Disclaimer: The only part of Castle that I own is the TV on which I watch the show.

She's calm. She's cool. She's analytical. She's grounded, she's centered, she's focussed. She's unruffled. She has a plan.

Kate Beckett takes a deep, cleansing breath as she sets up the white board, the brand-new, double-sided magnetic white board on a stand, in her living room. It cost her $130.64, with tax. One hundred thirty dollars and sixty-four cents, a small price to pay for working out her plan, solving her case. She looks dispassionately at the board as she moves it six inches to the right, next to a small side table. The table top is meticulously arranged with a set of new dry-erase markers (black, green, blue, red, $7 plus tax), a clear plastic box of white board magnets ($3.69 on sale), and a small stack of computer print outs. She inhales again. Time to get to work.

Beckett leans over and picks up a printout, the first of twelve which she has trimmed to a precise five by eight inches. While holding it in her left hand, she takes a magnet with her right and uses that to secure the printout to the upper left-hand corner of the board. She repeats the ritual eleven times, until she has three neat rows of printouts, four to a row. Printouts of twelve drivers' licenses, ten issued by the Department of Motor Vehicles of the great State of New York, and two by the State of California. She uncaps the black marker and writes, in block capitals, the name of each licensed driver beneath the appropriate print out. When she has finished, she recaps the marker and takes a few steps back to examine her handiwork. Kate Beckett is calm. She's as calm as the surface of a lake, a lake with the Loch Ness monster lurking just beneath the mirrored surface, ready to leap up and seize her with its herpetological fangs. She has never been this fucking calm in her entire fucking life.

Her bimbo board is ready, and so is she. Her bimbo board is just like a murder board, except that it's in her apartment rather than the precinct, and the only homicide in question is a hypothetical one. She could kill Jacinda. She could kill Castle right now, too, except that she wants him alive. Emphasis on want. Oh, and alive. Oh, and him.

It's her own personal Dirty Dozen, twelve women to whom Castle has been (or is, in the case of the newly-acquired arm candy Jacinda) attracted. Magnetically attracted, a magnetism more powerful than these little doohickeys on her bimbo board. The Richard Castle Dirty Dozen are, in rough chronological order:

Kyra Blaine, his first true love. The One Who Got Away. He'd deny it, but he's still carrying a torch for her. She's like some damn eternal flame, or those birthday-cake candles you blow out and they light right back up again.

Meredith Castle, the first wife, a.k.a. The Deep-Fried Twinkie. The one he's probably still shagging every time she comes to New York City, ostensibly to see their daughter, just like he probably shagged her on some horrible shag rug twenty years ago. A shag rug would definitely be Meredith's style.

Sophia Turner, the CIA agent he met eleven and a half years ago. He based Clara Strike, a character in the first Derrick Storm novel, on her. He followed her. She was his muse. The muse he slept with, unlike his current alleged muse. The CIA spy-turned-traitor who sold out her country to the highest bidder before another CIA agent did them all a favor and put a bullet through her head a few weeks ago, just before Sophia could do exactly the same thing to Castle and to her.

Chelsea Noyes, supermodel. IQ of rain. "Relationship" ended after six weeks, but not before he had taken her to Paris and Rio.

Gina Griffin, his publisher and second wife. Chiseled. Perfect. Never a hair out of place. Must leave the hair at home when she works out at the gym two hours a day. Smart but a harpie. Loath as Beckett is to defend Castle at the moment, she believes that Gina should stop haranguing him 24/7. Can't she see how counterproductive it is? If he wants a woman beating on him, he'll choose Lady Irena. See same row, two items over.

Willow Jones, supermodel. See data filed under Chelsea Noyes, but substitute Rome and the Riviera for Paris and Rio.

Lady Irena, dominatrix and former attorney. Owner of Lady Irena's House of Pain. Castle almost salivated on her when they interviewed her on a case two years ago. He said she was hypnotic. His word: hypnotic. He claimed that he was referring to her crimson-gash lipstick, but she doubted it. Beckett is absolutely certain that he returned to the House of Pain later, and hypnosis was not what Irena was practicing on him.

Ellie Monroe, actress. Star of Viper Mountain and similar movies for which Meryl Streep must not have been available. Had sex with Castle to get a role. He had no objection.

Natalie Rhodes, actress. So resolutely Method that she'd barely begun her Nikki Heat "assignment" before she was hauling Castle off to her hotel room and he had his tongue down her throat in the precinct elevator. While the door was wide open.

Carolina Hendricks, supermodel. Lasted only three weeks, but two of them were at Castle's house in the Hamptons. His bedroom probably still smells of her perfume, "Carolina." Incredibly imaginative name.

Serena Kaye, insurance investigator and art thief. No matter how noble her intentions, she's still a thief. The way Castle stared at her ass? Must have left burn marks.

Jacinda Stevens, flight attendant. It took a slightly illegal search to learn her last name and thus get access to her license. She's currently behind the wheel of Castle's Ferrari, when she's not between the sheets and under him.

So what is it about these women? What does he sees in them that he no longer sees in her? She needs similarities, patterns, anything to help her.

Maybe it's hair color. Beckett is a brunette. Three of the suspects/bimbos are also, but two—Kyra and Sophia—are ancient history. The only other one is Ellie Monroe, and even she goes back two years. He definitely gravitates to blondes, apparently uninterested in the source of the color, i.e. DNA or bottle. Eight of the twelve are blonde. Hmm. What about redheads? Meredith and Irena have red hair, as does his mother, Martha. No, God, no, she's not going there. Bring on the brain bleach. Or the Clairol bleach, some kind of bleach. Wait, could it as simple as that? Should she hit the hair-care section at the drug store and come home with a package of Preference by L'Oréal? Voilà, a blonde? Voilà, she's suddenly Castle's preference?

Maybe boobs are it. Most of these women have significantly larger breasts than she. If only it's the hair, though. God knows dying her hair would be a lot cheaper than getting silicone implants. She's unwilling to go that far, anyway, even as she mentally fixates on the expression he had as he gawked at the jigglers on parade in that plastic surgeon's office a few years ago. She needs some coffee.

She needs some coffee, but not the crap that she makes at home. It used to be perfectly fine, the coffee she made every morning. It was hot, it did its job, woke her up, set her nerves jangling. Thanks to Castle, it's not good enough any more. Thanks a lot, jerkwad, she thinks. You made it impossible for me to enjoy coffee in the comfort of my own home. What she needs now, what she craves, is the perfection wrought by the Alfa Romeo 4C Spider of a coffeemaker that Castle bought and had some engineer install in the precinct break room. And then there are the pounds and pounds of beans that he has delivered there every other week. From a volcanic hillside in Hawaii. From a mountain top in Jamaica. From every inaccessible we-are-the-best coffee plantation on the planet. "Can't have New York's Finest drinking swill," he said. Yeah, well. Maybe she'll just make a crappy cup of coffee here. She won't put any of that vanilla from Madagascar in it, either. That billion-dollar-an-ounce bottle he gave her. That'll show him.