Number 3 in the Holiday/Next Time Series
HEARTS AND CHOCOLATES
It was the sixth call he had seen her ignore in the past four days.
He wasn't sure how many times it had happened since he hadn't been with her much recently. She had been spending a lot of time in the field with Grace, and she was out almost the entire day before with Cho. Her phone would ring, and she would check the caller ID and hit "ignore". It was so uncharacteristic, so unlike her. Lisbon always answered her phone, even when it was him and even when she was mad—especially when she was mad. This time she was standing in the bullpen, mid-sentence, ordering Rigsby to do something-or-other. Her cell phone buzzed, she ignored it, took a moment to remember what she had been saying then finished her instructions. As the agent left the room to carry out her command, Jane watched her walk back to her office.
"Mashburn."
Cho turned a page of The Elegance of a Hedgehog without looking up at the consultant where he sat perched on the edge of his couch.
"What about him?"
"That's who's calling her. And texting. He got back into town last week."
"I don't—"
"You were wondering. You've been wondering since the first time you noticed her ignoring the calls."
Jane made to protest again, but Cho cut him off.
"You hide things around Lisbon, but when you think nobody's watching you're not as careful. We're not as clueless as you think."
At his last words, Cho looked up and held Jane's gaze for a full three seconds before dropping his eyes back to his book. It wouldn't do any good to deny it. Still, he wasn't sure he'd been exactly wondering.
"How do you know?"
"How do I know which part? That it's Mashburn or that he's back in town?"
"Both."
"I checked her phone when she left it in the car to pay for gas yesterday. And I called Mashburn's house. Told him I wanted to follow up on some loose ends about the case."
Another page turned.
Jane was amused that Cho took such interest in his boss's personal life. It surprised him that the agent, while an able investigator, was capable of such outright nosiness. Brothers under the skin. He had always suspected it. Now that he knew, he looked forward to the veritable fountain of knowledge Cho might be able to provide in the future. He lay back on the couch and feigned sleep.
Through half-closed eyes, his attention was drawn to Rigsby who had returned from his errand to enter Lisbon's office and hand her a short stack of files. He could just barely hear her phone beeping, signaling she had received a text. She checked it and frowned as Rigsby walked to the bullpen.
"Mashburn," the tall agent grinned conspiratorially as he approached his desk.
"Mm," Jane grunted in agreement, as if he'd known all along, wondering why everybody seemed to know about this but him. Cho lifted his eyes enough to skim over the top edge of his book at the consultant them dropped them back to their previous place on the page, hoping the inevitable conversation wasn't going to cut into his reading too much. Undaunted by their seeming disinterest and impressed with his own subtle sleuthing abilities, Rigsby continued.
"She was getting a lot of calls and texts and ignoring them. I was standing behind her the other day when her phone rang and just sort of looked over her head at the caller ID. Then I called his house and talked with the maid. Told her I needed to ask some follow-up questions for the Bajoran case. He was in town, but he wasn't in. Said I'd call back."
Cho sighed and pressed his lips into a thin line of barely recognizable annoyance.
"No way he'll think there's anything up with that."
"What?" Rigsby asked in confusion looking back and forth between the two men. Shaking his head, he continued with his previous conversation.
"Mashburn must have it pretty bad. I guess one night wasn't enough."
Jane knew about the night Lisbon had spent with Mash. He didn't think of it as a typical one-night stand, but he knew Lisbon probably wouldn't want it to go any further than that. No ties that bind. Still, Walter could be very persuasive. He realized Rigsby was still talking.
"I mean, a guy doesn't try to reconnect like that unless he's interested, and Mashburn seems really interested. Probably trying to get something going for Valentine's Day. What do you think, Jane?"
"I think it's none of my business." His reply sounded a bit more clipped than he had meant it to.
"Yeah, like it wasn't your business to try and push them together in the first place."
Cho turned another page. He was starting to get on Jane's nerves just the smallest bit. Unsure of what was passing between the other two men and positive he didn't want to know, Rigsby blundered on.
"Whatever Mashburn's up to, he's got it bad for the boss. I mean, with his history you'd think he would've given up after a couple of days. Lisbon must've really rocked his world."
Rigsby was starting to get on his nerves now. If he got no takers on the subject, he'd probably shut up about it, and Jane was confident that Cho wouldn't want to carry on the conversation. The pages of Hedgehog continued to turn, Jane settled into the couch and closed his eyes, and Rigsby sighed and turned his attention to his computer.
Jane contemplated the matter of Lisbon and Mashburn. Valentine's Day was the next special occasion on the calendar, just three weeks away. He knew he remembered correctly that he and Lisbon had agreed on a "next time" at the end of their New Year's Eve celebration, but he had been uncertain as to whether it should be Valentine's Day. He thought that particular day might be more than a mere sore spot for both of them—like inviting a friend to a train wreck. Still, he had been entertaining the possibility of spending the evening with her. Dining and dancing at the winery on New Year's Eve had been a great idea, if he were to say so himself, and Lisbon had certainly seemed like she would have loved it if the murder of a state senator hadn't interfered with his plans. But that was too romantic for Valentine's Day. He had to smile at the irony that in their world, those two things should be mutually exclusive.
Their first holiday together had actually been a rather non-event, born out of their shared alone-ness. He had found her crying on Christmas Eve, and while comforting her was out of the question, he had impulsively invited her out for a late supper, threatening her with a "next time" when she refused him. They had spent New Year's Eve together drinking champagne and watching fireworks over the Sacramento River on their way back from investigating the senator's case. He wouldn't mind having some company on a day that usually proved to be a more pronounced and maudlin reminder of what he had lost. But, if Lisbon had the opportunity to enjoy the company of a man who cared for her and would show her a good time unhindered by guilt and the ghosts of his past as well as the specter of his future, he should want that for her as a friend.
Shouldn't he?
Then why did he feel the slightest bit of hurt and loneliness over the thought? He had spoiled himself. He had shared two very nice evenings with Lisbon, connecting with her on a more personal level than they ever had before and had been foolish enough to look forward to doing so again. Looking forward to anything was foolish. He would tell her to answer her phone, talk to Walter and just say yes.
"Patrick! You scoundrel, you!"
Or just show Mashburn into her office. He opened his eyes and turned his head toward the billionaire, a slow grin spreading across his features. In one movement, he swung his legs off the couch and stood to offer his hand.
"Walter, you pirate! What are you doing here?"
Mashburn's amused gaze went to Rigsby then swept over to Cho before sliding back to Jane.
"Well, the CBI seems to have a lot of interest in my whereabouts lately, so I thought I'd just drop by and set everyone's mind at rest."
Rigsby dipped his head sheepishly and glanced at Cho who doggedly refused to take his eyes off of his book in spite of the annoyance that had once again forced his lips into a straight, taut line. Jane's eyes had followed Walter's, lingering on his co-workers. He looked down and swallowed the desire to laugh at them before looking back up at Mash.
"Eh, I think there were a few follow-up questions. They've been cleared up, so there really was no need to trouble yourself."
Rigsby and Cho breathed out barely audible sighs of relief. They'd have to thank Jane later for the save and for baiting Mashburn, fueling a future private joke.
"Well, the visit doesn't have to be a complete loss." He made no effort to hide the fact that he was looking around. "Is Teresa in? I've been calling her for days and haven't been able to reach her."
Jane took him by the upper arm and motioned toward the bullpen door.
"Come on. I'll take you to her."
The two agents watched them move toward Lisbon's office. Jane's voice had held an odd sort of tone. It had sounded tight—like it was forced out around his smile. Computer and book momentarily forgotten, they looked at one another, brows furrowed. For some reason, the joke didn't seem so funny now.
Jane paused to knock on her office door. It felt odd. He couldn't remember the last time he had knocked. But seeing Mashburn on her threshold might be a bit of a shock for her, so he thought it might help to ease her into the idea.
"Come in?" She sounded unsure—not about the invitation, only about the actual knock, almost as if she knew it was him and she didn't know why he had bothered. He pulled the door open and peered into her office, Mashburn following suit.
"Someone here to see you, Lisbon."
She looked up at him quizzically, and he watched as her expression morphed into surprise then delight that he couldn't help notice was a bit put-on and had been preceded by the merest hint of irritation. He had thought to usher Walter into her space then discreetly back out, closing the door behind him. Now an armed madman couldn't have gotten him out of the room. Lisbon caught the mischievous glint in his eye and with a look that plainly said "I'll show you", stood and smiled warmly at Walter then walked straight into his outstretched arms.
And suddenly, Jane remembered he had somewhere else to be.
One hour later, Lisbon was calling his name as she pulled the metal door open. She wanted him to get up. Now. They had a case. She was upset, and her voice sounded tight. He knew what it was about before she even said it. A young woman. Slashed to death. Lots of blood. Red smiley on the wall. Red John.
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They left the scene without conversation. It had all been said before. There would be no prints, no DNA, no clues of any kind. No connection would be found between Marie Arlowe and any other Red John victim or acquaintance. Lisbon watched Jane retreat into that dark place of loneliness and hurt, knowing her usual "We'll get him next time" had been worn too thin to be of any use. Nothing any of them could do was of any use. She found herself wishing that she believed in karma and that the serial killer would just get hit by a car as he crossed the street.
The three weeks passed and Valentine's Day arrived, Red John's trail and the case long grown cold.
Jane had bought a few groceries the night before, and while he waited in the check-out line a display of Valentine candy hearts—the assorted colored ones with little messages written on them—caught his eye. He hadn't had candy hearts since he was a kid. The clear cellophane that stretched across the heart-shaped cutout on the box front allowed a look at the contents, and in the top box a pair of hearts that read "Best Friends" and "Forgive Me" were nestled side-by-side, front and center. He thought of Lisbon and slid the box onto the conveyor with the rest of his intended purchases.
He meant to leave them on her desk while she had stepped out, but someone was there before him. The gold-foil box of Belgian chocolates, a large crystal vase holding two dozen red roses and a bottle of very expensive champagne could only have been sent by one person. Jane knew he was taking his life into his own hands, but he couldn't resist purloining the card from its perch above the roses.
Dearest Teresa. I know these are all very conventional, but I thought I'd save the surprises for later. Pick you up at 8. Walter.
Jane returned the card to its holder and slid the box of candy hearts back into his pocket. Without a word to anyone, he took the stairs to his attic room to collect his journal then made his way down to the parking lot. No one would need him today.
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Lisbon was ticked. Walter was nice and funny, and there was more to him than what appeared to be, but she didn't like anyone presuming over her. He had asked her out for Valentine's Day, and she had told him no. She knew she had been clear. Not "Maybe" or "I'll think about it." It wasn't her way to lead a man on. His refusal to take "No" for an answer could be endearing in a way, but now she just found it irritatingly obtuse.
And where was Jane? He'd been missing for hours, and she was really getting tired of having to fish him out of the emotional drink every time Red John put in an appearance. That was a terrible thing to think. She hoped she would never be so cold or so pissed as to say something like that out loud. It wasn't true anyway. She couldn't imagine that she would ever stop trying to pull him back from the pit. She had asked Cho to call him three times in the last hour, but all went to voicemail. She finally did something she had never done before. She asked Van Pelt to track the GPS in his phone.
Malibu. She should have guessed. She stepped into her office to grab her purse and jacket on her way out. Stopping only a second to consider, she turned back, grabbed the champagne bottle and scooped up the chocolates then speed walked to the elevators. Six and a half hours. She groaned at the thought. She hadn't been on a drive that long alone in years. Not since Jane had joined the team. If she didn't stop, she could be there by midnight. Merging onto I-5 South, she turned on the radio and settled in for the drive.
She smiled to herself remembering the last time she and Jane had shared champagne. She knew if they were just going by the calendar, today would be "next time". But Jane hadn't mentioned anything. Maybe it had been too long. Maybe he had forgotten. The one week between Christmas and New Year's was one thing, but it had been a month and a half. That wouldn't matter, though. Not to Jane. He never forgot anything. Still, Valentine's Day would probably be a bit harder for him to celebrate—would make it more difficult to enjoy another woman's company—even if it was just her. Not the most complimentary way to think about it, but there it is.
She watched the now barely visible scenery pass by, her fingers tapping idly on the steering wheel to the rhythm of a song she didn't know as it played on the radio. She groaned when she checked her watch only to find that she had been on the road barely an hour. She realized she was groaning a lot today. She wasn't used to doing this alone. Vowing never to complain over a game of "I Spy" or "Count the License Plates" again, she switched the radio to the jazz station Jane usually listened to when they rode together in his car at night. "My car, my music," she grumbled to herself in a man-ish tone that sounded nothing like Jane. She tried it a few more times but just couldn't make it come out like his voice.
She missed his voice. She was just over an hour into a six-and-a-half-hour road trip. At night. She missed everybody's voice. As day faded into evening, the jazz station started a special line-up just for Valentine's Day. She listened to Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughn, Miles Davis, Duke Ellington and Etta James singing and playing songs of love both fulfilled and unrequited. She felt tears sting her eyes, listening to the loving promises of "That's All" and the longing of "Someone to Watch Over Me". What was wrong with her? She was crying in her car . . . over jazz for heaven's sake!
She reached toward the radio to switch stations, but her movement was arrested when her cell phone began to beep at her. She picked it up and looked at the caller ID. Walter. It must be eight o'clock, and he was calling to find out why she wasn't where he thought she should be. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she tossed her phone back into the cup holder on the console. Reaching resolutely for the radio again, she turned the volume up and proceeded to belt out "At Last" with Etta James at the top of her lungs. She sang with Ella and Sarah and Louis until her throat was dry then pulled into a drive-thru for a soda.
An hour later, she was feeling the drain of the last few days and stopped at a coffee shop for a to-go tall black, welcoming the bitter taste of the strong liquid. By eleven she was fading. Suddenly something occurred to her. She hit number "1" on her speed dial and . . . voicemail. Sheep dip. It was like him to not pick up. Probably ruminating and plotting and going all dark and brooding and . . . She had to stop. She was starting to get loopy, and she didn't' want to be angry, too. She knew good and well why he didn't pick up. After a Red John case, he could not be consoled. She should know—she had tried. He wouldn't want her empty promises any more than he would want to have to put on a brave face to keep her from feeling so badly for him. That's when she had an epiphany. Picking up the phone, she texted three words.
I need you.
Maybe she had just been approaching this from the wrong angle. Maybe she should be the one to need consolation. Maybe she was being stupid. Maybe she should pull over at the next cheap motel and ride a wave of blissful near oblivion fueled by champagne and chocolate-induced endorphins. Maybe—
She was cut off mid-mental tirade by the sound of her cell ringing.
"Jane?"
"Lisbon? Are you all right? Where's Walter?"
He almost sounded . . . angry?
"How the hell should I know?" She'd been on the road now for over five hours, she'd finally gotten through to him and he asked "Where's Walter?" Jerk. Maybe she would just hit him with the champagne bottle.
"You had a date with him. Is everything all right? Have you been drinking?"
"Not yet."
"What?"
"Hm?"
"Lisbon."
"I did not have a date with Walter. As for where he is, I don't know. Three hours ago he was probably outside my apartment wondering why I wasn't waiting for him. By now he's probably out with Miss Plan B. If you're so concerned about him, why don't you call him?"
"Where are you?"
"On I-5 South."
"Where on I-5 South?"
"About an hour north of Malibu. Listen, the reason I called is that I need you to talk to me, keep me awake. Or I could just drift into oncoming traffic. I really don't want to do that though. I wouldn't be caught dead listening to this music."
"What music?"
"That stupid jazz station you're always making me listen to. They've got a special Valentine's Day program going. Right now Sarah Vaughn's singing—"
"Tenderly," they said in tandem.
She couldn't help smiling. How like him to think nothing of her driving six-and-a-half hours to Malibu on a Monday night. She had said she wanted him to talk to her so he did.
"How long have you been listening?"
"About four hours. Since before Ol' Blue Eyes sang 'The Girl from Ipanema'. You?"
"Just turned it on when you texted. Didn't occur to me until then."
She smiled again.
"So . . . what are you doing?"
"Just hanging out. Did you say you were about an hour away?"
"Yes, and don't straighten up anything on my account."
"No . . . no. I'll leave everything just the way it is." He sounded distracted. She hoped he wasn't trying to think of a way to put her off.
"You're not trying to think of a way to put me off, are you?"
"No." He sounded unsure, then more definite, "No . . . it's probably a good idea if you come here. It's probably time."
"Okay." He sounded cryptic, and she did not want to do cryptic. She was relieved when he changed the subject with lightning speed, asking if Rigsby had embarrassed himself in honor of the day. They chatted lightly for the remainder of her drive until she informed him she was making the hairpin turn onto the road that led to his beachfront home.
"I'll turn the lights on," was the last thing he said before he hung up and she flipped her phone shut. Lights flickered on just ahead and to her left, and she swung her car into the driveway of a multi-level modern beach house. She got out of the car, pulling her purse, chocolates and champagne bottle with her. As she walked to the door, the February wind whipped her hair around her face, and she could hear the sound of waves crashing on the beach. Before she could raise her finger to ring the bell, the door swung open wide, and Jane, barefoot in blue pajamas, motioned her into the dark house.
"I come bearing gifts," she said, arms held out straight before her as she faced him. He looked from one of her hands to the other, and even though he had only the barest amount of lights turned on, she could still see the grin settle on his features.
"I'll need to send Walter a thank-you note," he said, taking the offerings from her hands and leading her into the kitchen. She followed him unwinding her scarf from her neck as she went.
"Probably not a good idea. Wouldn't want to rub salt—"
Her words and steps froze long enough for him to turn and look back at her questioningly. Her eyes narrowed at him in suspicion.
"How did you know—? You know what? Never mind." She made a low sweeping motion as if to brush away the subject. No how and why questions tonight. She was already in a bit of a dicey mood, and she didn't want to risk getting angry with him.
"I'm really hungry. Is there anything to eat?"
"Well, there's chocolate," he held the box up to her, "and I have the makings of an omelet."
"Oo. Omelet first, dessert later?"
"Omelet first, dessert later."
She sat at the kitchen island watching him cook, and he worked with his back to her, grinning at how inordinately pleased he was that she was here. Ordinarily he would have brought up Mashburn to pry and tease, but there was nothing there. He realized she considered what had happened between them a brief fling between friends and now it was over. He didn't want to talk about Walter, didn't want to bring him to the forefront of her thinking again.
The reality of being in a car for over six hours, stopping only for soda and coffee hit her. She asked for directions to the facilities and eased off of the barstool on which she sat. She walked through the living room and up the stairs. First door on the right he had said. But her glaze flickered to the end of the hallway, and she noticed the door there stood partially open. All at once the stark realization that this house was the house and that room was the room pressed down on her with such a tangible weight that for a moment, she found it difficult to stand. The feeling passed, and she found that not only could she stand, she could walk. And she was walking down the hall to that door.
She reached out with a tentative hand, pausing to look briefly over her shoulder then turned back and pushed the door fully open. She didn't mean to actually walk in, just look. But the browned-blood smiley on the wall pulled her to it like a magnet. When he stepped to the open door, she was reaching up to touch a bloody tear track where it hung from the corner of one of the eyes.
"Teresa."
She started and drew her hand back, fisting it against her chest as she comprehended what she had just been about to do. She turned slowly and looked at him, her eyes round and questioning, her breath ragged. Suddenly her jaw set firm and her hand dropped as she strode out of the room, angling herself away from him so that she wouldn't touch him as she sailed out the door. He let her go, looking at the gruesome drawing without really seeing it. He expected to hear the front door slam, so it took a moment for the sound of scraping metal he heard to register as one of the doors to the balcony opening. Then slamming. He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. He guessed he should go after her. Better to get it over with. Will she still want her omelet? He shook his head and trudged down the stairs.
He slid the door open, and the chill night air hit him full force. She was pacing, mumbling under her breath.
"Lisbon, I—"
"NO." She stopped pacing and rounded on him as she said the word with such force he wondered where in her small form it had come from. She pointed at him with her whole hand.
"For years I've been telling you, everybody's been telling you that you should let go, that you should give up your revenge, that your family would want you to be happy, that they wouldn't want you to become a murderer, a monster . . ." She was inching toward him now, hand still outstretched against him.
"You know what? I'm not so sure about all of that. How would I know what they'd want? Maybe she'd want you to be miserable without her. Maybe they would want you to butcher the man who killed them—"
He winced at her words, and for the first time she either didn't notice or didn't care that what she was saying might cause him pain.
"—but one thing I can damn well tell you is that she wouldn't want that . . . that . . . thing—," she was almost choking on her anger now. "—left on the wall in her house. In the room where he left it. Like it was some kind of . . . memorial to what he did to them. To what he did to you!"
He had always thought that Riled Lisbon and sometimes even Angry Lisbon were kind of funny. Cute and a little endearing even. But she was seething now in full-on rage. And she wasn't being careful about her words.
"It's not a memorial to him. It's a reminder to me."
"It's not how you see it that's important. It's how he sees it. And she would know that."
"What do you mean 'how he sees it'?"
"You think he hasn't been back in this house? You think he hasn't seen that pathetic mattress where you lie under the reminder of his triumph over you? The reminder of your failure? Or what you see as your failure?"
"It is my failure. If I hadn't said those—"
"Oh. Right. This mastermind, this brilliant serial killer, this consummate planner who pays meticulous attention to detail watched you on a second-rate talk show then turned it off and said, 'Hm. I don't like what Patrick Jane said about me. I think I'll drive out to Malibu and take a whack at his family.'"
He winced again, but not in pain. He was starting to get angry that she had the gall to speak about such things so freely, so unfeelingly. She saw the flinch, a small tick at the outside corner of his left eye, but she didn't care. He was forever cutting her off, forever refusing to listen to good sense. Now when she was in a rage, saying the things he would least want to hear, he couldn't walk away. How ironic. She continued on in full swing.
"He'd been watching them for days, maybe even weeks. He knew your security set-up and how to disable it. He knew where they would be. He knew where you would be and how long you would be gone. He'd found someone worthy of the game, and he wanted to make sure you stuck with it. He'd decided to kill them long before that night. Hell, if you'd broken with the CBI the day before that interview, he would've killed them to get you back. He only chose that night because he knew what it would do to you, that it would tighten the screws just a bit more, drive the blade a little deeper."
Her chest was heaving with the effort it took to keep talking without screaming at him. He could swear her irises had turned red. Still, she was only a little angrier than he was.
"Anything else?" Contrary to Lisbon, his anger came out in a low, feral growl.
"Plenty," she replied with narrowed eyes.
"Every time we have a Red John case you come here."
"Not ev—"
"Not physically." Her tone dripped with scorn at his inability to understand her meaning.
"In your head." She raised her arm and flung it out high and to her side, pointing back into the house.
"You walk in this house, up those stairs, down that hall. You read that note and open the door and find them all over again!"
Her voice had steadily risen, and she was yelling now. As she continued, she raised both arms, gesticulating expansively and slowly raising up on her toes.
"Then, we spend the next several days watching you. Worrying about you. Waiting on you with our collective heads up your ass while you fall apart! I don't know about you, Jane, but I've never caught a criminal that way!"
She settled back on her now firmly planted feet and dropped her arms back to her side. He waited for it—the inevitable guilt that she had said anything that could have caused him pain. She realized what he was looking for, and although her words had been spent, apparently her anger wasn't. When she jutted her chin toward him, her lips curled in a barely contained sneer, he realized no apology would be forthcoming.
She suddenly turned and bolted back into the house, and he realized she hadn't accomplished her original purpose in going upstairs in the first place. That and she probably couldn't look at him right now. He wandered into the living room and leaned against the arm of the over-sized couch, the room's only furniture. Unsure of how much time passed, he finally heard the bathroom door open. Lisbon came down the stairs at near top speed, lifting her purse and jacket from where she'd dropped them on the floor and reached for the front door.
"Don't you want your omelet?"
She froze, her back to him, hand resting on the door's lever. He had no idea what she would do at this point, so he just waited.
"What's in it?"
"Just eggs. And cheese. And some mushrooms."
She sighed and leaned her forehead against the door.
"I am awfully hungry."
"And don't forget dessert."
When she didn't move away from the door, he rose and walked up behind her, easing the jacket and purse from her arms and depositing them in the entry closet. He wrapped his hands around her shoulders, and one firm tug had her moving away from the door and walking in front of him back into the kitchen. He sat her down on the barstool she had previously occupied and picked up the plated omelet to reheat it in the microwave, grimacing over the slight change that would cause in the texture but knowing hot was better than cold in this case. The microwave beeped and he removed the plate and set it and a glass of orange juice in front of her, glad he had no coffee to offer. She didn't need any more caffeine.
She lifted limp arms to rest on the granite countertop of the island, expending only enough effort to lift the fork and cut into what smelled like what would be the best omelet she was ever likely to eat.
"Your collective heads up my ass?"
She paused mid-bite only for an instant before poking the bit of egg and stringing cheese into her mouth, the right side of her lips quirking deeply into the dimple that never quite disappeared.
"Seriously, do you people go to a special class at cop school to learn phrases like that?"
"Actually, we're all issued a pocket guide our first day at the academy."
He walked around the island and sat on the stool next to her.
"I know I don't employ my best crime-solving techniques in Red John cases. Maybe if I could divorce myself mentally from this . . ." One hand waved in a general motion to include the whole house and all it symbolized.
She dropped her fork onto her plate and let out yet another groan, somewhat strangled this time, as she bent her elbows against the hard surface and dropped her head forward onto the heels of her palms.
"Would. You. Stop." She sighed deeply then turned full toward him to look him directly in the eye.
"This cannot be about you. You're so bent on getting your revenge—"
She shook her head at him in warning when he tried to interrupt and continued.
"—that you don't see what's in front of you. It's not about you getting what you want. It's about getting him. He made a mistake with Carter Peak, and he might have made others. The thing is, you're the most likely to see them, but you can't if you're not looking in the right place, from the right perspective. You face every case with audacity and confidence and unmitigated gall. Except for the Red John cases. Stop letting him get to you. It's his number one play."
He looked down at where her hands had taken hold of his wrists. She followed his gaze and pulled away, turning back to her omelet.
"You really think he's been in the house since then?"
"I know he has."
He frowned, considering. "Yeah . . . yeah, that sounds like him. You don't think there would be any prints?"
She tilted her head toward him, one eyebrow quirked up under her fringe. He could almost hear her patent, "Yeah. Right." She turned back to her omelet and took another bite.
"If I were you, I'd renew the security contract though."
He looked up at her abruptly. Sensing his question, she shrugged. "Couldn't hurt," she said as she speared another bite. He watched her eat, and a smile slowly took over his features. She sensed the change in his demeanor and shifted her eyes toward him.
"What?" she asked flatly.
"You make a very good Watson."
She pursed her lips, and her eyes narrowed again, but this time they were lit with playfulness instead of red rage.
"No shi—"
"Ah-ah-ah. I think you've exhausted your quota of salty cop lingo tonight, Lisbon. Finish up, and I'll uncork the champagne and de-box the chocolates."
He left her to the last remaining bites of her omelet and stepped to where his jacket hung over the banister at the bottom of the stairs. He fished the little box out of one of the suit pockets and transferred it to the pocket of his pajamas before returning to the kitchen. When the cork popped off the champagne bottle and ricocheted off the ceiling, Lisbon whooped and burst into laughter, and he suspected the relief she felt that she hadn't left in anger was going to her head just a bit. He didn't mind. He was rather overwhelmed with relief that he hadn't thrown her out.
He poured a glass of champagne and traded it for her now empty plate. He poured himself a glass and arranged the Belgian confections on a delicate Limoges dish and set it on the island between them as he resumed his seat. He and Lisbon lifted their glasses to one another in an unspoken toast and drank. There was no mistaking the quality of the sparkling wine. Walter had very good taste. At that thought, Jane let his gaze linger on Lisbon as she fluttered her fingers over the chocolates, making her selection from the decadent assortment. She bit into a solid dark bon-bon and closed her eyes and moaned in pleasure. She chewed slowly and swallowed, opening her eyes and facing him with a lazy smile.
"You know, I have such an incredible sense of well-being right now, I'm not even going to let it bother me that you just saw me do that."
He raised his glass to her again and took a drink before reaching into his pocket and withdrawing the little paper box. He turned away from her slightly so she couldn't see what he was doing and sifted quickly through some of its contents. Turning back to her he laid a tiny yellow heart in front of her inscribed with the message #1 Fan.
Her mouth shaped into a silent "Aw-w", and she picked up the heart and popped it in her mouth. Holding out her hand wordlessly, she waited for him to hand the box over. She pushed the plate of expensive chocolates away and upended the contents of the box onto the countertop in its place. She studied the hearts, moving them around with her index finger and sipping her drink until she found the sentiment she wanted.
Whiz Kid on a green heart. He chuckled at her and ate the sweet then took his turn.
Heart of Gold on pink. She blushed and, suddenly seizing on the next candy of her choice, she showed him that it said Top Dog then tossed both hearts into her mouth, catching him by surprise.
He chose a Class Act for himself then slapped her hand away playfully to select All-Star for her. They washed their respective candies down with champagne, emptying their glasses. Jane poured out refills.
"You're neglecting your chocolates, Lisbon."
She didn't look up from her perusal of the candy hearts. "Don't worry—I'll get to them. I like these better for now," she replied as she fished out two candies and offered him a Dream Team and took I Love My Team for herself.
He watched her chew the candy and sip her champagne. When she realized he wasn't moving, she looked up at him.
"Your turn."
Her voice roused him from staring at her, and he looked over the hearts. She saw the mischievous glint in his eye and wondered what he was about when he pushed a heart toward her with his index finger, covering the sentiment until it was directly in front of her. He lifted his finger, and when she looked down and read the inscription My Pet, she wrinkled her nose at him then picked up the candy heart and tossed it across the room and into the kitchen sink. He held his hands up in mock apology and made another selection. He picked up two hearts and held them out to her. She extended her hand and waited for him to lay his choice for her in her palm. He very deliberately placed both hearts there and closed her fingers around them. She slowly lowered her eyes from his gaze to her hand and gently unfurled her fingers. Her breath caught, and he saw the glint of barely there tears through her lowered lashes before she spoke.
"I can't guarantee the one, but I don't think the other is too difficult."
She stared down at the two companions, both in pastel pink. Be My Hero and Best Friends. She slipped one candy into her mouth and chased it with the last of her champagne. As he tossed back the last of his drink, he saw her slide the other tiny heart into her jeans pocket.
He refilled the glasses again, emptying the bottle, and looked toward the leftover candy pieces. She laughed as she waved her hand toward them in a dismissive gesture.
"I can't share or accept any more of those. All of the ones left are incredibly inappropriate. I can't believe they sell those things to little kids!"
"But it was just starting to get interesting."
She slapped his chest and took a sip of champagne as she reached for a chocolate. She froze mid-chew and her eyes widened. He thought for a moment that she might need to be Heimliched, but when she turned to him with a look of such complete bewilderment he took hold of her hand with real worry.
"Lisbon? What is it?"
She swallowed the chocolate with a hard gulp and replied in a voice that was only a step away from a wail.
"It's got to be after three! I've got work tomorrow, I'm six-and-a-half hours away and I didn't make hotel reservations!"
Lisbon didn't do anything without a plan. This had to be eating her alive. But for the past eight or nine hours she had obviously been operating on impulse. He didn't see what the big deal was. She just needed a little expert guidance.
"You'll spend what's left of the night here, call in sick tomorrow, we'll leave a little before noon, drive along the coast and stop at a great little restaurant I know of for lunch before we head back to Sacramento."
"I can't just call in sick!"
"Why not? Cho can handle everything, and nobody would think anything of it after the week you've had. Besides, Human Resources will be thrilled that you're actually using a sick day."
"But what will we tell them about you?"
"Meh. They all expect me to duck out. Collective heads and all that."
"But both of our cars are here."
"We'll drive yours back, and I'll get a ride down over the weekend to pick mine up." Maybe even on a private jet, if I play my cards right, he thought to himself.
"What will you do for a car for the next three days?"
"I'll ask you for a ride if I need one."
Her eyes slid sideways away from him, and she caught one side of her bottom lip between her teeth.
"Any more objections?"
Eyes still to the side, lip still captured, she thoughtfully shook her head. He downed the rest of his champagne, rubbed his hands together as he stood and headed toward the living room.
"Great! I'll make up the couch!"
She finished her drink as well and followed him to help, but he waved her off and sent her upstairs to scavenge a toothbrush for herself and take a shower. Fortunately she found fourteen unopened toothbrushes in a cabinet. Shaking her head in amusement (but not in surprise), she selected a purple one and put the others back. He knocked on the door and handed in a pair of flannel sleep pants and one of his T-shirts. After she showered and brushed her teeth, she made her way downstairs to find the couch pulled across the room and positioned directly in front of a roaring fire and covered with an obviously high thread-count sheet with two down pillows and comforter. Jane sat on the end opposite the pillows staring into the flames.
She joined him there and they sat together in silence until Lisbon lay over on the pillows and burrowed under the comforter, curling her legs to leave plenty of room for him to stay seated where he was. He relaxed against the back of the couch, his left hand absentmindedly rubbing her feet through the cover, his touch as well as his silence somewhat unnerving her. She pulled her knees up closer to her chest, drawing her feet away from him.
"You okay?" Her voice was gentle and tentative.
"What would she have wanted me to do?"
"What?"
"You said she wouldn't've wanted me to leave it. What would she have wanted me to do?"
"Burn it. Down to and into the ground until no stone or board or block stood on another, ashes into the wind. Let the bastard smile at that."
He couldn't help grinning. Lisbon was such a cowboy sometimes. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the couch. After a while he felt that he might actually be able to sleep, so he stood and made sure his houseguest was tucked in before he straightened up to walk away. Before he could get far, she reached out and took hold of his arm. He looked down at her questioningly, and she slid her hand down and hesitantly ran her thumb over his wrist bone.
"Please, Jane . . . don't sleep under that thing tonight."
He thought for a minute. There were no other soft surfaces left in the house. Sleeping on the floor would leave him stiff and sore in the morning, but if it helped her to rest, he could suck it up this once. As if she could read his thoughts, she released his wrist and reached up over her head then under to take hold of one of the pillows, pulled it out and tossed it to the other end of the couch.
"Why Lisbon," he purred at her. She grimaced back.
"Shut up, Jane." She turned her back on him with a huff and pushed herself against the sofa back to make room for him. "And no couch hogging!" There was no mistaking the teasing tone, even in her sleepy voice.
He slid under the cover and laid his head on the pillow. Facing the couch back as she was, he stretched his legs and curled his toes against her upper back. She reached behind her and slapped at his legs.
"I mean it, Jane."
He curved his legs away from her and closed his eyes with yet another grin. She lay still for several minutes, and her breathing slowed and evened, so it surprised him when she spoke.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Jane," she sighed with her nearly last waking breath.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Lisbon . . . Lisbon?"
"Hm?"
"Does St. Patrick's Day qualify as a 'next time'"?
"Mm-hm." It came out on a high-pitched but husky sing-song, and he knew she was out.
"I'll take that as a yes."
As he drifted off, he made a mental note to take the rest of the candy hearts with them in the morning. They would make for a great car game.
END