The cabs start getting harder to come by when the mercury freezes off the bottom of the thermometer. It took Castle the better part of ten minutes and three blocks to finally flag one down and he probably looked like a painted lunatic while he was trying, flagging his arms like a signalman trying to steer a plane onto a runway.

Truth be told, Castle likes the city in winter. The cold brings a weird kind of clarity.

He unloads a couple of blocks from his apartment, turning his cab over to a trio of tourists who recognize him from dust jackets and three a.m. commercials on local stations. He signs autographs and warms his hands by blowing on them in between.

As he walks, the scenery begins to change slightly. Castle rounds a corner to find Kate Beckett ahead of him, stretching herself on a Chinese torture rack. No, wait, it's just a railing. Outside the Bar. Well, hell, that's convenient.

He jogs toward her, his gait exaggerated, the ends of his scarf flapping as he bumps down the sidewalk. He stops beside her and runs in place, elbows hiked high and pumping. 'Like he jogs in an Armani every day.

"I didn't know you jogged this route," he says, shouting to be heard over the din in her earbuds.