This was begun long, long before Season 6; I'm going to set it in Season 6 but we are going to pretend Marlowe didn't even happen, because in my head IT DID NOT HAPPEN. Written because Lassie is a hero who doesn't get nearly enough attention or cute, fluffy romance.

I AM shamelessly shipping an older version of myself with Carlton Lassiter, thanks for asking. Any resemblance between Alisa's ex-husband and my ex-boyfriend is strictly coincidental.

I looked doubtfully up at the building. I didn't like the name—it pretty much screamed charlatan in a childish way—but this was supposedly where the best of the best worked.

My fingers clenched into a fist and I strode into the office. I immediately smelled pineapple and churros. Strewn around the room were Dorito bags, cheap novels, and movies whose names I didn't recognize.

It looked like a college dorm room set up to look like an office space. God, the best of the best wasn't going to be good enough, was it?

I saw the door into the second room and heard voices from a television, so I went towards it, stepping around the trash on the floor.

"Hello?"

"Well, good morning." A lazy voice said. I turned and stared at the speaker—he looked like a college student with way too much hair gel.

"I've been told that you're a psychic?"

"That I am, as well as a cinnamon enthusiast and a world celebrated monkeyologist."

"You mean a primatologist?"

"I've heard it both ways."

I sighed. "Clearly, I've made a mistake. Can you call me a cab to the police station, please?"

"I was about to head over there." He said. "Chief Vick needs to sign my latest check."

"Can you give me a ride, then? I had to walk here from my apartment."

"I ride a motorcycle. But you can sit on the back and run your fingers through my amazing hair."

I rolled my eyes. I was probably only eight years older than him, but there was no way I was going to let him flirt with me. "Don't you have anything better to do than sit around and flirt with any female organism that comes near you?" I asked impatiently.

He shrugged and threw a skittle into the air and tried to catch it with his mouth. I rolled my eyes again and picked up the keys on his desk. I walked out of his office and to his motorcycle. It was a great bike, actually.

I knew I'd look weird wearing a business pantsuit and riding a motorcycle, but I didn't care. I pulled my silver hair back into a bun and put the helmet on. The psychic ran outside as I started the motor and pulled out of the space.

I smiled to myself as I went as fast as the speed limit would allow, and soon enough I pulled into a space beside a burgundy sedan.

A man with salt and pepper hair climbed out of the car. "Spencer!"

I pulled the helmet off and blushed slightly. It wasn't a good idea to ride a stolen bike to a police station. He stopped dead.

"I'm sorry. I, um, borrowed the psychic's motorcycle. He was lounging around doing nothing and wasting my time."

"That's fine. Spencer's a nuisance anyway." He answered. "I'm Head Detective Carlton Lassiter."

"I'm Alisa Clark." I shook his outstretched hand formally.

"I like your hair colour." A pretty blonde woman said, smiling at me from the other side of the car. "I've never met anyone who dyed their hair silver instead of dying it to cover greys."

"This way makes grey hairs fit in."

She smiled. "That's a good idea. I'm Juliet O'Hara."

I walked over to shake hands with her.

"What can we do for you, Mrs. Clark?" Detective Lassiter asked.

"Oh, I'm divorced, and if you want to be technical, I've got a doctorate."

"I'm recently divorced myself." He said awkwardly.

I realized he was actually flirting with me and smiled at him. "I'm sorry. Well, the reason I'm here is that I've been getting love letters from a stalker." I admitted.

"Did you bring any of them?"

I reached into my suit jacket's inner pocket and pulled out seventeen of the letters. "About an eighth of them, actually."

"We'll look into it. In the meantime, would you like some coffee?" He inquired as took them.

"That'd be great. Do you have any rooms with no outer windows? I'm trying to avoid this guy."

"O'Hara, check these for fingerprints. Give McNab the murder case."

I raised my eyebrows as I walked into the station with him. He led me over to a counter with a coffee pot and stood between me and the window.

"You don't have to put me above a murder investigation, Detective Lassiter."

"It's more important to protect the living than to find justice for the dead."

I smiled and wrapped my hands around the warm mug. "I always wanted to become a cop, but I'm not smart like that."

"So what do you do?"

"I'm a professor," I smiled. "I used to teach English Literature at Harvard, and I currently teach Latin at the community college." My face fell slightly as I remembered why I fled Massachusetts.

"How did you end up here after working at an Ivy League school?" He asked tactlessly.

I smiled as the blonde detective sighed and tried to reprimand him. "Carlton!"

"It's quite alright, Detective O'Hara. I appreciate someone being as blunt as I am. I had to leave after my ex and I proved we couldn't work as colleagues when he was flaunting fifty young actresses in my face and threatening to poison my new boyfriend."

O'Hara whistled. "And I thought my exes were crazy." She said with a smile.

"I always attract the crazies. And if it's a normal guy, I turn him certifiable." I glanced at Detective Lassiter, hoping to warn him off before he did something stupid like—

"Get down!" He yelled, pushing me to the ground as a hail of bullets shattered the window.

I'd never been more terrified in my life. I'd been in dangerous situations throughout my life, but never one involving being shot at.

The bullets stopped and O'Hara cocked her gun, running around calling orders. I found myself in a sea of broken glass, protected by the lanky form of the SBPD Head Detective.

"Omigod," I half-whimpered, and then, "You saved my life."

"It's my job." He said, but the half-grin on his face told me he was rather pleased with this accomplishment.

Detective Lassiter got to his feet and helped me up, guiding me around the worst of the glass to O'Hara's desk while cops milled about.

"The question is why it is necessary!" I added.

"Your stalker, I'm sure. You were the target."

"You could've been killed." I realised suddenly. "He could've shot you on accident!"

He glanced down at himself. "No harm done, not even a nick in my suit." The detective said.

"The glass scratched your shoe." I pointed down at his left foot.

"Dammit! Sorry," He said, remembering I was listening.

I shook my head. "You oughtn't to apologise. I cuss a good deal at times. Tell you what, Detective, as thanks and apology, after I write a statement, we'll grab a coffee and you can tell me of your favourite cases. Deal?"

"Deal." He echoed strangely.

I smiled despite myself. Dammit, Alisa, what are you getting yourself into now?

"He got away!" O'Hara said angrily, reappearing.

"Better make it dinner at my house." Detective Lassiter told me. "It's far safer, believe me."

"Is 5:30 alright with you?"

"Ye-yes, yes it is."

I ask again, a sardonic voice in the back of my mind said, just what are you getting yourself into now?

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