I've had this idea stewing in my head for a while. There's nothing very spoilery here. I just wondered what would happen if Shawn and Gus ended up tending to a child.
When I stopped shaking, I wrote this.
This is not slash. This is not very Shawn-friendly, though it's noted that he does ultimately take responsibility, which might be giving him too much credit even then.
::wackawackawackawacka::
I own no characters on Psych. I'm only borrowing them and have returned them all safely to their creators' care. Well, Lassiter might have a few marks on him, but I'm only human.
"Mr Spencer, Mr Guster, I'm afraid I have a favor to ask of you, and I will admit, you're my very last resort..."
Chief Vick was busy straightening her desk, shuffling papers around, doing all she could to avoid sounding as rushed, frantic and terrified as she felt. Richard had been aghast when she had told him who she would call.
Shawn and Gus looked at each other, and Spencer smiled. "I know we'll be delighted to help you in any way, Chief. What can we do for you?"
"My husband and I have to head up north for a family funeral, and we can't take Iris with us. I need someone to keep her overnight and get her safely to school tomorrow, pick her up from school and take her home and stay there with her until Richard and I get home. I would ask Detective O'Hara, but she's in Miami…and…well, no one else is around right now to even call in. All my detectives are out on cases. You two happened to be here, so you're up."
"W-wait…keep…what's her name again? Irene?" Spencer asked.
"Iris, Mr Spencer. Her name is Iris, and she will not appreciate having her name forgotten, mispronounced or misused, and I should warn you that she is quite good at karate, so watch it."
"Gus and I will take very good care of little Eileen, and will deliver her to you in even better shape than when you drop her off."
"Iris."
"Her too."
Iris eyed Shawn, and Shawn eyed Iris, while Gus eyed them both.
She was a pretty little thing, with dark blonde hair and her mother's sharp brown eyes that never seemed to miss anything. Iris Vick was wearing a SpongeBob Squarepants T-shirt, jeans and clean pink tennis shoes, and her hair was done up in a very neat French braid. She was carrying a teddy bear, a pink backpack, and a pair of American Girl books.
She had been dropped off at the Psych office only a few minutes before, and had so far refused to sit down anywhere. When asked why, she had only answered that nothing seemed terribly clean.
"So, how old are you now, kiddo?" Shawn asked kindly, leaning against his desk and staring down at the little girl.
"I'm seven and I'm not a kiddo."
"Oh. Right. You're…what, in college now?"
"I'm in the second grade, stupid."
"Hey, don't be disrespectful toward your elders!" Shawn objected. "So. What do you like to watch on TV? How about Mr Belvedere?"
"Mister who?" Iris asked, perplexed.
"Mr Belve…oh, wait. Probably before your time. Hey, do you like video games?"
"Not really."
"Well, it's Mr. Belvedere, then. Gus, fire up some popcorn and we'll settle in for a marathon of classic television sure to enlighten and educate a small child's mind."
"Or in your case, a moron's mind," Iris said tartly, sitting down at last, on the couch. "And I sure don't see you getting an education."
"She doesn't like you," Gus said, because pointing out the obvious to Shawn was actually kind of fun sometimes.
Shawn frowned and watched Iris play with her bear. She gave him a cool look and clapped the bear's paws together. The two young men turned the TV on, made three bowls of popcorn, and finally managed to convince the girl to join them in watching the virtually obscure sitcom. She was almost immediately bored, and began wandering around the office, perusing Shawn's vast collection of toys and gadgets.
"You have more toys than me!" she said, looking appalled. "How old are you?"
"Hey, it's perfectly all right for an adult to have toys. We're…uh…reliving our childhood," Shawn told her archly.
"I'm reliving it. You never advanced out of it," Gus pointed out, again happy to assist.
"Gus, I cannot do this with you and…" Shawn's attention was distracted then when he saw movement outside the office window. He rushed over to peer out and squawked happily. "Gus! The Churro Charger is out there!"
"Oh, man, they make the best churros!" Gus said excitedly.
Iris watched, somewhat surprised, as they both left, rushing out into the street to buy warm, cheesy chicken churros. She resumed playing with her teddy bear, unimpressed with Mr Belvedere, however good he was at solving the Owens family's problems.
"I don't know, sir, it looks like the guy just keeled over dead," McNab told Lassiter, who was crouched down beside the body of a rather seriously dead man. The young rookie scribbled on his notepad and waited for his superior to say something.
The man's wife – Mrs McLintock – was sobbing by the door, clearly distraught. She was barely understood as she told another uniformed cop about her husband, but Lassiter was listening just the same as he observed the man's general condition. Aside from being dead, he looked very healthy – lean, tanned, probably about forty or so, an apparently very recent hair transplant, and a bit of plastic surgery, but obviously well-maintained.
Except for the being dead part, that is. Being dead made his good health otherwise pretty much moot.
"He was in perfect shape," she was saying. "He was a strict vegetarian, worked out daily, jogged five miles every morning, never ate fatty foods, never ate sweets, never touched caffeine or alcohol…he had less than ten percent body fat!" She was wailing by then, and the cop was trying to comfort her and keep her from upsetting her curious neighbors.
Carlton checked the man's pulse. McNab bent down and murmured, "What are you doing, sir?"
"Just making sure he's really dead," Carlton answered, and stood up. "You say he just keeled over while bending down to pick up the newspaper?" he asked her.
She nodded, tears streaming down her face.
"Hm. Well, I can understand him dying while picking up the Sunday paper – that one can throw a man's back out - but a Thursday edition?" He looked down at Mr McLintock's body. "It's pretty obviously natural causes, McNab. We're very sorry for your loss, Mrs. McLintock. If you have any questions or concerns, please hesitate to call." He handed her his card, pocketed his notepad and turned away.
They were outside one of the few private residences along the beachfront street, and he knew that the Psych office was just three blocks down. He had glimpsed Spencer and Guster slouching down the street, jabbering away about some stupid eighties sitcom, talking with their mouths full of churros, and knew they wouldn't find this case interesting. It wouldn't bring Spencer any media adulation, that was for sure, and Spencer didn't like being around grieving people, mainly because they took attention away from him.
The late, very healthy Mr McLintock had been a successful mergers and acquisitions lawyer, and even though his widow stood to inherit a hefty sum, Carlton could see no sign of this being anything approaching a homicide – she gave off a vibe of genuine grief at losing a much-loved spouse. He told McNab to go on back to the station, almost with an order to tell Vick it was nothing before he remembered that he was in charge while she was gone, and sighed.
It amazed him more than a little that just a few years ago, he had been hankering for the job of chief of police. Now, just being a good detective and getting home at night was all that mattered to him. His home didn't seem empty any more, either, even though Marlowe still had a month left behind bars. A lot of her things had been moved in already, and he had even indulged in watching some of her DVD's – Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Emma, Northanger Abbey, Sense & Sensibility…the woman had a real liking for Jane Austen.
He wouldn't mention that he had also kind of enjoyed washing her underwear and stuff with his own. Because that was just a little too weird. Maybe. But the idea of them in there together during the tumble dry cycle made him feel a little better, and besides, it was flu season and he was tired of cold showers.
Nonetheless, he had a hideous headache now, and needed coffee. He spotted a coffee bar across the street and jogged over, making a mental note to write himself a jaywalking ticket later.
"You have really pretty eyes," the barista said, handing him his extra large black coffee and smiling at him.
"Er…thanks…they came with the face. Which isn't pretty." He handed her the money and turned away, looking out the window at the street. He nearly dropped the coffee then, when he saw Iris Vick bouncing by, pink backpack in one hand, teddy bear in the other. He rushed out and waylaid the girl, immediately fearful for her safety. What in hell was a seven-year old girl doing out here by herself at this time of day?
"Iris?" he said, trying to not sound as horrified as he felt. "What the he-…er, what are you doing out here? Where's your mother?" He looked around, knowing Karen and Richard Vick were upstate, attending the funeral of some relative. But surely if Iris was here, then her parents had to be somewhere nearby…
"Mommy had to go to Great-Aunt Maggie's funeral," Iris answered. "I couldn't go. Mommy said I'm too young." She clutched her teddy bear a little closer.
"So she turned you loose out here?" he asked, aghast.
"No. She left me with the idiots."
"The idiots?" Carlton stared down at her, bewildered. "What idiots?"
"Shawn and Gus."
"Oh, the chief idiots. Right." He scratched the back of his head and took a sip of his coffee. "Was she drunk?"
"No."
"Had she been smoking anything that smelled kinda funny?"
"No. Mommy doesn't smoke."
"Good. Right. Any recent blows to the head?"
"No."
"Okay. So…er…they must have been her last resort." He paused, considering. She must have been desperate.
"I think so." Iris didn't look terribly happy. "I didn't like them. Their office smelled like sour cream and onion chips and spoiled cheese, and Shawn is stupid and Gus is just…"
"Guster has no backbone," Carlton nodded. "I know."
"They have more toys than me!" she said, shaking her head. "I don't even keep those stupid toys I get at McDonald's, but they have them all!"
"Wait…if she left you with them, where are they, exactly?"
"They left. To get…burros?"
"Churros." He stared down at the little girl's expectant face, at a loss as to what to do. "Oh. Right. Chief idiots."
Shawn and Gus decided to head to the beach, to sit down and enjoy their churros. They had bought several each, and were seated on a bench, watching the water and beachgoers. It was a bright, sunny day, and even thought it was early March, the weather was warm. Shawn was thinking about going in search of smoothies when Gus suddenly sat up straight, eyes wide.
"Shawn…"
"Ye…um…" He chewed on his last churro, sighing happily. "Oh, God, these churros are superb. That guy should get an award. A…a…cart food award. Street Vendor Culinary Delight of the Year…"
"Shawn. Listen to me a minute."
"Yeah, what is it?" One last bite, one that Shawn was determined to relish until the wagon came back around again and they could get another batch.
"We left something at the office."
"What? Your phone?" Shawn smacked his lips happily. Jules would berate him for wiping his mouth with his shirtsleeve, but she was in Miami, so he could let it all hang out. Funny, how he didn't really miss her very much. He was sure she was going crazy, missing him, but really, he had Gus and TiVo. "You locked the door, right?"
"No, Shawn. We left Iris at the office!"
"Who?"
"Shawn! Iris. Iris Vick. Chief Vick's daughter!"
Spencer shot to his feet then, an expression of pure horror on his face. He covered his mouth with his hands, to keep from screaming and vomiting up everything he'd eaten since last month. Gus was on his feet, too, and already sprinting back toward the office. Shawn ran after him, any memory of churros long gone, at least for the time being.
"She's gone. Ohgodshesgonewhatarewegonnad oguswhatarewegonnadovickwill killyou!"
"What do you mean me?" Gus gasped, clutching the edge of his desk, to keep from pitching over. He had already thrown up all his churros, barely making it to the garbage can in time. Shawn was wheezing and talking so fast he was barely understood, and he was turning a truly hideous shade of The Exorcist green.
"You! She'll kill you first! You're just the Magic Head! I'm the head psychic, so she might at least allow a trial, but…"
"A trial! A trial, when you lost her kid?!"
"I didn't lose her kid! I think we share fifty-fifty responsibility here!" Shawn sputtered.
"You saw the churro cart go by! And you don't even know what responsibility is! I doubt you can even spell it! You promised to deliver her back to her mother in better shape than when you got her."
"We! We would deliver her back!" Shawn wailed. "And you went with me!"
"And yet we don't have her! Anybody could have her!" Gus shouted. "Oh my God, that sweet little girl, with some…some…oh God, I don't even want to think about it!" Gus sat down, holding his head in his hands, moaning.
Shawn began pacing back and forth, holding his head in his hands, shaking and chanting "Omigod!" over and over again, as part of his contribution toward finding the lost child.
The phone rang, and both men screamed in terror. They stared at the phone, keeping away from it, as though it was a rabid weasel, and neither moved to answer it. Finally, after four rings, it switched to voicemail. "Mr Spencer, this is Chief Vick. I'm just calling to check on Iris. I'm going to assume you've taken her out somewhere for dinner, which is fine, but if you feed her a bunch of junk food I will personally execute you both and I guarantee it will not involve a chair, a gas chamber or a needle." ::click::
The two men clung to each other, weeping hysterically.
"It's over! It's all over, Gus! It's all over!"
"Uh…well…er…Iris. So. How've you been? It's been a while since I've seen you."
The little girl, chewing on the ham and cheese sandwich Carlton had bought her at the little deli next to the coffee shop, shrugged. "'m'okay."
"Second grade, right?"
She nodded.
"Are you doing well? Or…do you do any homework type stuff…?"
"No."
They were sitting at a table at a small park near the beach, Iris up on her knees on her side of the table, munching away. Carlton, at a loss about what to talk about with a seven-year old, leaned back against the table and crossed his knees, looking at the water.
"Do you know how to read?" he asked her at last.
"Yeah," she said, only rolling her eyes a little. "I like to read the American Girl books." She dug in her backpack and extracted one. Molly, an American Girl. "This one's my favorite."
He pondered. He had heard of that series. His oldest niece, Megan, had said something about it once. "Well. That's good."
"What do you read?"
"Currently…The Killer Angels."
"The what?"
"Er…never mind. Is that sandwich good?"
"Yeah, it's good. Thank you." She had finished it off and was balling up the cellophane, ready to throw it away. He took it, discarded it into a can, and sat down again. He could call Vick, and tell her he had the girl for now, but then what? She would come back to Santa Barbara, kill Spencer and Guster, go on trial for murder, go to prison, her marriage would end, and poor Iris would end up a juvenile delinquent, forever scarred by the fact that her mother had done what should have been done years ago under far calmer circumstances.
"Well. Right. Okay. So. It's getting late." He took out his cell and started to call Spencer, but stopped to reconsider. If Spencer had already lost the kid, then the little twit would do it again in an hour or so, when the churro wagon went by again, and she'd be back on the streets, moving from sweet little girl to juvenile delinquent (or worse) without the intermediate steps in between. No, he decided. He would just take Iris back to his condo, let her watch a movie and eat some popcorn, and call Karen later and do his best to keep her from doing anything drastic. He put the phone away. "All right then. Let's go."
"Where are we going?"
"To my condo, I guess. The station is hardly appropriate, as it's full of criminals and cops that are having to work late, so they're almost as cranky as the criminals. I can't take you back to the idiots. They'd just lose you again."
"I hope neither one of them has a puppy. It'd be dead in a few days."
"You got that right."
She slipped her tiny hand into his as they walked to his car, and he stared down at her for a moment.
"Mommy says you were the first person to ever hold me, after I was borned."
"Born. Yes. I did."
"Mommy says you're kind of grumpy but a nice man anyway."
"I'm…grumpy? She said I'm nice?"
"Yeah." She saw an ice cream cart trundle by, and stared longingly at it. Carlton considered for a moment – surely Karen wouldn't mind the kid having an ice cream sandwich or something. She was seven, for God's sake. When he had been seven, he had wanted ice cream sandwiches, too, but his mother had declared them too expensive and that they were full of mind-controlling substances put in them by the government. He knew now that that wasn't likely, at least not in Blue Bell ice cream sandwiches, which were by the far the best. He led the girl over and bought two sandwiches, unwrapping hers and handing it to her. She smiled up at him as she ate, and he felt that all-too-familiar pang in his chest as he found some napkins and told her to clean up a bit.
He and Marlowe had talked about having kids, and she definitely wanted a few. Two or three for starters, and if things went okay, they'd have a few more. If not, they'd raise German shepherds, she had said, ever practical. Either way, he wanted a son or two to carry on his name and a daughter to shamelessly spoil when nobody was looking.
Carlton strapped Iris into the back seat, warned her to keep low in case any cops saw her and gave him a ticket, and drove to Prospect Gardens, thinking. Marlowe wanted to name their first daughter Bridget – "A fine Irish name", she had said – and they were still bickering about what to name a boy.
Shawn and Gus searched the street, charging into every office, banging on doors until angry people answered, and begged for information.
"She's a little girl. About…five years old. Kinda chubby. Brown hair, blue eyes…"
"She's blonde, with brown eyes, Shawn," Gus corrected. "She's slim, and she's seven."
"…wearing a pink dress…"
"She's wearing a SpongeBob Squarepants shirt, jeans…"
"…ballet slippers…"
"Pink tennis shoes," Gus went on.
"…carrying a cardigan and a stuffed Angry Bird. The red one."
"She's carrying a pink backpack and a teddy bear."
The barista stared at Shawn and Gus, sighed, and rolled her eyes. "Listen, come back here when you've detoxed, okay? We're closing down."
"But we lost a little girl! Her name is Imelda!"
"Iris!"
"That wouldn't surprise me a bit, and I'll bet she's glad to get away from you both!" she snapped. "I suspect you've both lost lots of girls, over the years. And we've also told him," she pointed at Shawn "to never come in here again and we don't appreciate pranks. So get out!"
"Hey! I resent that! I'm a paying customer!" Shawn squawked.
"Monopoly money isn't real cash, you bloated buffoon!" she retorted. "Out!"
"All right, Iris. You can go through my DVD's, find something you like…oh, wait. Scratch that. Uh…" He opened the cabinet and looked through the boxes, skipping over favorite but not-quite-PG movies like Fierce Creatures, Serpico and A View to a Kill. Clint Eastwood was also out, even the ones with the orangutan. Marlowe's Jane Austen flicks were also probably not totally appropriate (Mansfield Park had nudity for God's sake), so he scoured through them, knowing he had no Disney movies, and finally spotted one that had long been a favorite: The Black Stallion. He pulled the box out and showed it to her, and she studied it for a moment.
"What's it about? And…shouldn't it be The African-American Stallion?"
He had to look at the ceiling for a moment, to keep from laughing. "No. The horse is…black. As in, the coat color black. It's about a boy who is shipwrecked on an island with a black stallion. They get off the island and the horse wins a big race."
"Cool!" She took it and went to the TV, turning on the DVD player and popping the box open. He considered asking her to set the clock on his DVR, since he couldn't figure the damned thing out, but decided against it.
"Granted, it's highly improbable that a non-registered desert-bred Arabian could outrun champion Thoroughbreds, even at two miles, but it's also a movie. Lots of stuff in movies and on TV is improbable. Breaking and entering without repercussions is improbable. Incessant lying, cheating, stealing, withholding evidence, tampering with evidence, obstruction of justice and just general stupidity without arrest or recrimination is also improbable but very likely to cause young girls to fall head over heels in love with the lying thief, because on TV, liars and thieves are almost always cute and charming, thus causing the girls to later develop unhealthy relationships with real-life narcissists and sociopaths…" He stopped at Iris's puzzled stare, and smiled. "Okay. Sit down and wrap up in that blanket – the camouflage one. I'll make some popcorn."
"Shawn, think about this for a minute. You go in there and tell everybody you lost Iris Vick, it will be on the news before eleven. That is not publicity we want, okay?"
Shawn was pacing back and forth in front of the Santa Barbara Police Station, trying to stop a full-blown panic attack and failing miserably. He looked at Gus, appalled.
"A little girl is lost and…and…we're worried about publicity?!"
"They'll be asking the psychic to explain how he lost the daughter of the Chief of Police!" Gus hissed, smiling nervously as a pair of uniformed cops walked by. "Forget publicity, Shawn. Vick WILL kill you. I guarantee it."
"But if we get the police involved, they'll find her."
Gus sighed. "Right. We do need to tell somebody, but...who? Shawn, this is...it. You know that, don't you?"
"I don't want to think about that now. I just want them to find Isolde."
"Iris, Shawn."
Shawn sat down on the steps, holding his head in his hands and moaning, rocking back and forth. Just then, Buzz McNab came out, in street clothes, leaving for the day. He smiled happily at the two young men and started toward his car. Shawn jumped to his feet and chased him down. "Buzzy! Buzby! Buzzer!"
"It's…Buzz," McNab said, looking wary.
"We kinda…need your help."
"Shawn!" Gus rushed over. "Don't listen to him," he told McNab, trying to grab Shawn and drag him away, but he was batted away by his agitated friend.
"No, listen…shut up, Gus!" Shawn hissed. "Buzz, we need your help. We need you to help us…locate somebody."
"Really?" Buzz looked confused. "Can't you just…you know…" He made Shawn's patented finger-to-forehead gesture. "…picture where this person is?"
"Um…no. Not…the spirits are…um…sick tonight. They have the flu. Spirit flu. We really need your help tonight, Buzz. We really, really, really, really need your help!"
Buzz studied Shawn for a moment, considering, and finally nodded. "Sure guys. Whatever you need." He smiled. "Anything at all."
"And if we can't find her within the next...uh...twenty minutes, we're coming back here!" Gus said. "Right, Shawn?"
Shawn nodded, and the two men raced back to the Blueberry, almost forgetting Buzz, who hurried to catch up. He dove in right on time before Gus gunned the engine and sped off, back toward the beachfront where they had lost Iris Vick.
Carlton put the phone back on the hook, took his watch off and went back into the living room. Iris was wrapped up in his favorite old blanket and was reveling in the beautiful cinematography of The Black Stallion (no one was ever going to say Kelly Reno was a great actor, but he'd been a little kid at the time, after all). She had never seen the movie before (a sign that, while Karen Vick was by all accounts a good mother, the kid's cultural education was lacking in many ways) and was thoroughly enjoying it. She rarely asked questions, except for a quick request for clarification on some minor issues ("Why did that man steal the horse, when the horse hated him so much?" "Why are papers important for racehorses?" "Why did The Black and Sun Raider get into a fight?"), and was happy to munch her popcorn and just immerse herself in the movie about an exquisitely beautiful black horse and a little boy. Explaining horse theft, the Jockey Club's registration rules and male equine hormones all were complicated matters, but "Um…I'll tell you when you're older" seemed to suffice.
He answered an e-mail from O'Hara, caught up on some case notes, and received a text message from another officer about an ongoing case. By the time he was finished, the movie was over and Iris asked him several more, general, questions about horses. He answered them as well as he could, drawing on a lifelong appreciation of the equine race, and talked her into giving him a few minutes' peace by reading one of her books. At ten o'clock, his phone rang.
"Detective Lassiter…sir?"
"Yeah, McNab."
"I thought I should tell you I'm with Spencer and Guster now. They showed up about five minutes after you called. I'm really glad they came to the station, too."
"So you're helping them look for Iris?"
"Yep. They're walking up the beach. Shawn asked if I'm good at scuba diving, in case we need to scrape the bottom of the Pacific or something." McNab cleared his throat. "You know, Shawn's a nice guy and all but…you know…he's kinda…well…stupid…" Only McNab could seem sympathetic about that sad fact.
"I could write a book, McNab. They can't hear you?"
"No, sir."
"Good. Don't tell 'em a thing."
"Iris is okay, right?"
Carlton rolled his eyes, watching Iris eagerly reading her book. "She's fine."
"Good! Anyway, sir, I think Mr Guster may have wet his pants, but he won't admit it."
"If and when Spencer wets his pants, I want you to take a picture and send it to me."
"Yes, sir. We're heading back to the station now. No press, right?"
"Right. Tell the squad Iris is here, but don't tell Spencer or Guster. I'll talk to Vick."
Karen was livid when Carlton told her the story, but he managed to convince her to put the gun down and relax. He only gave her sketchy details of his tactics and hung up, after getting her to promise to follow his lead – she and Richard were already turning around and heading back to Santa Barbara, Great-Aunt Maggie's funeral be damned.
Iris was playing with her teddy bear when he rang off, and she sat down beside him on the couch, swinging her legs and clapping the bear's paws together.
"So now what do we do?"
"What do you like to do?" he asked, feeling weary. Putting fake psychics through the wringer was fun, but tiring just the same. He had had a long day, and was looking forward to sleeping in, but that was out of the question now. At least Iris's energy levels were normal and not the equivalent of trying to herd chickens, as it was when he had to deal with Spencer.
"I like to make cookies."
"Cookies? I don't make cookies. You want cookies, you buy a package, pour them onto a plate and eat them."
"Don't you like to bake?" she asked, looking disappointed and not even vaguely tired.
He frowned. Few people knew he liked to bake. Even fewer people knew that he had taken a few cooking courses over the years and found the whole art relaxing. Even more than target practice, actually, which he would never admit to anyone, except maybe Marlowe, if she ever asked. Maybe it was the rules and regulations that went with it, along with the ample room allowed for innovation and experimentation. Not that he had been able to figure out, yet, how to make fish taste good with cheese.
"Er…yeah. Sort of."
"Don't you have ingredients, to make cookies?"
"I'm sure I do…"
"Then let's make some cookies!"
He sighed. It was late, but considering Iris was 'missing', and he had already cleared it with Vick, she wasn't going to school tomorrow anyway. He finally nodded and got up to go look for the semi-sweet chocolate chips, sugar and flour.
Karen and Richard pulled into the parking garage next to Prospect Gardens, and she found a spot right next to Lassiter's Fusion. She looked at her husband, who rubbed his temples.
"You left Iris with those two idiots, Karen? Really?"
"I couldn't find anybody! I didn't even think of Detective Lassiter, but really, I should have. He would have done it, even if I wasn't the chief."
"Good guy, right?" he asked, with a rueful little smile.
"He's not a nice man, Richard, but he's a good man. And when it comes to kids, he's really got a soft heart – though he'll shoot himself in the foot before he'd admit it - and actually, he is a nice man, most of the time. He was the first person to even hold Iris. I'm sorry – I really should have called him. It's just that sometimes, I forget to consider him. His reputation tends to get in the way of his real personality."
"Eh…so long as Iris is okay, I don't care. What about Spencer and Guster, though?"
"Fried Cajun-style and served crispy, I think."
"Good. Jackasses. Endangering my baby girl. Remember to hold me back."
Vick knocked softly on Carlton's door, and he answered after a few moments, looking sleepy. "Oh. Yeah. Come on in. Hey…er…Richard."
The couple went into Lassiter's apartment and were puzzled to see their daughter curled up on the couch, sound asleep, with the closer side of the coffee table covered with cookies. In the middle of the table was a deck of playing cards. A chair had been pulled up on the other side of the table, and Vick's eyebrows went up.
"Did you play poker with my daughter?" she asked, astonished.
"Texas Hold 'em, mostly."
"And she won all your cookies?" Richard asked, looking impressed.
"No. I just ate all my winnings." He went to Iris and gently shook her. The little girl sat up, and when she saw her parents, she squealed with delight and bounced into her father's arms, hugging him, then falling over into her mother's arms.
"She's not a bad card player," Carlton told them. "She's too young for a good poker face, though. I always knew when she had a bad hand. In the end, I had more chocolate chip cookies…but only a few more."
Iris stuck her tongue out at him, and he grinned.
"We…we…really should go to the press now. We should. Amber Alert. The whole nine yards. Just tell the truth, let Vick kill us, and it'll be over. Maybe it'll be quick. You know – bang, bang, dead. Over and done. The Spencer and Guster family names will die with us…you two ready to go back to the station now?"
"Um…" Buzz stood up, seeing the headlights of Vick's car as it pulled into a space in front of the Psych office. She had her husband with her, and they were getting out. Quickly.
"It's all right, Buzz. You were really nice to help us. But she's gone. She's just…gone. Gone forever. Poor little kid. It's our fault. All our fault."
"Are you sure you can't just…you know…get a vibe, of where she is?" Buzz asked him cautiously. Shawn sighed and rubbed his face.
"No, Buzz. I can't. I can't. See…I'm not really psychic…I never was. I…" He turned at a sound behind him and stared, wide-eyed, at Karen Vick and a handsome, friendly-looking man. Or, at least, he would have been friendly-looking except that he looked thoroughly pissed off and Vick was standing in front of him, preventing him from attacking Shawn.
"Don't worry, Mr Spencer. I stopped believing you were psychic a long time ago. But you lost my daughter yesterday? Seriously? When I warned you about what could happen if you didn't deliver her back to me, safe and sound?"
Shawn gulped, and Gus shot to his feet. He had been sitting at his desk, reading horrifying statistics about child murders and kidnappings online and thanking God his stomach was now completely empty. "Is she alive? Do you know where she is? Buzz...called it in already. He...he..."
"She's with Detective Lassiter, who fortunately found her last evening up the street from here, near a coffee shop, and everybody at the station has been informed already that she's safe, and the press never will get wind of this little incident. She got bored and left your office when the two of you went off churro-hunting, and from what I understood, she waited around for you for over an hour. I've already scolded her for doing that – she should have stayed here, however stupid the two of you are, and I'll be beating myself up for months over how stupid I was to have left her with Beavis and Butthead! But otherwise, she is in excellent condition."
"Even after staying with Lassie?" Shawn asked. Karen slapped him so hard he fell onto the sofa with an 'oof!' She loomed over him, so furious she looked like she might boil over. He cowered, terrified and immensely glad that she didn't seem to have her gun with her.
"You listen to me, Mr Spencer – and this is the last conversation we will ever have that doesn't include our attorneys. My daughter is safe because a responsible adult found her and took care of her. If you had taken your job seriously, she wouldn't have been in danger, and I wouldn't be informing you that your career as a consultant for the SBPD is officially and irrevocably over, but you didn't, and she was, and now I am and it is!"
"Yes, ma'am," Shawn said meekly, rubbing his reddening cheek.
"And as for my daughter spending the evening with Detective Lassiter, she had a rather nice time," Richard Vick told them. "And it's a very, very good thing she did. And now, Karen will inform you of your due punishment. I'll wait in the car, thinking about where to leave the body parts. If you need me to wipe up any blood, Karen, just flash the blinds."
McNab followed Richard out, and Karen regarded the two nervous young men, neither of whom dared to move. Before he was out the door, however, Shawn asked "Wait a minute, Buzz...you withheld that bit of info from us? That Eileen was with Lassie? How could you?!"
"Iris. And yeah. But you're not a cop. You're just a consultant...or...you were. I can keep anything from you and it's not even remotely illegal." He smiled in his usual cheerful way and waved. "Good night!"
Marlowe covered her mouth with her hands, laughing helplessly as Carlton told her the story.
"Oh my God...that's hilarious. So what are they gonna do to Shawn and Gus?"
"Not much, really. Vick fired Spencer, of course. Psych has been shut down, Guster's back to his big-boy job, and O'Hara seems like she'll recover pretty well. Hell, I think she's even relieved that he's gone."
"He left?"
"I think he's opening a day-care center in Utah."
"Very funny."
"Anyway, Vick actually asked me if I'd babysit Iris again in a week or so. I dunno...it seems weird, for a guy to babysit a little girl...but it wasn't that bad. We made cookies. She wants to learn how to make coq au vin next. Minus the vin."
"Something every girl should know, and really, Carlton, if anybody's going to take good care of a little girl, it's you. You can do a screening of The Black Stallion Returns while the coq au no-vin bakes."
"It's not as good as the first one."
"True, but it's okay, and safe for a little girl. Besides, you need the practice. As you know, as soon as I get sprung out of this joint, we're gonna get started on making one of our own."
"Erotic arts and crafts, huh?"
"You got that right."
FIN