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Fathers and Sons Felonious and Otherwise

Chapter 1

"Fathers and sons. I tell ya, Bob, it all comes down to fathers and sons. This business of ours turns on relationships, and the most important one is always the one between fathers and sons."

"You're right about that, Morton. You're absolutely right," said Bob.

"Any organization, from a hole-in-the-wall diner to an empire, can be built up or torn down purely by the relationship of a father and son."

"That's what history shows us."

"So, now I find myself in good company, bemoaning the son I was given who hasn't learned a damned thing from me, who has ridden my coattails and ascended to heights beyond his own abilities, who is on the verge of making everything I've worked for in my life come tumbling down. What am I supposed to do about that, Bob? Why at my age do I still have to clean up his messes?" growled the old man as he shifted slightly in his seat, grunting faintly. The light glowed off of his thick glasses for a moment making him look like some kind of demented owl.

Bob fidgeted, feeling the heat of the old man's building anger as surely as an oncoming freight train. He'd learned long ago in the old man's employ to get out of the way at times like this. "I guess it's the curse of parenthood, Morton. You're never not their parent."

"Very true, Bob. Wise words," said the old man as he took another slug of scotch. He puffed on his Cuban cigar, savoring the smoke as he held it in his mouth for a moment before blowing it gently out again. "To tell you the truth, I'm not as terribly put out by all of this as I probably should be. Honestly, I'm looking forward to getting back in the game, at least for this one thing, for this one last hurrah."

Bob sighed inwardly and relaxed a little bit. "You're a natural, Morton. You'll show these kids how it's done."

The old man flashed a feral grin, tobacco and coffee-stained teeth gleaming almost gold in the lamplight. "Hell yeah. They think their gadgets and electronic gizmos let them get things done better. All they do is mesmerize them and make them miss the obvious. I'll get a network chugging along like the old days, busting heads and getting the job done right. The kids won't know where to look."

Bob smiled and took a swig of his own scotch, relaxing more fully now that the old man was on a roll and his attention was focused on a goal. The old man was always easier to deal with when he had a direction. He was an insufferable ass when he was aimless and bored.

"So we start at the beginning. The root of the problem, here, is that Maxwell never learned subtlety. Actually, the real problem is that he's a lazy dumbass. Subtlety is an art practiced with intelligence and patience. My son didn't inherit those qualities. I blame his mother."

Bob cleared his throat and shifted again in his seat. He was happy that Gladys had passed or there would've been an eruption at the old man's words. His wife had been a firebrand to rival his steely ruthlessness. Their arguments had always been epic, not uncommonly involving broken crystal or vases or whatever else was handy. Since her death two years earlier, the old man had seemed to be shrinking and fading, as if her presence had kept the spark within him lit. Now, there was a hint of that old spark again, although it was only the cold and calculating fervor of the old man. At least he was interested again in something. Bob decided that when this business was finished he'd find another venture for the old man, criminal or otherwise, to keep this newly ignited fire going. He'd also missed the heat of purpose, and he felt the stirrings of anticipation as he awaited the old man's plans.

"You never send goons after a witness. You send messages. I've told Maxwell this a thousand times, but did he listen? Obviously not. He got impatient and cocky and he screwed up," said the old man through another puff of cigar smoke. "I know you already know this, Bob, but I'm thinking out loud here."

Bob nodded and made sure he looked extra-attentive, accustomed to the old man's lectures and tendency to think out-loud.

"It's time Maxwell learned the proper method of taking the heart out of a witness. And for this situation, I'd like to hit the cops investigating him. After all, what better way is there to intimidate an innocent than to show their protectors aren't even safe? And what better way to get back at the cops for messing with my family?"

Bob returned the feral grin that had spread across the old man's face in anticipation of doing damage to the hated police. He even felt the stirrings of excitement at the idea within himself. The cops had certainly given them enough grief through the years. It was always fun to mess them up in return when the opportunity arose.

"So you need to get me information on the cops investigating my son. Better yet, get someone inside. Talk to Ferdinand. I believe he has a cousin in town who has experience," said the old man with the happy grin still making his leathery face glow. "And find Sinclair."

"Sinclair?" asked Bob with surprise. "He's been retired for years."

"He's here. Find him and get him on board. Sell it as a last hurrah, if you have to. And pay whatever he wants. For this one, it's worth the cost. What am I saving my money for anyway, right? I can't show it off in this dump, other than with these tiny treats," he said waving the cigar and swishing the expensive alcohol in its glass. "If I've got to keep myself under wraps, I might as well have fun doing it."

"Yes, sir," said Bob with a tone of awe laced with fear. The operation had suddenly taken a darker turn than he'd expected. When he'd said "hit the cops" he'd assumed it was more along the lines of a shot across the bow rather than a real "hit." But if he was bringing in Sinclair, that meant the old man was serious this time. Deadly serious.

Sensing his unease, the old man sat up straighter and glowered at Bob. "This is my son we're talking about, Bob. This is my flesh and blood. This is ME they're messing with!" he bellowed. "They're going to learn."

Bob sat up straighter as well and set his glass down on the table. "Of course, Morton. Of course."

The old man started to cough but tried to mask it by clearing his throat as he sat back again, quickly deflating from his burst of ire. He reached for the oxygen mask sitting on the table at his elbow and put it to his face for a few breaths before tossing it onto the side table again. "Get to work, now."

Bob stood and nodded. "I'll have the information by the morning, and I'll talk to Ferdinand."

"Good. Don't worry about Sinclair. I'll call him myself."

"Okay, Morton," said Bob with ill-concealed relief. He hadn't been looking forward to calling the stone killer. The last time he'd talked to the man he'd felt like cold slugs were crawling on his spine. That had been over a decade ago, but he could still remember the feeling. "I'll come by in the morning. Good night, Morton."

"Good night, Bob. We're going to have some fun with this, you hear?"

"Absolutely," said Bob with a wave as he left the apartment.

OoOoOoO

Lassiter sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before opening the file in front of him for the millionth time. His eyes were crossing reading through it again and again, but he wanted to be damned sure everything was in perfect order. Presenting felony evidence against a well-known defense attorney wasn't a common occurrence, even when said attorney had been suspected of being crooked for years. Usually, attorneys were way too smart to be caught the way they'd been able to nail Maxwell Francis. He'd been bold and reckless and had been charged with witness-intimidation because he seemingly hadn't even tried to cover his connection to the deed. They had the testimony of a fresh-faced college intern who had been directed by Francis to deliver payment to the men who'd eventually been charged in the assault on the witness. The fact that he'd allowed an intern to deliver the money directly to the men was mind-boggling, but there it was, undeniable, in black and white on the report. He'd taken the intern's statement himself like he'd been accepting a Christmas gift in July. It was thrilling but almost disconcerting as well. He couldn't quite shake the niggling sense of unease he had about the case. He'd never liked trusting in things that seemed to come too easily.

"Detective, I need that file. Now, please," said Chief Vick from her office door.

Lassiter sat up, blinking at the change of focus from the close-up file to Karen Vick across the bullpen. "Yes, Chief," he said as he stood up and walked the file over to her.

She smiled as she took the file from his hand. "The case is good, Carlton. Stop worrying about it."

He gave her a self-conscious smirk in return and nodded. "I know. I just wanted to be sure."

"Of course. While you're here, how's the Hammond case coming along?"

"Well, Spencer's vibes led us to interview a few more of the residents at the Shady Glen home and I think we have enough to get a warrant to search Hammond's office," said Lassiter.

"What he means to say, Chief, is that we have the guy nailed to the wall like one of those creepy singing fake fish things," said Shawn as he and Gus strolled up to them.

Lassiter's brow scrunched up and Vick raised her eyebrows as she turned to face Shawn. "That solid, huh?"

Shawn struck an odd pose and said, "Would I lie to you?" Then he performed a shimmy from side to side. "Would I lie to you, honey?"

Gus's expression turned horrified as he punched Shawn in the arm. Lassiter's expression darkened. The chief's eyebrows went up even further. "Did you just call me honey?"

Shawn rubbed his arm with a scathing glance at Gus and then said, "No, sorry, Chief. I just heard that song in the car and it's really sticking in my head. It's like some kind of gooey thought glue that won't..."

"Mr. Spencer," growled Vick.

Shawn cleared his throat. "This is a cut and dry case. The guy's skimming money from these old people under the guise of obtaining more life insurance for them on the cheap. Seriously, he was driving a Ford Escort last month and now he's driving a brand new BMW. How much clearer does it have to be?"

"Significantly, in order to get a warrant," said Vick with a warning tone. "Maybe he's been saving for years to get this car and finally got it. Do you have other evidence?" She turned her look on Lassiter who nodded.

"Yes, Chief," he said with a glance at Shawn. "Based on Spencer's, uh, vision, we have interviewed several of the residents who have mentioned that Mr. Hammond has been trying to talk them into additional life insurance. Also, Spencer here found letterhead with a fake life insurance company name. It was a form letter welcoming someone who had supposedly been newly insured."

"Found it where?"

Shawn spoke up, "It was blowing around on the grass outside of the nursing home."

The chief turned her gaze on Shawn again. "Really?" she asked with healthy skepticism.

"Would I lie...OW!" said Shawn as Gus punched him again. "Yes, Chief, really. I saw the paper on the ground and picked it up like the good environmentalist that I am."

"Can you put the two together? Just because he may be advising them to purchase more insurance doesn't mean he's the one scamming them. Do you have evidence directly connecting him to this fake insurance company?" pressed Vick, looking from Shawn to Lassiter and back.

Shawn held his hands out to his sides in a helpless gesture. "Fingerprints? I'm telling you, it's him."

Lassiter cleared his throat. "We'll find the connection, Chief," said Lassiter, feeling the agitation rippling off of Shawn in waves. For as intelligent as he could be, sometimes the psychic could be frustratingly dense, especially about the necessities of proper procedure.

"Do that," said Vick. "Then we'll talk about a warrant."

Shawn grimaced and Lassiter sighed as Chief Vick went back into her office. "Man, that blows," whined Shawn. "I wanted to get the check for that case too."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "It's called real police work, Spencer. Deal with it. Cases aren't won on vibes, they're won on hard evidence." He turned and stalked back to his desk.

"Your head is hard enough evidence, Lassie," groused Shawn. "I'm not sure how much harder it can get."

"Shawn, just drop it. We've got him like you said, it'll just take a little more time for us to get paid is all," said Gus, sensing the rise in tension in the room and wanting to head out to answer his growling stomach instead. "Let's go grab some lunch."

"Okay, man," said Shawn, then he turned back to Lassiter's desk as he walked backwards. "Lassie, we're gonna get some food now. When we come back we'll see if you need our help to finish off this case or if you might miraculously be doing some work on your own."

Lassiter just waved a dismissive hand, not in the mood to engage the perpetual irritant. The funny thing was, he felt just as certain about Hammond's guilt as Shawn did, but he understood the need for sufficient, solid evidence before being able to get a warrant and make the arrest, and he was confident that they'd get the evidence in due time. He'd been a cop long enough that he'd come to terms with the requirements of the legal process and the patience needed to endure it, unlike Spencer, apparently. He was always vaguely shocked at the psychic's attitude. He'd grown up with a cop in the house, Lassiter figured he should be familiar enough with the procedures. But, maybe that's why Spencer had never tried to become a cop himself. And thank Sweet Lady Justice for that. Lassiter shivered at the thought of Spencer as one of his officers, or worse yet, a detective. Although, maybe then he'd have a better measure of control over the flighty pest.

Lassiter shrugged and rubbed at his stress-tight shoulders as he settled in at his desk, shaking off thoughts of Spencer-as-detective and the lingering unease of the Francis case. He tried to shift his focus fully to the Hammond case instead. All they needed was a stronger connection to Hammond, and Juliet was quite possibly getting that even as he sat down and flipped open the file. She'd been at the nursing home all morning working on the case while he'd finished up the Francis report. With any luck, she'd have the hard evidence the chief had asked for and Spencer wouldn't have anything to gripe about later. He squinted at the Hammond file, then rubbed his eyes, realizing that he needed a caffeine boost before digging in. He stood to head for the coffee area when he almost ran into a custodian passing his desk.

"Sorry, detective," said the man, ducking his head as he danced out of Lassiter's way.

"No problem," said Lassiter as he pulled up to avoid a collision. He flicked his gaze over the man, but he was already retreating down the steps to the interrogation and file areas, carrying a broom and dustpan. Lassiter didn't recognize him and wondered at that for a moment. He was familiar with everyone who worked at the station, regardless of shift times, all the way down to the custodial staff. This man wasn't known to him, but Lassiter just chalked it up to a temporary replacement. Someone was taking a day off, probably. A small corner of his mind filed the information away to ask the duty officer about later as his gaze re-focused on the desired coffee pots.

OoOoOoO

Juliet sighed as she trudged up the station steps two hours later carrying the bag of food for her and her partner's very delayed lunch. She was frustrated that she hadn't been able to find a greater connection between Hammond and the fake insurance company. And she'd only been able to interview one other resident of the Shady Glen home because any others who had been contacted by Hammond, the home's account director, were either on a trip to the mall or were otherwise unavailable. She knew Lassiter and Shawn would be frustrated by the lack of progress. She caught herself and smiled wryly at the thought of being reluctant to report to Shawn, too. He was a part of their team, though, so it really was becoming almost second-nature to include him in her thoughts on cases like this.

"Oh, thank god," gasped Lassiter as she approached his desk with the food. "I think I just passed out from hunger a second ago."

Juliet smiled and shook her head as she dropped the bag onto his desk. "Just don't eat it all. I'll be right back," she said as she headed to her locker. She needed to make a locker-stop and a bathroom-stop before she could settle in for her dinner and her disappointing report. As she reached the bottom of the steps she saw a figure moving through the back hallway and out the back door of the station. She couldn't tell who it was, but he had on a custodian's uniform and was holding a big paper bag, like a grocery bag. She blinked and watched for a moment as the man went out the exit. Custodians didn't usually leave work at this hour, but maybe he was just taking a dinner break outside. She shrugged and went about her business.

OoOoOoO

Ferdinand closed the door on his cousin and walked into the tiny living room holding the big paper bag. He held it out to Bob.

"Now, see, Bob. That's how it's done. You'll tell your cousin how happy we are, Ferdinand," said the old man. He took one more puff of oxygen before reaching out for some of the copies Bob had extracted from the bag.

"Yes, sir," said Ferdinand as he left the room to finish making dinner in the tiny kitchen.

"Shady Glen," said Bob, scanning the papers. "We almost got you a place there, didn't we Morton?"

The old man snorted. "That dump is for vegetables. They stack 'em 2 or 3 deep in a single room. Imagine! This place is bad enough," he griped as he squinted at a page.

Bob nodded. They'd had to settle the old man into a senior residence a few months after Gladys passed. It was better cover for him, with Ferdinand as his live-in nurse, a duty he was qualified for as well as the myriad other talents he possessed. They had easier access to care, if Morton suffered an episode, and security was more lax than at a normal hospital. Even after all of these years, they still had to be careful to hide Morton's identity. The authorities and other families would all still love a crack at the old man, but he was going to show he had some swing left of his own.

"This guy here, Spencer, is listed as a psychic consultant. They actually employ a psychic? What kind of moronic police force do they have in this town? If I'd known this I mighta tried putting together something in this shithole city years ago!" crowed the old man.

Bob stood up and walked over to peer at the page the man was perusing. "Yeah, this is the same crew that put together the case on Maxwell. The head detective, his partner, and a pair of consultants. I didn't realize they're psychics. That's a nutty group right there."

The old man snorted again. "This just gets better and better," he mumbled. "So you got anything on this case of theirs?"

Bob grabbed a sheet he'd been studying. "Yeah, we can set something up. They're stuck looking for evidence on this dumb slob. Easy enough to bait the hook."

"Spectacular. You set the bait, I'll contact the hook," sneered the old man. "Give me that phone." He grabbed a ratty old address book from the side table and took a few puffs of oxygen to calm the excited wheezing that had suddenly flared up. He flipped the address book open to the S's and skimmed down the page to the single-named entry: Sinclair.

Bob smiled at the old man's enthusiasm and sat down to pen a tantalizing letter for the psychic. Things were starting to get fun, now.