Carlton Lassiter stared out the plane window at the rain. Of course it would be raining today. His flight had landed minutes before and the first class passengers were slowly unloading their carry-ons and getting their jackets on. He was in Cincinnati, Ohio. The last place on earth he wanted to be. He wanted to be in Santa Barbara working on his case, but no, he was in this rainy town looking for the only person that could help, even though that person was the last person Lassiter wanted to talk to.
Lassiter didn't have a carry-on. He didn't have any luggage at all, for that matter. He would have needed to check his glock to bring it and there wasn't enough time for that. His return flight left in three hours.
As he waited for a cab, he checked the paper in his pocket. He had needed to cash in a few favors to get this address, but at this point Lassiter was willing to donate a kidney to solve this case.
"Listen up friends, we have a culinary delight for you tonight." Shawn Spencer announced as he walked out of his apartment kitchen. He grinned to himself, and then the grin faded as he looked around the empty room. It wasn't a dining room or a living room. It was, as Shawn had dubbed it, the dine-live-bed room. There was a bedroom in the apartment, but that was occupied by all the extra things Shawn had managed to acquire over the past eight years.
He sighed, set the TV dinner on the coffee table, and slumped down on the futon. He was going to do the same thing he did every night. He would eat dinner and watch television until he fell asleep. Then he would get up in the morning, shower, go to work, then come home and repeat the ritual. It had been that way since he moved in.
Lassiter got out of the cab and promised the driver a tip worth his while, if he would wait. Spotting a familiar motorcycle parked in the carport for apartment 145, he pulled the collar of his trench coat up around his neck to keep the rain out and ran for the building. He glanced around the apartment hallway. The carpet was damp from the rain and the whole place smelled faintly of mildew. The paint was a horrible yellow-brown color that strongly reminded Lassiter of the kitchen appliences his mother had bought when he had been five or six. As he thought about the color of the walls, Lassiter almost walked past apartment 145. He doubled back and then paused to stare at the door.
According to the paper in his hand, this was the right place. Lassiter reached out his hand to knock on the door, then pulled it back. It had been a long time since he had heard the name Shawn Spencer mentioned by anyone, but the memory of that day was still as fresh as if it had been only yesterday.
"Mr. Spencer left a message this morning that he'll be out of town for a few days." The chief was sitting at her desk. Lassiter, O'Hara, McNab and Henry had been gathered in her office.
Lassiter glanced to his partner as she made an inarticulate sound. He had noticed the puffy eyes and red splotches when she had come to work that morning. She had definitely been crying.
Henry slammed his hand down on the table in the corner of the office. "Damn it, Shawn. You always do the same thing. When the going gets tough you run away." He was talking to himself, but everyone in the room heard it.
That's when the dots connected in Lassiter's brain. Spencer and O'Hara must have had a fight. He had discovered that they had been dating about six or seven months before, right after the Yin case had come to a close.
"I can't believe he would just disappear like that," O'Hara whispered, her voice hiccuping slightly.
Henry shook his head. "I would have thought this whole psychic charade would have taught him something about responsibility."
There was a full beat of silence before McNab spoke up. "Charade?"
That had been the tipping point. It had all come out after that. The reality that Shawn Spencer was no more psychic then Lassiter himself. Guster had been brought in for questioning. So had Henry. But because Shawn Spencer never came back to Santa Barbara they had escaped charges.
Lassiter stared at the apartment number as he thought about that day. It had been almost eight years since Lassiter found out that Shawn Spencer wasn't psychic and not once had he felt the happiness or the elation that he thought he would. He sighed, reached out his hand, and firmly knocked on the door.
It took a moment for Shawn to realize that someone was knocking on his door. The only person who ever knocked on his door was the mailman when Shawn had a package that wouldn't fit in the mailbox.
He paused the TV and listened. There was another knock. Deciding that the worst thing that could be on the other side of the door was his neighbor from down the hall who had a bazillion cats, Shawn slowly undid the dead bolt and then opened the door about halfway.
Lassiter's head snapped up from where he had been staring at the puddle he was creating on the floor when the door opened.
"Lassiter?" Shawn wouldn't have been able to hide the surprise in his voice even if he had tried.
"Spencer."
Shawn started to close the door.
Lassiter put his foot in the doorway before it could shut all the way. "I need to talk to you," he protested, trying to shove his way between the door and the frame.
"I think we're a little late for that." Shawn pushed on the door, crushing the head detective a little.
"I need to talk to you," Lassiter repeated and pushed his full weight against the door.
Shawn hadn't been prepared for that, and before he knew it, Lassiter was standing in the middle of his apartment. He crossed his arms and glared at the detective.
Lassiter froze when he realized he was standing face to face with Shawn. He took a moment to study the younger man.
Spencer's hair was still gelled as it had been before, ridiculously. But he was eight years older; there were grey flecks in his hair and more lines in his face. The part of his face that Lassiter could see, most of it was hidden by stubble that would have rivaled Don Johnson's in Miami Vice.
"Did you come here to play the staring game with me?" Shawn snapped. "I have important things to do before the end of the night you know."
Lassiter scowled. "That was always your problem, Spencer. Nothing is ever serious and it's always about you."
"I suppose you tracked me down after eight years so that you could list my faults and go over them with me." Shawn flopped back down on the futon. "You decided that the awkwardness of the situation would be outweighed by the pure glee you would get from rubbing it in my face that I, Shawn Spencer, wasn't really a psychic."
"I always knew you were a fake," Lassiter snapped. "But here's the thing, Spencer, you used to astound me. Your observation skills were phenomenal. I always knew that's all there was to you, observation skills. I used to think that when I finally got you, when I finally had proof that you were a fraud that I would be happy. That my life would be perfect, but here's some news for you, my life over the past eight years has sucked."
"The great and powerful Carlton Lassiter has come to tell me how his life is empty without me," Shawn scoffed, his voice full of a mocking tone. He stood up and crossed his arms again.
Lassiter wanted to deck him right then and there, but he restrained himself, clenching his hand into a fist. "I'm here, because unfortunately for me, you're the only person on this planet that can help me at the moment."
"Oh, did you get a case with an aquarium of dying fish? I'm sure you found out I work for the local aquarium. Or maybe it's the otters that are in trouble." Shawn's voice was still sarcastic. "You want me to commune with the spirits."
"This isn't about a case, not an official one." Lassiter spoke quieter and quieter as he thought about his case. He was staring with unfocused eyes at a spot on the floor.
Shawn cocked his head to the side. "What happened?" Lassiter didn't respond, he just kept staring at the floor. "What happened, Lassie?"
Lassiter visibly flinched as Spencer used the familiar nickname, a nickname he hadn't heard in eight years. He took a deep breath and steeled himself, meeting Spencer's steady gaze. "O'Hara's been kidnapped."
"What?"
"Juliet... she's been kidnapped," Lassiter sighed, the anger from moments ago gone.
"How is this not an official case?" Shawn demanded.
"He said," Lassiter swallowed. "He said if I involved the police he would kill her."
"When do we leave?" Shawn started gathering things from around his apartment and shoving them into a backpack.
"You're coming?" Lassiter frowned. He was expecting to have to beat and drug Spencer to get him to come.
Shawn stopped and looked Lassiter in the eye. "I still love her; of course I'm coming."
Lassiter checked his watch. "Our flight is in two hours."
"That's cutting it close." Shawn grabbed a change of clothes out of his combination DVD and clothes storage box.
"It wouldn't be if you hadn't started arguing with me."
Shawn shook his head and slung the backpack over his shoulder. "Let's do this."