The sound of waves breaking on the beach is hypnotic, and Patrick Jane lets himself succumb to its lullaby. He closes his eyes, timing his breaths to the tide, still feeling the warmth from the falling sun's rays.
A seagull squawks overhead, and Patrick sighs. His tie suddenly feels too tight, and his fingers pull quickly at the silk, loosening it. He slips his suit jacket from his shoulders and sets it on the railing in front of him, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. With another deep breath out, he runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the style he'd spent a hour perfecting this morning.
Patrick leans against the railing, looking out past his property to the ocean beyond. It stretches farther than his mind can comprehend.
He scrubs a hand over his face. What the hell am I doing?
It'd been so easy at the beginning. He'd don his three piece suit of armor, put on his mask, and that was it. The cons had been as natural as breathing.
But today...today he'd felt guilt for the first time.
Guilt is for marks, he hears part of himself say.
He bows his head.
But being a mark would feel better than taking advantage of one.
He pulls out his phone. His assistant picks up on the first ring. "I'm taking a vacation," he says curtly. "Cancel my engagements for the next week."
He has a feeling it might be longer than that, but he'll cross that bridge when he gets there.
Patrick doesn't wait for his assistant to answer before he ends the call, and he tosses the phone on the chair next to him.
What the hell am I doing? he asks himself again. I wanted to escape that life, but all I ended up doing was getting in deeper.
He shudders. He will not become his father. He is stronger than that. Better than that.
The sun sinks, staining the sky and the sea with pink and purple, and the doorbell chimes from inside the house. Straightening up, Patrick heads indoors, not bothering to close the screen behind him. He strides to the front door, where he sees the outline of an unexpected visitor waiting for him.
He opens the door.
A petite, ebony-haired woman with piercing jade eyes stares back at him, her expression fierce. She's wearing a black leather jacket, no-nonsense boots, and she has a gun strapped to her hip.
She's also heavily pregnant.
"I'm sorry to bother you at this hour," says the woman before Patrick is able to gather words to greet her. "I'm Agent Lisbon with the California Bureau of Investigation." She holds up a badge.
Patrick arches a brow, feeling his heart echo against his ribs. "Never heard of it."
The woman looks like she's restraining herself from rolling her eyes.
Patrick grins. "You must get that often," he says.
This gets a smile out of her. "You have no idea." She tucks her badge away. "I'm working on a case in the area, and one of my tires blew out. I'm having a hard time getting cell service to call a tow."
Something about the woman's voice intrigues Patrick, and he shifts, inching slightly closer. "Do you have a spare?"
She nods, placing a hand over her abdomen suddenly. Pain flashes across her face, but she hides it so quickly Patrick wonders if he'd really seen it at all. "I'd change it myself," she says, "but I'm due in two weeks."
Patrick narrows his eyes, studying her face. And there it is again, this time more obvious than before: she winces then shifts, clearly uncomfortable.
"You sure about that?" asks Patrick, raising an eyebrow.
Agent Lisbon looks affronted. "Of course," she says authoritatively.
Patrick relents, letting it go. "I'll change the tire," he offers. He steps back, holding the door open for her. "Come in while I grab a few things."
The woman immediately protests. "I don't want to put you through any trouble," she says.
Patrick smiles at her. "I'm intimately acquainted with trouble, and you are the opposite of it, believe me," he says, and Agent Lisbon steps inside. "Wait here for a few minutes. I'll be right back."
He steps into his shoes, lacing them quickly, and heads to the garage, picking up a few miscellaneous tools and a flashlight. A minute later, he joins Agent Lisbon in the entryway, opening the door for her. "After you," he says.
"Thank you again for your help, Mr…"
"Jane," Patrick supplies. "But you can call me Patrick."
"Patrick," Agent Lisbon corrects. "Thank you."
"Like I said, the opposite of trouble," he says. He follows her down the drive, and they turn left onto the road by his house. Patrick glances at his new companion. "Must be an important case," he says conversationally.
Agent Lisbon looks at him from the corner of her eye, and he knows he's spot on.
"You're almost at your due date. Forgive me for asking, but wouldn't most law enforcement agencies have you on desk duty?"
She looks annoyed for a second before she hides this, too, returning to her curt, professional demeanor from before. "Strictly speaking, I'm doing this investigation off the books." They approach her mustang, its back left tire clearly out of air. "Hence why I don't have my standard issue SUV. They brought someone on to replace me last week for my maternity leave, so I figured I might as well use the time to get something done."
Patrick studies her face for a few more seconds in the fading light. "Personal ties, then?" he asks. "Something that precluded you from investigating officially?"
She deflects. "What exactly do you do for a living, Patrick?" she asks, sending him a look of half-irritation, half-intrigue.
"I'm currently between jobs," he says shortly, not wanting to think about it.
Agent Lisbon nods and opens her trunk, showing him where the spare tire is located. Patrick sets his tools aside and lifts the tire out. As he begins to prep the car to switch the tires, he decides on a less forward line of questioning.
"What exactly do you do for a living, Agent Lisbon?" he says, mimicking her tone from earlier.
She smiles briefly, and he gets the feeling that it's usually a rare occurrence.
"I'm a homicide detective," she says.
Patrick freezes.
She laughs at this. "Yeah, I get that a lot, too. It's strange, I know."
She winces again, clearly trying to hide it better than she had before.
Patrick stares at her for a second, debating whether to say something. Deciding to follow her lead, he shakes his head and kneels to begin work. "No," he says instead, turning his attention to the car. "Not strange. Impressive is more like it."
Agent Lisbon looks down at him, curious. "I don't get that very often," she says quietly.
"You should," Patrick says, fiddling with the deflated tire now that the car has been stabilized. He looks over at her. "Did you always know you wanted to become a cop?"
She shrugs, moving the flashlight slightly so he can see more clearly. "I knew I wanted a purpose. I found my purpose with the CBI."
Patrick grunts as he removes the tire, and he reaches for the spare. "I think that's what I'm looking for," he says, and once he starts talking, he can't seem to stop. Something about this woman makes it easy to share his secrets with her. "What I do - what I did," he corrects. "It's not that different from what you do. Except it's actually worlds apart."
At this, Agent Lisbon laughs. "I'm not sure I understand."
"I read people," says Patrick. "I try to find the truth. But it's for selfish purposes. I try to use that truth for my own good, not the greater good."
Agent Lisbon leans against the mustang. "It's never too late to change," she points out.
Patrick tightens the spare tire, considering this. "I'm not sure I know how."
She smiles. "You seem to be doing okay so far," she says, gesturing to the tire that he's fixed, and then to the space between the two of them.
Patrick stands up, wiping his hands off on his slacks, and looks down into eyes brighter than the sea. There's a damaged intensity there that he can almost but not quite decipher, despite how much he wants to.
"How did you know the case was personal for me?" Agent Lisbon asks quietly, and he can see himself and moonlight reflected in her eyes.
Patrick hesitates. His cold readings are rarely well received. But Agent Lisbon is a challenge he can't resist.
"You're about to give birth to your...first? Yes, first child," he says, lifting the busted tire and setting it in the trunk. He begins to clean up the tools. "You should be glowing." He softens his tone. "But you're grieving. You're in pain."
She looks away. "It's that obvious?"
Patrick shakes his head. "No," he says. "It's not." His brow furrows. "Your husband?" He pauses. "No - he was your partner." Agent Lisbon glances at him then quickly diverts her eyes again. "I'm sorry," Patrick says.
She doesn't acknowledge this. "We went through the academy together, then worked closely for a long time."
"He's the father," says Patrick gently, and it's not a question. Then, realizing the invasiveness of his words, he backs off. "I'm sorry - that was inappropriate."
Agent Lisbon gives him a sad smirk. "But it was right." She takes a deep breath. "He never knew about the baby."
Patrick blinks at the unexpected moisture in his eyes. He's not sure what to say - if there's even anything he can say. Instead, he reaches out tentatively to brush his fingers against her elbow, marveling at this woman's strength.
The color suddenly drains from Agent Lisbon's face, and Patrick steps forward, gripping her forearms. "We need to get you to a hospital," he says, and a second later, she doubles over, clutching her abdomen.
"My water just..." She looks at him, incredulous. "Are you psychic?" she moans, and Patrick takes some of her weight to prevent her from falling over.
"Just paying attention," says Patrick, guiding her to the passenger side door. "Can I have your keys?"
"Right pocket," says Agent Lisbon, breathing heavily but appearing calm.
"The nearest hospital is about twenty minutes away, Agent Lisbon," says Patrick, opening the car door and helping her in. "You think you'll be okay?"
She grabs his hand. "Teresa," she corrects him, her jaw tight. "I think we've reached that point."
He grins. "Teresa," he repeats, closing the door gently and hurrying around to the other side of the car. He starts the car and pulls away from the side of the road, thanking the universe that the tire seems to be functioning properly.
"Is there someone you want me to call?" Patrick asks, glancing over at her as they make their way through the winding backroads. "A friend? A colleague?"
Teresa looks over at him, her eyes discerning despite the pain. "What did you just read off me?" she asks.
Patrick stares determinedly ahead at the road. "Your grief is new, but grief itself isn't a new feeling to you. So you've lost at least one parent." He glances at her. "Okay, both parents."
She leans her head back against the seat, closing her eyes. "Impressive," she says, quoting him from earlier. "You'd make a pretty decent detective yourself."
He has to grin at this. "Call me up to consult when you get back from maternity leave," he says, chuckling. In the periphery of his vision, he sees a shimer at the corner of her eye, and the tear rolls down her cheek. The brave, incredible woman sitting next to him is clearly terrified. Patrick reaches across the console, offering her his hand.
She takes it without hesitation.
When her grip becomes almost uncomfortably tight, Patrick realizes he's gotten in deeper than he'd intended. "Do you want me to stay with you?" he asks quietly. "No one should have to face this alone."
Teresa looks at him, her desire for independence clearly at war with some other part of her. "I don't want to put you through any trouble," she says again, this time wincing as another contraction begins.
Patrick squeezes her hand. "I know some biofeedback tricks that might help with the pain."
He can see her eyebrow arch even in the dark. "Are you ever going to tell me what you do?" she asks, breathing deeply.
He relents at this, mostly because talking seems to distract her. "I'm a conman," he says. "I make a living selling people lies." When he glances over at her again, he's more relieved than he expected to find curiosity rather than judgement in her eyes. "I pretend to be a psychic - you know, getting people in contact with their dead relatives, predicting their futures. I make it my business to know people, so I read microexpressions, body language, heart rate. Sleight of hand tricks like pickpocketing, too. Those kind of things help me figure out what people are thinking."
"So you're essentially a lie detector." Her tone is thoughtful rather than accusatory.
"That makes what I do sound much fairer than it actually is."
He watches as Teresa grips the armrest on the door, clearly in pain, though she doesn't verbalize it. Her thumb moves up and down across the back of his hand, and it occurs to him that she's trying to offer him some small semblance of comfort.
"You could try using your powers for good." She flashes him a wry grin, but a second later her right hand moves to cover her abdomen again.
"We're almost there," says Patrick as they approach the lights of the city. "Not going to lie, not having your SUV here is a missed opportunity. I could have turned the sirens on."
Teresa groans. "I would not have let you do that," she says.
Patrick grins, loving how easy it is to embarrass her.
They hit a couple of stoplights on the way into the city, but the traffic is mercifully sparse at this hour. Patrick pulls into the parking lot of the hospital, driving up to the entrance where he kills the ignition. He races around to Teresa's side and helps her up, and they walk through the door together.
An attendant spots them right away and brings Teresa a wheelchair. As he lowers her into it, the attendant offers to bring Teresa's keys to the valet, and Patrick pulls out his wallet to hand over a few bills and the keys.
Teresa grips his hand again, and Patrick doesn't have to ask what she means.
Stay.
So he does.
He doesn't think he's ever been so nervous.
Granted, he's never been overly fond of hospitals or doctors, but he also hates the idea of everything being out of his control. When Teresa grimaces again, Patrick stands up and leans over her bed, pushing her sweat-soaked hair out of her eyes.
He charms one of the nurses into scrounging up a spare hair tie, and he gently pulls Teresa's hair into a messy bun. She's remarkably composed, and Patrick wonders if years of dealing with murderers has prepared her for just about any obstacle life can throw her way. He wouldn't doubt it.
The doctor comes in and out of the room, checking the progress, but Patrick tries to mostly ignore the hustle and bustle of the hospital.
Eventually, Teresa turns her head toward him, out of breath, a bead of sweat trickling down her temple. "Are you any good?" she asks, and for a crazy second his mind goes into the gutter before she continues. "At sleight of hand?"
"I like to think so," he says, giving her a cocky smile.
"Prove it," she says, and he can't resist.
He spends the next couple hours running through every possible trick he remembers, some of which he hasn't attempted since his carny days. Eventually, she starts to ask how he pulls them off, and he teaches her.
After a particularly rough contraction, Patrick leans over to wipe her brow. She catches his expression, and her forehead crinkles. "What is it?" she asks.
He can't help but smile softly. "I've broken just about every rule of basic showmanship by teaching you how I do those tricks," he admits.
"How many people know your secrets?" she asks, sinking back into her pillows.
"Just you," he says, his voice low.
Teresa closes her eyes. "Could I ask you to teach me one more trick?" she says.
"Name it."
"You said something about biofeedback. Does that really work?"
Patrick moves from his chair to perch on her bed. "If you believe it will, then it does."
She frowns. "I'm not good at surrendering."
"Never would have guessed that," says Patrick, teasing, and her eyes flash open. He has to laugh at the glare she sends his way. "Trusting me hasn't led you too far astray yet, has it?"
That gets another small smile from her. "I guess not," she says eventually. Then she doubles over as another contraction hits, and Patrick holds her hand, helpless, as he waits for it to pass.
Teresa gasps and lets out a long breath. "Okay," she says, still breathing heavily. "I trust you. Just help me never experience that again."
It's trickier with her than ever before, Patrick thinks, perhaps because she's more resistant but also because the stakes are so high. Within the span of a few hours, the tiny, fierce detective in front of him has somehow become his entire world, and he discovers he's okay with that.
Eventually, though, she calms, incorporating some of his breathing techniques. When the next contraction hits, she squeezes his hand less tightly than before, looking up at him with grateful eyes. "Forget impressive," she says. "You are nothing short of a miracle."
"I try," says Patrick.
Hours later, he's begun to cold read the nurses who bustle in and out of the room as Teresa's contractions come at closer and closer intervals. She's skeptical at first, but then he makes it into a game, charming the nurses into divulging their secrets and proving him right.
Teresa squeezes his hand and tenses at another contraction. "It seems to me like the nurses will say anything just to get you to smile," she grumbles. "How do I know it's actually your powers of observation?"
"Should I try a male nurse?"
"Does your charm smile work on men?"
He grins. "Some of them," he says.
"Unbelievable," says Teresa.
At that moment, the doctor, a tall dark-haired woman with strong shoulders, walks in to check on Teresa.
"It's time, Teresa. You ready?" she asks, looking up at them from her place at the end of the bed.
Patrick feels Teresa's pulse skyrocket. He squeezes her hand and brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Teresa nods.
He's terrified the entire time, feeling like Teresa is his rock more than he is hers. But he helps her breathe, holds her hand, wipes her brow, and murmurs to her, tremors coursing through his body.
And then, suddenly -
Patrick looks over as the doctor straightens up, cradling a new life. Teresa slumps back against the pillows, drenched in sweat, her lower lip dropping slightly.
Dazed, he watches as the doctor eventually deposits the wailing infant into Teresa's waiting arms. She just smiles, adjusting her arms naturally to the new weight, and Patrick watches them in awe as the sun creeps into the sky.
He'd been wondering what his purpose would be. Now, sitting in a hospital room with a spitfire detective and her new miracle, he thinks he's found it.
Patrick slips out of the room when Teresa falls asleep, her fingers finally going limp around his hand. He hails a cab to take him back to his house, and he collapses on the couch as soon as he walks in. A couple hours later, the glare from the ocean has lit up the room, and he wakes, disoriented.
A shower and change of clothes helps considerably, and he grabs his cell phone from where he'd discarded it the previous night on the deck. He flips it open, debating whether to call the hospital.
What does social convention dictate one do after meeting an incredible woman then spending the night by her side as she gives birth? How long does one wait to follow up?
He decides to bring her flowers and balloons, a perfectly appropriate gesture. Wanting to catch her before she is discharged, he books it to his Citroen and retraces his route from the previous night to the hospital.
Stopping only to make a purchase at the gift store in the atrium, Patrick heads for the familiar room. "Is she awake?" he asks the nurse outside, who waves him in.
Teresa looks up as he enters, looking radiant as she holds her infant in her arms. The girl has a mass of dark hair like her mother, and Patrick smiles. "Hey," he says.
"Hey yourself," Teresa responds. Patrick sets the flowers down on the windowsill, and the balloons float toward the ceiling. "You didn't need to do that."
He ignores this. "How is she?"
"Do you want to hold her?"
Patrick finds he very much wants to, so he nods, stepping forward, and Teresa places the baby in his arms.
She smiles. "You're a natural."
"She's perfect," he whispers. "What's her name?"
"Elizabeth Jane Lisbon," says Teresa, matching his tone.
His eyes mist over. "Teresa…"
"'Jane' is a lovely name," she says, "for a baby girl. Or for, you know, a reformed conman." She smirks at him.
He chuckles softly, trying not to wake Elizabeth.
Teresa reaches up to touch his elbow. "In all seriousness, I don't know how I could ever repay you for...for everything you did for me and my daughter last night."
Patrick just smiles down at the sleeping infant in his arms. "My pleasure," he says. Then he looks over at Teresa, who's watching him with interest. "What?" he asks.
"You're in the market for a new job, right?" she says. When he nods, she continues. "Have you ever been to Sacramento?"