YEAR TWO
2009
Karen cradled the gold shield in her hand, feeling again the barely restrained anger and frustration as he'd all but slapped it into her palm. Feeling, still, the warmth imbuing the metal and its leather holster from its constant contact with his body, though it had long since faded.
She turned it over and over in her palm, meditatively running her thumb over the raised city emblems—tracing the engraved 856-SBPD, the edges of the numbers and letters worn smooth from many years' worth of use.
Yet still gleaming and bright with pride and respect for what the badge meant.
And she'd taken it from him.
She'd had to.
Had been left with no choice despite the knowledge, deep in her gut, that it was wrong. That there was no way he could be guilty of this… thing the mounting evidence and the blowhards occupying. Internal Affairs were so anxious to lay on him. Yes, Carlton was difficult. Yes, she, and Chief Fenich before her, had too-often had to force him to justify what appeared to be excessive use of his weapon. They'd too-often had to smooth ruffled feathers with other lawmakers or the press at his impatience with what he saw as their deliberate obtuseness.
Yes, Carlton desperately wanted to see the bad guys brought to heel, but never at the expense of justice. And while the wheels of justice might sometimes turn too slowly for his taste, especially when the solution was obvious and right there, dammit, he had never ever been one to take shortcuts or enact his own form of justice. He had sworn a solemn oath to put his faith in the system—had always done what was asked of him and then some, to see the system properly served.
The same system that had so very nearly failed him.
And yet she knew the moment she handed him this badge, he would resume his sworn duty, to the best of his ability.
Karen wanted to give him that. To return to him what was rightfully his and should never have been taken.
As she now could. With Spencer's assistance—assistance Carlton had voluntary sought, proof right there as to how very badly he wanted to not just clear his name, but see the crime itself solved—he'd been cleared and the right man charged. And there lay yet another testament to how very strictly Lassiter adhered to the letter of the law: that Drimmer had emerged merely injured, instead of dead.
Karen wasn't sure she would have been so restrained.
She also wasn't sure why.
She was, however, certain she wouldn't be examining it all that closely. The deed was done, the case closed, and with the mandatory psychiatric evaluation that had landed in her inbox moments earlier, Lassiter was finally cleared for duty.
Which brought her back to her current contemplation of his badge.
She had already emailed him the news and informed him he was to report to her first thing Monday morning. He would no doubt be expecting her to return his badge as well as his status then. But she wanted to give it to him right now. Despite the fact that it was late on a Friday afternoon, she didn't want him to be without this very integral part of his being a moment longer than necessary.
Without further thought, she gathered her things and left, heading toward the small, neat duplex she'd visited earlier in the week. That, despite the grimness of the Wall of Crime and the not-all-that-shocking discovery of the multitudes of weapons, she'd found to be a surprisingly cheerful, light space.
Not for the first time had she found herself wondering about the conundrum that was Carlton Lassiter. Grim, but capable of moments of, if not outright cheer, then at least a dry, acerbic humor. Rigid, yet not incapable of finding pleasure in small things, like a fortune cookie offered as a gesture of acceptance or a mug of hot cocoa on a chilly day. Abrasive and oft-times exhibiting an astounding lack of self-awareness, yet when forced to confront his own shortcomings—when hit with precisely how he was perceived by the rest of the world—the well-constructed shields would fall away from the wide blue eyes and reveal a deeply wounded soul.
Awkward and arrogant, yet possessed of an inherent sweetness and a gentleness he would just as soon die rather than allow the vast majority to see.
For the longest time, she hadn't realized just how rare that last was.
As she approached his home, she glimpsed a flash of red disappearing around the next corner. On impulse, she sped up and turned the same corner, recognizing the familiar department Crown Vic. Disappointment shot through her, shocking in its intensity.
Oh, well—she supposed she could double back and leave the badge in his mailbox along with a note. Or just wait until Monday, as originally intended.
Yes, Monday would likely be best. To be able to carefully press the badge into his palm and meet his gaze and offer an apology the way she'd so desperately wanted to when she took it from him. Days later, she could still feel the words trapped in her throat. Could still feel every ounce of the same helplessness and resignation she'd seen reflected back at her in his weary blue gaze.
Days later, she remained uncertain as to why she felt such an intense desire to apologize. Except that wasn't true. She knew.
The weariness—the resignation… it was all due to her. Not that he blamed her, per se, but more that he'd long since reconciled himself to the fact that if he was to suffer something bad—at least professionally speaking—it was likely to be at Karen's hand.
And she had lived up to that expectation, hadn't she? Delivering the worst blow of all for a man like him, a man whose entire identity was defined by who he was as a cop. She'd tried to appease her conscience by rationalizing better her than Ocampo, that Internal Affairs creep. That ghoul would have been all but rubbing his hands and cackling with glee as he took Carlton's badge, effectively neutralizing the cop he'd long considered a massive pain in his ass.
And well had Carlton known it. It had been there, amidst the resignation and the helplessness—his understanding of why she was doing it. The tacit acknowledgment, deep within his sigh, that he would have done the same damned thing in her shoes. Both in taking her badge because it was what evidence and protocol demanded and in choosing to do it himself to protect her from those who truly meant harm.
It was a helluva way to have earned his respect—and only exacerbated her guilt at so resolutely ignoring her gut instinct that he was innocent.
Oh, God—maybe leaving the badge in his mailbox was the best way after all.
Better still, returning it to him as planned on Monday. More professional. What he'd expect and be more comfortable with.
What they'd both be more comfortable with.
Yes.
Yet here she was, arguing with herself even as she continued to trail him with no real excuse or purpose. What was she going to do when he stopped? Admit she'd been following him? Why? Simply to return the badge she'd so wrongly taken?
She remained so mired in her own mental gymnastics she very nearly missed he'd come to a stop. Luckily, he appeared as engrossed in his own thoughts as she and had yet to notice her following him.
Or if he had, simply didn't care.
It was a tossup, really, except she was well aware of how very much he valued his privacy. He might not give a damn what she wanted, but he sure as hell would give a damn she was invading his space. Especially in the wake of the past week's events.
Really, she should just go home.
It was the sensible thing to do. The man had been through enough in the past week. He didn't need her intruding on what was clearly a very private, intimate, personal moment.
Which was why she couldn't even begin to explain to herself why she drew her car to a stop a reasonable distance away from his and stepped out, breathing deep of the ocean-scented air. It was a stunningly beautiful spot, one of the most serene places in all of Santa Barbara County and likely to remain that way, despite the vast numbers of developers who'd done their best to get their hands on the historic oceanside cemetery over the years.
She no longer had to wonder what Carlton was doing here. The real wonder came from realizing it had been a year. Almost to the day.
No wonder Carlton tended to be such a cynic about the new year—well, more of a cynic than usual. Rather than renewal, for him the first months of the year tended to bring with it reminders of losses suffered. And appeared to have a nasty trait of inflicting new ones.
And you just added another mark onto that tally, didn't you?
Again, helplessness and resignation washed over her, even as she argued—
It's not permanent. I'm returning what I took. This time, he didn't lose. He won.
Are you so sure about that? Really?
"Another psych eval, because I shot the son of a bitch who'd framed me and was attempting to kill me. Can you believe it?" His laugh was low and easy and colored with a ruefulness Karen had never heard from him. "Never mind—of course you can."
He'd eased down to sit beside an inset marker, long fingers plucking the rare weed before arranging the small bouquet of flowers he'd brought.
"Hell, Lucinda—it's not as if it comes as any surprise so many people want me gone. Not that I understand, because I don't. I just don't get it, because I do my job, every day, to the best of my ability, and despite the fact that Spencer insists on going out of his way to make me look like a complete ass, O'Hara and I are still able to do some excellent work. Close some really important cases. Which should be enough. But it's not. It's never enough. At least, not where I'm concerned.
"But then I finally brought in Chavez—brought the son of a bitch in and for the first time in a long time, everyone remembered I'm actually a pretty damned good cop.
"I can't deny… it felt good. I know you, of all people, would understand exactly what that means to me."
Eyes burning and throat tight, Karen moved silently away from the shadow of the tree that had shielded her, feeling even more of an intruder than before. She should never have followed.
She should never have heard those words.
She should have never taken his badge.
Monday morning, she faced him across her desk with a careful smile as she gently placed the badge back in his hand, silently promising she would never again be the instrument of its removal. A promise she made as much to herself as to him.
Why that was such an important promise?
Yet another question she wasn't inclined to question too closely.