Spencer, the bane of Carlton Lassiter's existence, or at least his existence for the past four years. He should have known the young man would be trouble from the moment he first walked into the police station full of cocky swagger and a can't-touch-me mentality, spouting some nonsense about psychic abilities.
There was no room in Lassiter's life for the paranormal and never had been. He was a black and white kind of man and so far this see-it-to-believe it mantra had made him a damn good detective. He was trained to look at cold hard facts and turn them into answers that would stand up in a court of law and bring satisfaction to his mistress, the sweet lady justice. So, how was it that the kid could put his fingers to his forehead and come up with an answer to every case he was hired for?
Lassiter shook his head and sighed, glancing over at his weary partner who clasped a cup of coffee in between her manicured hands.
"Guster better have a damn good reason for calling us in the middle of the night," he grumbled to her.
"I'm sure he does," Juliet sighed, sipping her coffee timidly to test the temperature. "It isn't like Gus to cry wolf, Carlton."
Lassiter rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath, pulling his brand new car into the parking lot of a dilapidated storage yard, abandoned vehicles dotting the landscape like metal skeletons. He turned the ignition off and sat silently, glaring out at whatever caught his eye.
"We could turn around," he muttered. "Just go home and get right back into bed, O'Hara. This is probably some more of Spencer's tomfoolery anyways."
His partner didn't say anything, but he didn't have to be a stupid psychic to know she was frowning at him in disapproval, lips pursed in the way that only women could master. His mother used to frown at him that way, his ex-wife to, but he didn't tell O'Hara that. He knew that sometimes his brain didn't connect properly with his mouth and he said things that were either extremely offensive or just plain awkward, but he had learned his lesson with his partner. The woman could make working with her hell on earth and besides, the lady had a gun and knew how to use it.
"Fine," he huffed. "Let's just get this over with."
He opened his car door and slid his long legs out from the car, having to duck his head awkwardly to lift his lanky frame from the seat. O'Hara, as prim and graceful as ever, slid from the car in one smooth motion and balanced her coffee cup on the roof as she slipped her cellphone into her jacket pocket.
Carlton could see Guster standing some distance down from them and the two cops made their way over to him. The first thing Lassiter noticed was the worry etched into the lines of the man's face. The second was the horrid fireman pajamas he was wearing, the tiny fire engines a stark reminder of everything Carlton hated about the duo. Where was the professionalism? Where was the sense of pride?
"Gus," O'Hara called. "We got down here as soon as we could. Are you alright?"
"You two had better have a very good reason for dragging me out of my bed and down here to no-wheresville at four-thirty in the morning," Lassiter growled. "Where the hell is Spencer?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," Gus replied grimly.
"If I wanted to make guesses," Lassiter snapped. "I would go on a game show. What the hell is going on?"
"Look," Guster said defensively. "All I know is that he left me this message about an hour ago."
The young man took his cellphone from his pocket and fiddled with it for a moment, odd blips and beeps echoing in the night's silence. A second or two later, Spencer's voice came jabbering up from the speakers, tinny and, as usual, annoying.
"Buddy, I figured it out. It's sweet! The whole thing was just a rehearsal. I'm leaving my place. Meet me down at the storage yard now. Come in your fireman pj's if you have to. Just be there!"
"What does that mean," Juliet asked. "Rehearsal."
"I have no idea," Guster replied with a small shake of his head.
Lassiter scowled. He had a whole stack of reports to get to in the morning and here he was bailing Shawn out of whatever mess he'd gotten himself into. Chief Vick should have given him twelve different commendations by now just for having to put up with the hair-brained twerp. Wasn't it enough he saw the man in his waking hours? Now he had to see him during his sleeping hours to?
Guster's phone jingled annoyingly and Carlton was half tempted to slap it from his hand. He bit down on his tongue and curbed his irritation. Guster looked genuinely concerned and while he disliked Spencer a great deal he didn't hate the man enough to wish him harm.
"Wait," Guster said. "This just came in from Shawn."
"Read it," O'Hara ordered.
"I have no idea what this means," he answered, face crinkling in confusion. "Trunk, yelrfx, ocone pol peac sig."
"What is that," Juliet gasped.
"Its jibberish," Lassiter said, a small pit of worry creeping into his belly.
Lassiter wasn't sure what made him look down at the ground at that moment. In the coming days he would tease Spencer relentlessly and tell him he had a psychic vision, but no matter what the reason the end result was the same.
There was something shining in the dirt and gravel perhaps ten feet away from the group and the worry in Lassiter's stomach exploded into a hornet's nest of concern. Whatever the liquid was Carlton would bet his entire pension that it wasn't motor oil.
"Wait," Guster cried. "There's more! Binshot not lol."
"What is he talking about," Juliet asked in confusion.
He strode over to the puddle and leaned down, listening with one ear as Guster repeated Shawn's last text over and over hoping to make sense of his words. He stared at the puddle for a long time not really wanting to discover its true origins, but knowing it was his duty to do so.
"What are you playing with over there," Juliet called to him, finally noticing his absence.
He sighed and grit his teeth, dipping one finger gently into the pool and lifting it again to study the liquid in the scant light of the moon. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs as he stared almost uncomprehendingly at the red splotch that stood out profoundly against his skin.
"It's blood," he said in disbelief.
Guster was still repeating the stupid text over and over and each time he did the words snapped into Lassiter's brain like a thick rubber band. Perhaps the young pharmaceutical salesman hadn't figured it out, but he was a cop and the text made perfect sense to a man who spent almost every waking moment with a gun strapped to his hip.
"Oh my god," Guster rasped, realization dawning on him. "Shawn's been shot!"
"Right," Lassiter commanded, shoving his surprising concern to the side. "O'Hara, let's canvas the area. We need to make sure that he's not still here. Gus, you call Chief Vick and tell her we have a man down and possibly MIA. Tell her we'll need a crime unit out here asap."
O'Hara stared, horrified, at the large patch of blood and Carlton was instantly at her side, hand on her shoulder, grip gentle but firm.
"O'Hara," he repeated. "I need you here with me. We have to see if Spencer is still here, alright?"
For a moment her eyes were twin pools of disbelief and shock, but she shook her head slightly, pony tail swinging as she did, and became the hardnosed cop she was trained to be.
"Okay," she breathed. "Okay, I can do this."
Lassiter smiled encouragingly at his partner and the two began to follow the blood trail with almost mindless efficiency. Carlton knew that O'Hara cared a great deal for the pseudo-psychic and he often wondered if her feelings extended beyond the friendship variety, though he never cared to ask, or dared to as the case may be. Perhaps he feared what her answer may be because he certainly didn't understand how any intelligent capable woman could fall for a child like Spencer.
"It ends here," O'Hara said quietly, studying the last smear of blood in disbelief. "Where could we have gone, Carlton? It's not like he could just disappear."
"You're not thinking clearly," Lassiter scolded gently. "Think like a detective, O'Hara."
"Sorry," she whispered, swallowing visibly. "It's just…its Shawn, Carlton."
"I know," Lassiter replied. "All the more reason to think like a cop. We have got to keep our heads on straight or he could die."
"If he hasn't already," O'Hara sniffed then rolled her eyes at her own self-pity. "Sorry, I don't know why I'm being such a negative Nancy."
"You care about him," Lassiter said simply. "That always makes it harder."
"Yes," she said with a slight nod. "It really does, doesn't it? Have you ever handled something like this before?"
"What," Carlton asked. "Worked a case where somebody I knew was the vic?"
"Yeah," O'Hara answered quietly.
"Just once. It was maybe a year after I earned my detective's badge. A girl that had lived on my street when I was a kid went missing. My mother and hers were good friends so we had grown up together."
"Did you find her," O'Hara asked.
Lassiter was quiet for a long time, sweeping the area with trained eyes for any clues as to where Shawn might have been taken. He wanted to give his partner hope, not crush her already delicate spirits, but the answer to her question was not a happy one.
"Yes," Lassiter finally answered, hoping that she would leave it at that.
"And," O'Hara insisted. "She was ok?"
"She was dead, O'Hara."
"God," Juliet croaked. "Carlton, I am so sor—"
"Don't be," Lassiter barked gruffly. "It's part of the job, O'Hara. Sometimes the bad guys win, but I've made it my life's mission to make it that much harder for them to get away with it."
"Do you think that Shawn—"
"Don't go there, O'Hara. There is nothing but heartache if you do. For right now all we know is that Shawn was shot and that he was coherent enough to send Guster a text even if it was the most cryptic damn thing I've ever heard from him. That's a good sign. Keep it simple, look at the facts, and you'll do just fine."
"It's easy for you," O'Hara muttered. "You don't even like Shawn."
"Look," Lassiter sighed, rubbing a weary hand through his hair. "Spencer is not my favorite man in the world, true enough, but I don't hate him. In his own roundabout way he helps people and that counts for something in my book. I'm going to do everything in my power to find him and bring him back safe, O'Hara. I owe the kid that much."
Juliet nodded, but Lassiter couldn't help but notice the lack of conviction the gesture held. He wanted to say that her lack of faith didn't hurt him, but he would be lying if he did and Lassiter was nothing but honest, even when he wished he didn't have to be.
"Look at the trail again," Lassiter ordered. "Clear your mind and tell me why it might have ended."
"They put him in something," came O'Hara's immediate reply. "A car, maybe."
"I think you got it in one," Lassiter commented with a small smile. "Look here, there are tire treads. We'll have the lab rats take a look at them and see if they can decipher what kind of tires they were using."
"I didn't think they were working on a case," Juliet whispered. "What the hell did he get himself into, Carlton?"
"I don't know," Lassiter replied. "But I sure as hell plan to find out."
