Jack cut the idea down without mercy.

“But you can’t deny it’s a killer plot—evil drug lord, secret family, a long-lost daughter living under a new identity… And just when they’re about to reconnect, tragedy strikes. The sins of the father come back to haunt him!”

Castle raised his eyebrows at Jack triumphantly. Jack, however, couldn’t shake the feeling that this story sounded very familiar.

Beckett pulled over smoothly and unbuckled her seatbelt. “You two can stay here and discuss your literary genius. I’m going in to ask if any of the staff have seen the man from the photo.”

It wasn’t quite 11 a.m. yet, still early for lunch rush. Beckett entered the restaurant alone, leaving “Sidekick A” and “Sidekick B” leaning against her unmarked patrol car, bored and glued to their phones.

“Alexis says you’ve never won a dime in Vegas. That true?” Jack asked suddenly.

“Yeah, why?” Castle peeked over. “Wait—are you talking to her?”

“I am. I convinced her to trade in the motorcycle for a little electric scooter. Max speed, 30 miles an hour.”

The town of Margrave wasn’t just producing electric trikes anymore—they’d secured a license from an Italian company and started manufacturing electric scooters that looked like vintage Vespas. Price tag? Over $6,000—a little more than their gas-powered counterparts.

Beckett came out of the restaurant looking slightly surprised. “The host said he’s a regular lunch customer. He hasn’t been in yet today, but they don’t know his name.”

Castle wasn’t buying it. “Maybe he’s the killer. Maybe he fled. We should pull the security footage and check card records—we can probably find out who he is.”

Beckett didn’t argue. “Maybe. Or we can wait a little while. The host said he usually shows up around 11.”

“But I’m hungry,” Castle said, doing his best pitiful face.

“You could wait until 11:30 and have lunch here with us… or walk down the block to the taco truck selling chicken burritos,” Jack shot back.

Then, turning to Beckett, he asked, “Kate, you don’t strike me as the maternal type. Why do you like this overgrown man-child?”

“I like him?” Beckett’s eyes went wide as if she’d just heard the world’s funniest joke.

Castle immediately started looking around, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing—until something caught his eye.

“Look! That’s him!”

The other two followed his gaze.

The middle-aged white man from the surveillance photo had just gotten out of a cab. Hands in his pockets, he was striding quickly toward the restaurant.