Note: This story was co-written with the amazing and talented Teragram, who also co-wrote part 1. An honor and a privilege, madam!
Warning: spoilers for Mr. Yin presents, An Evening With Mr. Yang, and Yang 3 in 2D
Santa Barbara, 1970
There wasn't much at his cousin's garden wedding to interest a seven year old. Except the toad, of course. It was small and brown and felt cool and soft in the palm of his hand. Young Carlton Lassiter, looking dashing in his little suit and tie, had tried to share the joy of the brown toad with his mother. Her horrified grimace said it all, even if her harangue about the danger of touching toads, the outrageous cost of his suit and its tendency to stain, had then gilded the lily.
Realizing he needed additional supervision, his mother had shepherded him into her circle of friends and wiped his hands vigorously with her handkerchief. The ladies in their summer hats and flouncy dresses cooed over him approvingly.
"Such a little gentleman!" one of them exclaimed. "He looks ready to walk down the aisle himself."
Carlton's mother beamed with pride.
"You want to get married someday, don't you?" A pink-cheeked woman in a large straw sunhat asked him.
"Yes ma'am," Carlton replied shyly. "I think so." The women smiled encouragingly.
"And who would you like to marry?"
Carlton hesitated, not sure if his answer was the right one. His mother's friends were looking at him with open-mouthed anticipation, clearly expecting to hear about some adorable secret crush.
"Answer the woman, Booker!" his mother ordered.
Carlton looked up at his interrogator and he spoke clearly and loudly, as he'd been taught to when addressing his elders.
"When I grow up, ma'am, I'm going to marry Sheriff Hank."
The incident with the toad was immediately forgotten.
Santa Barbara, Present Day
It was times like this, when he found himself trying to eat a piece of toast while putting on his tie and trying to interest Charlotte in eating her oatmeal that he realized how difficult being a single parent must be. He had an 8:00 a.m. meeting with the Chief and some members of City Council. Little Charlotte, however, cared nothing about his schedule, and was far more interested in grabbing his tie forcefully with both hands.
"Give Daddy his tie," Lassiter said gently. Charlotte continued to hold the tie in her vice-like grip.
"No!"
"Come on, sweetie. Give the tie to daddy. Please. Let go. Really. I have to go." Leaving the house was becoming more and more difficult. Twice this week he'd arrived late, and he had a sneaking suspicion that people were beginning to talk.
"No. No no no." Charlotte's face turned pink.
Despite being bent over and half choked, Lassiter tried to sound stern. He pointed a finger at Charlotte and spoke in his Head Detective voice. "Young lady, you hand that tie over right now. Or there will be trouble."
"No!" Charlotte continued to grip the tie.
Shawn emerged from the bathroom and waved his hands at him in a shooing manner. "Out! Out the door. Don't be Porky Pig in Tick Tock Tuckered."
"I'm trying to go," Lassiter protested. After fifteen months of official dating, Shawn's nonsense was finally starting to make sense. He supposed he should be worried about that. He kissed Charlotte on the top of her head, hoping that the daily ritual of the goodbye kiss would make her release him, but to no avail. "She's like a limpet mine." He gently pried open her hand and pulled his tie free. She leaned forward in the high chair and stretched her stubby fingers toward him.
"Aiiiiiiieeeeeee!" Charlotte cried desperately. Lassiter wasn't sure if she was crying "Daddy" or "tie."
"Terrible twos three months early," Shawn observed dryly. "She's progressing by leaps and bounds."
Lassiter stepped back and smoothed his rumpled tie.
"She's very strong," he said proudly. "With a grip like that she'd make a fine cop."
"Or a great strangler," Shawn said, picking her up and mirroring her frowny face back to her.
Lassiter raised a brow. "Let's hope for law enforcement."
"Come on, Charlotta lotta lotta," Shawn said, setting Charlotte on her feet. "Let's build a little megablock city and then destroy it. Whaddya say?"
"Bock. Papa bock." Charlotte turned her attention to Shawn, apparently having forgotten the tussle with the tie.
Lassiter gave Shawn a quick kiss and opened the front door. He jumped. Standing on the stoop were two young men in black suits.
"Can I help you?" Lassiter asked, in his unfriendliest tone. No weapons were in evidence and neither of them moved to flash a badge. Instead, they gave him creepily identical grins.
Not government then.
"We'd like to talk to you for a few moments about The Lord," one of the men said.
Sweet baby Jesus, Lassiter thought. Not today.
"I've got to go," he said, scooping up his newspaper from the stoop on the way to his car, "but you can try my boyfriend." He put heavy emphasis on the word, hoping to deter them. "He's always interested in crackpot ideas," he muttered under his breath as he climbed behind the wheel.
It was 4:47 p.m. and Lassiter was basking in the warm glow of a job well done. He'd completed his report on the Nordstrom's flasher, and their stakeout that afternoon had nabbed the Alameda Plaza mugger. That wily scumbag had led him a merry chase, but a flying tackle had finally brought him down on Anapamu St. Personally, Lassiter felt they should be allowed to fire on a fleeing suspect instead of having to pursue them on foot. But then, he reflected, if wishes were horses he would have had that pony he'd wanted when he was twelve.
"Leaving, Carlton?" O'Hara asked.
Lassiter dropped the papers he'd been loading into his briefcase and jerked his head up.
"No. Maybe. Why? What have people been saying?"
O'Hara stepped back and gave him the look he had come to think of as "Hello, Crazy!"
"Nobody's been saying anything," she assured him. "But Chief Vick would like to see you before you go. That's all." She raised her palms and retreated to her desk.
Lassiter glanced at his watch. It was nearly five o'clock. Lots of people left work at five. He looked down at the scratch pad by his desk phone where he'd jotted down the list of items Shawn had asked him to pick up from the drug store. That would add another fifteen minutes to his drive home. If Vick kept him more than an hour he'd be lucky if he got home in time to tuck Charlotte into bed.
The blinds in Chief Vick's office were closed, which was both rare and significant. Lassiter steeled himself for a lecture about responsibility and knocked on the doorframe.
"Come in, Carlton," Vick said.
Lassiter sat, smoothing his tie. Getting called into Chief Vick's office usually meant one of two things; either she had a case, or she had a concern about his behavior. Based on the crease in her forehead, he strongly suspected it was going to be the latter.
So help me, he thought defensively, if anyone has complained about my being late, I will grab them by the neck and stuff them into the body armour locker.
"What I am about to tell you is highly confidential." She folded her hands in front of her and fixed Lassiter with an icy stare. "Not a word of it must leave this room until I decide the time is right."
So this is not about my work hours.
Lassiter stiffened his spine, trying to look like a man who could be counted on in a crisis. Given Vick's demeanor and the closed blinds, it must be big. Extortion. Conspiracy. Corruption. Murder. Maybe even a serial murder situation like the Yin/Yang killings. A man could dream.
"You can count on my discretion, Chief." He had recently read a book on interrogation techniques through the centuries, and he imagined himself bravely refusing, despite the threat of the Scottish Thumbscrews or the Spanish Boot, to give up whatever vital secrets were about to be shared with him.
"I'm glad." Vick seemed to relax a little. "Carlton," she said, "I've decided to run for Mayor."
"Congratulations?" Lassiter was somewhat confused by the turn their conversation had taken. Was she campaigning? He hoped she wasn't looking for volunteers. Or campaign donations. "I will definitely consider voting for you," he added. "What's your position on eliminating the parking meters on Garden Street?"
Chief Vick sighed. "The reason I called you in here is that running for Mayor would necessitate my stepping down as Chief."
"Stepping down?" Lassiter repeated the words as if he were unsure of their meaning.
"Yes. And I'd like to put your name forward as my replacement. If you're interested."
For a moment, Lassiter was so thrown that he couldn't answer. Then, as the meaning of her words dawned, a smile broke wide across his face.
"Damn right I'm interested!" This was the moment he'd been working towards since he'd first joined the SBPD. He'd climbed quickly from officer on the beat to youngest head detective in the department's history—owing largely, of course, to Chief Fenich's mentorship. He remembered the crushing disappointment he'd felt when Fenich had retired and Vick had been appointed Chief. This, though—this was his chance. He glanced around the room, taking in the space. Moving into this office would be the culmination of a life's work with the SBPD. He'd want to get rid of the plants and replace the armchairs with something less welcoming. A hard wooden bench, perhaps.
"Excellent." Vick smiled. "Main order of business out of the way, then." She glanced at her watch and smiled conspiratorially. "Now. If you're done for the day I think drinks are in order."
Lassiter thought about the list of drugstore items on his desk. Shawn didn't expect him until late anyway. He could certainly make the time to go for a drink. One drink. Just to assure Chief Vick that she'd made the right decision.
The mood at Tom Blair's Pub was celebratory, as they were joined by Vick's campaign team—two City Councilors, a lawyer and a publicist. But as they talked about Vick's campaign strategy Lassiter couldn't help thinking about what being appointed Chief might mean for him, Charlotte, and Shawn. Better, more reliable hours. Higher pay. Charlotte could go to college without the worry of loans. A criminology degree, perhaps.
"Well, it was nice meeting you, Detective Lassiter," Vick's lawyer said. "Let's hope we'll be calling you Chief Lassiter soon."
Lassiter smiled and shook hands with the lawyer, Vick, her publicist and council supporters as they rose to leave. He pulled out his cellphone. Shawn had texted him, adding toothpaste to his drugstore list. As he was pulling on his suit jacket a red-headed waitress set a glass of scotch down in front of him.
"Compliments of Chief Karen Vick."
Lassiter smiled and, spotting Vick paying their tab at the bar, raised his glass in thanks. Her smile was the last thing Lassiter could remember of that night.
When he opened his eyes the first thing Lassiter saw was a clock radio. The time was 6:45, and judging by the soft light creeping across the duvet, it was morning. The second thing he noticed were the handcuffs securing him to the headboard.
Panic rising in his gut, he scanned the room, looking for anything that would help fill the gap in his memory. The green and gold walls and the stationary by the telephone told him that he was at the Stonewall Hotel & Suites. As his mind cleared he realized that not only could he not remember checking in, but he couldn't remember much of the last evening at all. He remembered meeting with Chief Vick. He remembered having a drink at Tom Blair's Pub, and then...and then...nothing.
Priorities. And the first priority was to free himself of – Damn! Lassiter thought as he recognized the restraints. The first priority was to free himself of his own handcuffs. He kneeled to get a better look at the headboard and realized he was naked.
Great! As if the situation weren't bad enough. He tried to pull the cuffs free, but it was hopeless. Whoever had bought beds for the Stonewall Hotel had gotten their money's worth in durability. Lassiter tried to squeeze one hand out of the cuff and grimaced as the metal cut into his flesh. The cuffs were too tight. Through the pain and the anxiety, a litany of terrible thoughts pushed their way to the surface of his mind.
Shawn must be wondering where the hell I am. It wasn't as if he were the type of guy who just randomly stayed out all night.
Shawn might be thinking I stayed out all night on purpose. Not good.
Yes, things had been tense between them lately, but surely Shawn wouldn't jump to conclusions. Of course if he'd found someone handcuffed to a bed in a hotel he'd have drawn a few conclusions of his own—the most likely being that he'd picked up a pro who had knocked him out and robbed him. Looking at it objectively, the whole set-up felt like a robbery, except for the fact that he could see his wallet sitting on the nightstand. He could even see the edge of a bill inside.
Not robbery, then. Oh God! Was this a sexual assault?
He considered shouting for help. But that might bring hotel staff, maybe even a beat cop. If word of this got out, there was no way City Council would appoint him Chief. He'd be lucky to keep his job. And he could imagine the field day the Courier would have with it. They were still on his crap list after that Detective Dipstick article.
He took a deep breath and tried to think logically. He had to free himself from this mess, find out who did this, and deal with it quickly and quietly. And he had to do it soon. For all he knew some cannibalistic psychopath was preparing to dope him into submission and feed him slices of his own brain.
He looked at the phone on the nightstand. There was no way he could reach it with his hand. He rolled onto his back and reached for it with his feet. Using a skill that Shawn affectionately referred to as 'monkey foot,' he pulled the headset off the cradle and then painstakingly began to punch in the number to Shawn's cell phone, digit by digit. He'd gotten halfway there when he heard the sound of a keycard beeping in the lock.
Lassiter's heart plummeted into his guts. Someone was coming in.
"It takes two to make a thing go right. It takes two to make it out of sight! It takes two...it takes two..." Gus's cell phone sang insistently at him, waking him from a nightmare in which played Carlton Banks in a musical version of Fresh Prince of Bel Air. He didn't mind the interruption.
He answered it. "'Lo?"
"Lassie didn't come home." Shawn's voice was rough.
"What?" Gus squinted at the luminous display on his phone. It was 5:14 am. He glanced at Juliet: still asleep.
"Lassie didn't come home," Shawn repeated, his voice rising slightly. "I called the station and they said he left nearly twelve hours ago. He's not answering his phone. Something's wrong."
Gus slipped from under the covers, pulled on his flannel housecoat, and crept into the living room. "Did the two of you have an argument?"
"Of course not!" Shawn sounded indignant. Then, nervously, he added, "Well, we had a disagreement."
"Are we talking a 'who drank the last of the orange juice' kind of disagreement, or are we talking an 'I hate you and wish you would leave' kind of disagreement?"
There were a few moments of heavy silence, then Shawn spoke. "We're talking a 'why don't you want to marry me?' kind of disagreement."
"If Lassiter doesn't want to marry you, he's a fool," Gus said flatly.
"Gus, I—"
"No, Shawn. I mean it. I'll say it to his face. What the two of you have is no less a marriage-type situation than what Juliet and I have. You stood by me on my special day and I'll defend your right to have—"
Shawn cut him off. "I'm the one who doesn't want to get married, okay? There. I said it. Happy now?"
Gus was silent for a few moments. "You're an idiot," he said finally.
"Come on," Shawn wheedled. "The world don't move to the beat of just one drum. What might be right for you may not be right for some."
"You've been living together for a year," Gus said, quashing the desire to ask 'What you talkin' about, Willis?' "You have a kid. What are you waiting for?"
"I know, I know."
"So you think Lassiter might be trying to teach you a lesson," Gus ventured. "Showing you how much you need him?"
Shawn paused and Gus could hear him breathing. "I could see him not coming home to me," he said finally, "but I can't see him not coming home to Charlotte. No way."
Hearing the stress in Shawn's voice Gus went to the window and peered across the dark yard to the house next door, shared by Shawn and Lassiter. The living room windows were on.
"Do you need me to come over?"
"No." Shawn said. "But I think we need to call in the Cavalry."
"Okay," Gus said, sighing heavily. "I'll wake up Jules and get her to track the GPS on his phone. Happy?"
"I won't be happy until he's back here in one piece," Shawn said.
