Castle

What if we got married on the Cyclone?

The roller coaster at Coney Island?

Come on. How much fun would that be?

And talk about an appropriate,

if not slightly on-the-nose metaphor...

a bride and groom together, side-by-side,

as they go through the ups and downs,

the twists and turns, and the loop-de-loops of life.

Castle, I love you,

but I will not marry you on a ride

or up in space or on a slide.

Bet Dr. Seuss got married somewhere fun.

Yes, his wife's living room.

How many people do you think can fit

in one of those roller-coaster cars, anyway?

20? 30?

You know, that's a good point.

We should determine exactly whom we are going to invite.

Yeah, good idea.

That way we can determine exactly how big

a roller-coaster car we need to build.

Or how big of an actual venue we need.

Either way, I'll go and get the paper.

I'll get a pen.

And I will get the phone.

Beckett.

You know, there's a good argument

for keeping the list really small.

Just immediate family.

This argument doesn't have something to do with

a certain amusement park ride, does it?

I'm being serious.

Getting married is an intimate act,

and our ceremony should reflect that intimacy.

And that way, we could all fit into one car.

Ryan, how do you feel about roller coasters?

Ooh, make me nauseous. Why?

No reason. Who's our victim?

Peter Cordero, 26.

According to the super, he lives alone.

He's a future's trader at JP Harding,

the Wall Street investment firm.

And how was he killed?

Uh, single GSW to the chest.

Looks like his own future got traded.

Yeah, not without a fight first.

Who found the body?

Well, that's an interesting question.

At 10:03 P.M., a woman made a 911 call

from a pay phone down the block,

but she refused to leave her name.

A pay phone down the block?

But how would she know he was dead unless...

Unless she was in the apartment.

Well, lividity places the time of death

between 8:00 and 10:00,

so if the 911 call came in at 10:03...

She could be our killer.

Esposito's checking security-cam footage.

Hopefully, we caught her on tape.

Now, is it just me, or is it odd

that our victim is wearing a suit jacket, tie, pants,

shoes, but his shirt is unbuttoned?

It's odd, all right. And look at this...

his shirt was on and buttoned when he was shot.

So our killer unbuttoned his shirt after he was dead.

Yep.

The killer was looking for something.

A pricy necklace or... oh, a bunch of cash

taped to his chest like "Wolf of Wall Street."

There's something else.

I didn't find any defensive wounds,

so if there was a fight out there,

I don't think this guy was in it.

Yo, Beckett.

There are no security cameras in the lobby,

but I found one in a liquor store down the street.

It got a shot of that pay phone

right when the 911 call came in.

Okay. Canvas the neighbors.

See if anyone saw her in the building.

Did you talk to next of kin yet?

Well, the guy didn't have any immediate family,

but he did list a cousin in Queens,

a Maria Cordero, as his in-case-of-emergency.

All right, bring her in.

Let's see if she recognizes the woman in the photo.

Castle and I will go to his place of work

and see what they know there.

All right.

No. No. I'm sorry. I don't know her.

Maria, did your cousin say anything

about having a girlfriend?

No. He said he didn't have time. Work was his life.

Were the two of you close?

Peter was like my brother.

When he was 10, his parents died

in the big earthquake in Venezuela.

My parents adopted him and brought him to the States.

Did Peter say anything about having any enemies?

No. Peter was a sweet guy.

He never forgot where he came from...

not like those privileged, silver-spoon types

he worked with.

He was a scholarship kid,

so everything he got was through hard work.

When did you talk to him last?

A few days ago.

And how did he seem?

Stressed, actually.

Did he say what about?

No. I... I don't know.

When I asked him, he said something happened at work,

but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.

JP Harding Investment Bank.

This place is either the engine of capitalism

or the poster child of greed and corruption,

depending on which paper you read.

Maybe the invisible hand of the market killed Peter.

It would explain the lack of defensive wounds.

You know, prep-school buddy of mine

came to work here out of college.

He made a quarter of a billion dollars before he was 30,

retired, and bought an island.

Wait. He owns his own island?

We should definitely invite him to the wedding.

Excuse me. Hi, I'm detective Beckett.

We need to speak with Peter Cordero's boss.

Jamie Berman, I believe?

Can I tell him what it's regarding?

Killing...

are you capable of it?

Because if you are, I will make you rich.

Goldman just poached Consolidated's pension account

from us this morning, so I am offering a bounty.

Neal?

A million dollars to the first son of a bitch at this table

to poach an account back from Goldman.

It's open season, guys... open-hunting season.

I want you to make them bleed!

Excuse me.

All right, let's go!

Excuse me, Mr. Berman.

Detective Beckett. Could we have a word, please?

I told you S.E.C. pricks to talk to my lawyer.

I'm not S.E.C. I'm NYPD... homicide.

Homicide?

I apologize for the theatrics, detective,

but in this world, it gets results.

And here I thought the stories

of Wall Street excess were exaggerated.

Mr. Berman, I understand that Peter Cordero

reported directly to you.

Yes, he was my best commodities' trader.

And one of the nicest guys you'll ever meet.

In this part of the world, anyway.

Do you have any leads?

Uh, just one.

Do you recognize this woman?

No. I'm afraid I don't.

Well, according to Peter Cordero's family,

he was having some trouble here at work.

Do you have any idea what that might have been?

No idea.

In fact, he was having

one of the best months he's ever had.

And what about his clients? Any problems there?

Well, Pete was a rising star. His clients loved him...

But...

But what?

Last week, I was taking the stairs to the 65th floor...

my version of exercise...

and I saw Peter in the stairwell

with this guy who looked like a gangbanger.

All tatted up his neck, big scar on his cheek.

Not the kind of guy you ever see down here.

And he was handing Peter a package about yea big.

When Peter saw me, he looked guilty as hell.

So I just kept walking.

And you didn't ask him about it?

Yeah, I did later,

but he said it was nothing, so I just let it go.

You saw a gangbanger in your stairwell,

and you just let it go?

This is a high-stress environment, detective.

We don't ask a lot of questions

about what our people do to... to get through the day.

Okay.

Do you think you can describe him to a sketch artist?

I think so.

Great.

I need the names of all of Peter's associates here at work.

Of course.

Lanie's got something for us.

Still no indication of defensive wounds,

but I did find this when I checked his nails for DNA.

Numbers.

"7, 2, 3, 5, 9, 8."

He wrote it in pen I'd say four or five days ago.

But that's not why I called you.