CHAPTER TWO: Reconnoiter

. . . .

. . .

Clint Eastwood growled to the punk who was about to make his day, and Lassiter lay on the sofa, drink in hand, not hearing him.

He was crazy. He had to be.

He'd been thinking about this for a long time, but until the words escaped his mouth this morning he'd had no idea he would ever say them out loud.

Step down? From the position he'd earned so young and cherished all these years?

He drank, and marveled at the other words which had flown out of him today: that he'd resign. Words spoken—without hesitation—in front of not only his partner but also his supervisor, the freaking Chief of Police.

And yet…

And yet he had no regrets. Being Head Detective and aiming at the Chief's position had become less something he wanted and more something he felt was expected of him in the past half decade. The idea of endless workdays spent immersed in paperwork and meetings—because he knew now that's what being Chief meant—was anathema to what he loved most about his job, which was catching the bad guys: being a detective.

For Juliet's sake, he hoped she would take whatever partner Karen Vick gave her. It would be better for her career than to stick with the guy who stepped down, because no matter what was said officially, there would be unofficial speculation as to why he was doing it, such as whether he was being demoted against his will, and Juliet along with him. He didn't want to do that to her. He would not do that to her.

She'd be okay with a new partner. Career-wise, she'd be better off. And personally… well… he imagined it wouldn't be all that hard for her sunny self to break ties with him.

Of course, Karen might just accept his resignation. And why shouldn't she? What was there to salvage?

Lassiter set the glass down sharply on the coffee table, knowing he was being overdramatic. He did bring value to the department; he did, and Karen knew he did, and she wasn't stupid and she wasn't going to let him resign.

... yeah ...

... probably.

But now, niggling at his brain, demanding to be heard, was a little tiny bit of wonder: that Karen had defended him today. She'd appeared out of nowhere and cut Spencer off at the knees, for him.

Okay, maybe it was only to shut Spencer up and get him out of there. Still…

He remembered the fire in her deep brown eyes and the heat in her tone, and understood instinctively where the old "you're beautiful when you're angry" line came from, because she was (and not only when she was angry).

Watch it. She's your boss.

Rolling his eyes, he took up the glass again and finished off Jack Daniel's amber forgetful juice. She'd defended him. There'd been a time when Juliet might have—

No… wait.

Lassiter considered, and the truth of it was that he really couldn't think of any time, ever, when Juliet had done what Karen did. She would shush Spencer when he was too loud or when his Lassiter-bashing was taking too long, and now and then she'd jump in and yell at both of them to knock it off (that is, after he sank down to Spencer's level), but never anything more than that.

Which meant…

Huh.

Which meant that in one rather spectacular showdown, Karen Vick had done something no else had done for him in his adult life.

Granted, she had the authority to back it up, but honestly, he wasn't sure that made a difference. He could easily imagine her stomping Spencer without any authority at all.

Hell, now he was smiling.

And she really was beautiful, angry or otherwise; those big dark eyes and her honey blonde hair and dammit, this is your boss you're edging toward fantasizing about.

Hey. She's divorced. And I'm half-drunk. Anything goes. And it wouldn't be the first time I've had those thoughts.

You're still an ass.

Yeah. Have another drink anyway.

He didn't, but he fell asleep on the sofa to the sound of Eastwood's gunfire.

. . . .

. . .

Karen's night was long and unsettled. As if in sympathy, Iris had a nightmare about a horror movie she and her friend Lissa had secretly watched during a sleepover (Karen was going to have a word with Lissa's mother about that, yes indeedy), so the two of them were up sipping cocoa awhile, and long after Iris fell back asleep, Karen lay awake beside her thinking about how to solve the Carlton problem.

Which was really the Spencer problem, because he was at the root of it all.

The time she spent thinking other things about Carlton, well, she wasn't yet willing to dwell on in daylight.

At the station in the morning, with no real plan of action, she knew she had to give Carlton some interim "hang in there" answer at the very least.

For a few moments, she watched him through the glass of her office window.

Silver-lit black hair, long graceful fingers tapping at his keyboard. From time to time he paused to take a sip of coffee and she could see even through the blinds the startling bright blue of his eyes. The perpetual frown creasing his forehead did nothing to detract from his appeal, an appeal she had no business noticing.

You're divorced.

But he's my employee.

He's a man. And not just any man. He was there for you when you gave birth to your daughter. He learned to accept you as his supervisor over his own interest in the job. He's… adapted over the years. And his eyes are just so damned blue, and we're not even going to talk about the tantalizing glimpse of chest hair when his top button is—

Enough of that, she decided, fanning herself briefly.

He and Juliet were talking as she approached; Juliet handed him a report.

"What's the status on the park case?" he asked.

"I told Henry I wanted Shawn off of it, so it's all ours again."

His dark eyebrows went up. "He agreed?"

"I was cleaning my gun at the time."

This made Carlton smirk, an unmistakable smirk, and Karen couldn't speak for Juliet, but she felt better seeing it. "Woody's autopsy results are in the folder. No GSR on either victim."

"So the third shooter theory holds water," he mused, and didn't sound the least bitter about it.

"Detectives," Karen interrupted when she was close enough. "A word, please."

Juliet and Carlton looked at each other silently, and followed Karen back to her office.

Closing the door herself, she returned to her desk and sat down, considering them each in turn before speaking. "I'll be brief. I haven't made a decision about any of this yet. It was a lot to take in, and it's not at all a straightforward matter."

Carlton nodded, and Karen read his body language as accepting.

"However, make no mistake—I am taking it seriously. And Carlton, I'd like to offer my apology for letting the situation get to this point. What you said yesterday was true: Shawn's behavior has had a negative effect upon the entire department, not just you, on many occasions, and we have all been far too tolerant of his specific… behaviors… toward you." She felt uncomfortable, as if these words were… really, nothing at all. Nothing. Just stupid, useless words.

"Thank you, Chief," he said quietly, blue gaze unreadable.

Karen nodded to Juliet. "I made note of your declaration as well, Detective."

Juliet nodded back, not meeting Carlton's curious glance.

"I need time," she said simply. "I need to figure out what to do. But I'll tell you this right now, Carlton. I will not accept your resignation, even if it's drizzled in Godiva chocolate and served on a golden tray by a troupe of Chippendale dancers who also do light housecleaning."

His eyebrows went up and his color changed, and Juliet stared at him unabashedly with complete glee.

"You get that? Detective?"

A slow and very cautious smile lit his face. "Yes, ma'am. I get that."

Looking into his eyes in that long moment, Karen felt… something… shift between them, but it had to be in her tired head, and once again she reminded herself that she was his supervisor and it didn't matter that she'd been divorced a year: some things should not be.

But as he and Juliet left her office, she asked herself why.

. . . .

. . .

"Godiva!" Juliet was still laughing. "I told you so, Carlton. I told you—"

He cut her off as he pulled in at the coffee shop. "Don't get cocky. She might still let me step down."

"I'll get cocky if I want to, because I know she won't. You know she won't. You are staying on top, partner."

Lassiter gave her a look, but was amused by her amusement.

"Besides," she went on, unfastening her seatbelt, "she is too smart a woman to let both of us step down."

"There's no stepping down for you," he protested. "No matter what happens with my job, none of it affects you. Even if I let you," he emphasized, earning a frown, "keep being my partner if I join the rank and file, nothing happens to your status in the department. I mean, except for being laughed at for hanging on to the—"

"Shut it," she warned him.

He knew that tone, and changed tack. "Look. You're pinning your hopes on what Karen might do, but what you need to keep in mind is what I won't do. And what I won't do is put up with any more crap from Spencer." He kept his tone even, and left out descriptive words such as 'asshat,' 'idiot,' and 'your narcissistic blowhard lying stealing twerp of a boyfriend.'

Juliet was quiet, and a quick glance told him she was unhappy—but not angry with him. He'd learned her different expressions over the years. "I know." Her voice was soft. "I'm sorry about him. About everything. About how I've let things get out of hand."

Lassiter felt weary again—so common these days, as if the very name Spencer sapped his strength. "It wasn't just you, O'Hara. I let it go on too long, too."

"What could you have done? He's… he's so…" She trailed off.

"Even a jet can be brought down by a high-flying goose," he said dryly.

Juliet grinned, just a little, as if she felt guilty even for thinking about it. "No reason we can't train a goose to follow him around." She put her hand on the door. "I'm buying your coffee. The usual?"

He agreed, and leaned back yawning in the seat while she went in.

That had been quite some declaration by Karen earlier. He still felt a bit warm.

No, it wasn't personal. How could it be personal? They were boss and employee. But that look… the look in her warm brown eyes… it felt personal. It felt private. Never mind Juliet sitting there; for a moment he and Karen had been completely alone.

You need to nip that crap in the bud, laddie. What you're thinking cannot be.

But in the moments before Juliet returned to the car, he asked himself why.

. . . .

. . .

"Henry!" Karen said briskly as the man passed her open office door mid-afternoon. "I have eight minutes before my conference call and every one of those minutes is for you."

The elder Spencer looked askance at her, but came in and took her cue to close the door. "What's up, Chief?"

She closed her laptop and smiled. "Well, Mr. Liaison, I need to relay a complaint to you about one of our consultants."

Henry passed a weary hand over his eyes. "Oh hell, is it that idiot Pennington? I told him, in no uncertain terms, that we would not reimburse his medical expenses if he tried to recreate the victim's injury on his own thick skull!"

Karen arched one brow. "Fascinating. But no. The agency is Psych, and the complainant is me."

He sighed, a more familiar exasperation overtaking his features. "What did Shawn do now?"

"Now? What did he do now?"

Henry eyed her. He was a very, very smart man, far too smart to think her bright tone was sincere. "Out with it."

"When I asked you to come in as consultant liaison, I had two goals in mind. The first goal, as you know, was to have someone manage and monitor the various individuals and companies we use to help us solve our cases, from hiring to firing to payment."

He nodded warily.

"The second goal—more of a dream, really—was that you'd be able to exert some influence over your son. I figured if anyone could, it'd be you. Henry Spencer doesn't let much get past him, right?"

"Karen—"

"Obviously that second goal was just wishful thinking. Hell, I'll say it right out: it was stupid. Your son is a wrecking ball, Henry. He's a tsunami. He's Godzilla and Mothra taking out an entire city. He's an invasion of locusts followed by killer bees, fire ants, and Walmart shoppers. He's like a—"

Henry rolled his eyes. "I get it already. This is where you ask me how my son turned out the way he did."

"No, not at all. He's an adult and he makes his own way. Usually at the expense of others, but that's neither here nor there. No, this is where I tell you that I want to pretend for the moment he's just another consultant under your control." As if.

"Umm… okay?"

"Because it simplifies everything, you see. Breaks the problem down to its most basic level."

His notoriously short supply of patience was running low. "Which is?"

Karen sat back, feeling both jazzed and yet oddly calm. "I have had enough of this particular consultant dragging my officers through the funhouse. He is unacceptably insulting to them and to the department as a whole. When he's interviewed by the press, he always manages to make it seem somehow, and oh so very subtly, that he did everything himself and we were just scrambling to keep up as well as heart-breakingly grateful for his kind assistance. In short, Henry, I'm tired of him acting like an ass."

Henry met her gaze squarely, his cool pale blue gaze unyielding. "This is about Lassiter."

Karen only looked at him.

"Oh come on, Karen. People don't always get along, you know, and I shouldn't have to tell you Lassiter's a grown—"

"Stop," she commanded. "Don't you even finish that sentence. What you need to understand is that I don't care if you don't like him. I don't care if Shawn doesn't like him. In fact, you could go so far as to say I don't give a rat's ass whether anyone likes him, because it's totally irrelevant to any part of this discussion. We are here to work. The consultants are here to help us when we request it. They are not here to disrupt, disrespect, or disregard either the protocols of the department or the basic courtesy professionals should expect from each other." She stopped for breath, and to shoot him an even icier glare.

He was still, watching and waiting. Smart man.

"I need you to pass a message on to Psych," she said more evenly. "The message is this: change is coming. It could be big, it could be little, it could be they'll need to find some other police chief to drive insane. I don't know yet, because I'm still weighing my options. But there will be change, Henry, and just about every damn bit of it's going to fall on Shawn and Gus. You pass that on for me. Okay?"

After a long pause—and never looking away—he nodded slowly. "I will deliver the message personally."

"Thank you," she said coolly, and glanced at her watch. Her mood ought to make for an interesting budget conversation with the mayor's office.

"No, no," he said as he got up, his smile wry. "Thank you."

. . . .

. . .

Lassiter was too unsettled by everything to let himself simply go home and drink, and he didn't feel like going to the firing range (which was unheard of). He'd missed his morning run due to the alcohol-related headache which had woken him, so he was making up for lost time.

In his sweats and a faded Academy tee, he started out from his condo and ran an unimaginative line straight out from Prospect Gardens, opting for simplicity while his brain tried to sort out the events of the past twenty-four hours as well as the park homicide case.

Spencer and Guster had stayed away from the station, either because of Karen's admonition or because—and he suspected this was the deciding factor—Juliet had warned them off as well. She hadn't spoken much of Spencer during the day, but a tightness to her tone sometimes made him wonder if she hadn't read her own riot act to the gel-head.

Not that Spencer usually listened to her, either, but there was a first time for everything.

He was in a shopping district which bordered an upscale-ish residential area when his watch and the fading light suggested he turn back toward home. Ahead of him, a woman and young child exited a yogurt shop, and no sooner had the word Karen formed in his mind than she lifted her gaze to his and immediately smiled brilliantly.

"Carlton," she said with what sounded like genuine pleasure, and he stopped in front of them.

"Hey, Karen." He smiled at her daughter while catching his breath.

The little girl, nearly seven now, had dark brown curls and dark brown eyes to match her mother's; in one hand she held a frozen yogurt and in the other, a book. "Hi," she said matter-of-factly, and sampled her chocolate treat.

"Hello, Iris."

Her expression brightened. "I know you. You're Carlton."

For some reason, the sound of his name—the fact that she knew it—knew him—did a funny thing to his heart.

Karen explained, "She's seen you on TV."

"And you were there when I was born!" Iris seemed very happy about this, and Lassiter had a powerful urge to hug her for no damn reason. But in the next second, her pretty little face fell. "I don't remember it," she admitted.

He smiled. "Well, you were only thirty seconds old. Maybe if you'd been seven or eight minutes old you'd remember."

She laughed, and nearly broke his heart, and when he looked at Karen, the light in her eyes did the rest of the job.

"I, um, thought you did your running before work," she said somewhat breathlessly, which surely he was imagining.

He chose his words carefully. "I… wasn't up to it this morning."

"Long visit with Jack last night?"

Her perception skills were what made her a good Chief. "Some days call for long visits," he said neutrally.

"It will get better," Karen said firmly.

He said honestly, "It already is."

Iris interrupted. "Who's Jack?"

Yeah, we're not going there. "Just a friend. What are you reading?"

"Mercy Watson Fights Crime!" she exclaimed.

He couldn't help but laugh, and Karen's grin made him feel all-too-mellow and warm on the inside. "Did your mom pick that out for you?"

"Oh no," Karen assured him. "She chose it from the library all on her own. Can't say I mind, though."

"Guess not." For a second he forgot how to look away from her.

Iris said, quite crossly, "Silly shoe."

They both followed her gaze; the lace on her shoe was undone, and Lassiter knelt at once to re-tie it for her, putting him eye-level with the little girl whose umbilical cord he'd cut all those years ago, when he and Karen were finding their way as boss/employee, when he was still recovering from the damage he'd done to his career as well as Lucinda Barry's, when he was working out his new partnership with the fresh-faced, cheerful Juliet O'Hara.

When he had no reason to suspect that one day Karen Vick would be able to make his heart race simply because he could tie her daughter's shoe.

Iris beamed at him. Her dark brown eyes, so like her mother's, were warm and beautiful and she gave him an impromptu hug, the book slapping him on the back and by God a sploosh of frozen yogurt landing on his shoulder, but did he care? No he did not.

When he stood up, Karen was staring at him in what he could only call wonder—and even if it was only because she couldn't believe her daughter would want anything to do with him, it was still a lovely, lovely sight.

"Good night, ladies," he said, feeling strangely heady. "Good luck to Mercy," he added for Iris, then gave them both a wave and ran like hell toward home.

. . . .

. . .

Karen gently pried the Mercy Watson book from Iris' hand, pulling the blanket up higher and bending to kiss her forehead. "Time to sleep, sweetie."

A frustrated moue turned into a yawn, and Iris snuggled into her pillow. "I wish Carlton was in my book," she murmured.

Karen froze. "Really? Why's that?"

"He could catch all the bad guys. And his eyes are so pretty," she sighed, as hers closed against the world.

That they were, Karen thought.

She had watched him jog away from them, unable to take her eyes off his retreating frame. Stalling Iris, who was impatient now to get home, she'd pretended to be looking for something in her purse. But she was only watching Carlton.

The way he was with Iris… comfortable and yet wondering, almost mesmerized. The way he looked in his tee and sweats, so very male, so very… she swallowed. The blue of his eyes had become Mediterranean, a sea of unfathomable depths, as he gazed between her and Iris.

I want to get to know him better.

So you can stuff that "it should not be" crap.

. . . .

. . .