"Detective," the counselor spoke quietly as Lassiter fell into his now usual plush chair. "I think I have to caution you about something."
"What?" He barked, forgetting for a moment that he didn't actually want to talk to her.
He watched the pen twirling absently in her slender fingers, only half-listening to what she was saying.
"Doctor-Patient Confidentiality isn't absolute," she continued in that hushed, professional tone that always made him hate her just a little.
His eyes narrowed spitefully.
Suddenly, he wasn't interested in the pen anymore.
"What the hell does that mean?"
She rested the pen on her knee, clasping her hands together in front of her.
Almost like she was praying.
"After our last session, I just feel I should warn you. The moment I have reason to suspect you're an imminent threat to yourself or someone else, it's not only my right to break confidentiality and report it, it's my ethical obligation." She told him evenly.
He bristled as he sat back in his chair, his jaw setting firmly.
He finally remembered why he didn't want to talk her.
When he didn't respond to her warning, she glanced down at her watch with a sigh.
"I assume we won't be talking for the next 44 minutes, then?" She mused dully.
This time, Lassiter didn't even nod in acknowledgement.
He wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.
"Okay," she shrugged, settling into her own chair but not breaking eye-contact. "44 minutes isn't the record, but it's damn close."
The silent minutes ticked by slowly. Lassiter had to fight the urge to break their defiant stare-down and check his watch to see exactly how much time had passed.
Finally, the counselor cleared her throat and broke the silence.
"I notice you're wearing your badge again," she commented, pointing at his belt.
He glanced down at it, shrugging limply but still not responding.
"Does that mean you're unofficially officially back on the force?" She pressed, undeterred by the complete lack of communication coming from the other chair.
He hesitated, but finally gave up trying to fight it anymore.
He couldn't let that one slide.
"No." He snapped, then clamped his jaw shut again.
It was a small victory for the counselor, but one syllable was all he was going to give.
He was determined that she wasn't going to drag anything else out of him.
Not this time.
But, damn it, she just wouldn't give up.
"Then what changed?" She asked. "Last time you were here, you said you didn't need it."
Lassiter blinked slowly, caught slightly off-guard by the query.
What had changed?
"Nothing," he growled finally. "My belt is just too damn light without it."
She smiled gently.
"I understand."
"No, you don't."
"I don't understand light belts?"
"You don't understand why I need it!"
He was shouting now, and the overstuffed chair suddenly seemed very confining. He pushed out of it, pacing the now well-worn path between the door and the chair.
She watched him for a minute before asking the inevitable question.
"Why do you need it?"
"Why do I need what?" He mumbled distractedly, his eyes looking over the framed ink blot prints that covered the walls.
"Why do you need your badge?"
His hand instinctively fumbled for it, his fingers running over the familiar grooves and dimples.
"I don't know."
"Are you still on the case? Are you still looking for whoever killed Chief Vick?"
His eyes narrowed angrily again.
"I'm going to find him." He growled through clenched teeth.
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why does it have to be you? Why can't you let the police, the ones who aren't unofficially suspended for punching out a superior officer, handle it?"
Lassiter sat down, once again thrown for a loop by her question.
"Because." He answered finally when he decided there was nothing else to say.
"Because isn't really an answer, Detective."
"Because I should have stopped it in the first place!" He shouted, his fists involuntarily clenching.
The counselor was twirling the pen again, and once more Lassiter was transfixed by the movement. He almost didn't even realize he was still talking as his eyes followed the gentle arching motion of her hand.
"I was there…at the station. When they grabbed her. I should have heard something…I should have known. I should have stopped it. But I didn't…but if I catch the son of a bitch…if I'm the one who nails him…"
He paused, his nostrils slowly flaring in and out as he realized with some horror that he had just said it out loud.
Everything he had been thinking…everything he had fighting against for so long…and he had just said it.
He clamped his mouth shut again, but it was too late.
His watch alarm beeped.
"That's time, Detective." The counselor smiled softly. "But it's a darn good thing we didn't talk about it."
Lassiter made it halfway across the counselor's parking lot before he heard the voice behind him.
"Hey, Lassie!"
He groaned and slowly turned around.
Damn it!
Why the hell did I have to say I wanted his help…?
"Spencer! How the hell did you know--"
He stopped asking the question when he saw the knowing grin on Shawn's face.
"Never mind," he scowled, turning back to his car.
"You know, Lassie." Shawn quipped drily, jogging to catch up with the detective. "If you keep reacting like this every time I show up, I'm going to start thinking you don't really want me around."
"I don't want you around!"
"You asked for my help!"
"I was drunk!"
"Check your rulebook!" Shawn snapped, jumping into Lassiter's passenger seat and slamming the door. "Drunk requests for help are legally-binding. Just like drunk marriage proposals and drunk bank loan applications…don't ask me how I know that."
Lassiter grimaced as he slid behind the wheel, glaring spitefully at the persistent psychic.
"I don't need help."
"Okay," Shawn shrugged nonchalantly, pretending to go for the door. "Then I guess you can find Howard James all by yourself."
The automatic lock suddenly clicked, trapping Shawn inside the car.
"How do you know about James?" Lassiter demanded darkly, his voice suddenly dangerously quiet.
"I'm psychic."
"You're an ass. Did O'Hara tip you off?"
"No. Why?" Shawn blinked innocently. "Is Jules looking for him, too?"
"Shut up." Lassiter barked sharply. "What do you know about James?"
His knuckles were chalk-white against the black steering wheel, his nails digging into the soft plastic. He turned his head and looked at Shawn, his eyes suddenly blazing with hatred.
"I know you and Jules think he killed Chief Vick," Shawn answered quietly. "I know he jumped parole and you're looking for him. And I know that you're not going to find him without my help."
"I don't need help, Spencer."
"Then you shouldn't have asked for it. You're stuck now, Lassie. I'm in whether you like it or not."
Their eyes locked stubbornly. Neither of them were backing down. Not this time.
The automatic lock clicked again, and Shawn was suddenly free.
"Get the hell out of my car," Lassiter growled.
"No."
"Spencer!"
"I'm not leaving."
"Fine!" Lassiter snapped, snatching his keys out of the ignition and getting out himself.
Shawn watched silently as he stormed away, but didn't make a move to follow him.
Lassiter was still awake when the phone rang later that night.
Of course he was still awake.
He didn't even try to sleep anymore.
He was huddled over his small kitchen table, pouring over the file Juliet had given him that afternoon for the millionth time, trying to figure out where to start his investigation in the morning.
He glanced at his microwave clock as the first silence-shattering ring pealed though the house.
1:37 AM.
For a minute, he almost didn't answer it.
It has to be Spencer…
Who else could it be…?
He let it ring five or six times, but finally gave in and picked it up.
He might have something…
A break…
"What?" He barked into the receiver.
"Detective Lassiter? Sir?"
The voice was quiet and hesitant, but he recognized it immediately.
His grip on the phone loosened ever so slightly.
It wasn't Spencer….
"McNab?" He barked. "What the hell--?"
"Sorry to bother you, Sir…" Buzz pressed on quickly, as if trying to get it all out in one breath. "It's just that…I'm at the scene right now…and I thought I should tell you…"
"What scene? What the hell are you talking about?" Lassiter growled impatiently, cutting him off.
Even if he hadn't been sleeping, it was still too damn early in the morning to play guessing games.
There was a pause on Buzz's end as he searched for the right words.
"Detective O'Hara's apartment, Sir…" He said finally, his voice barely raising above a whisper now. "I'm there right now with the crime scene unit…"
Lassiter's eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening around the phone again.
"O'Hara's apartment is crime scene?" He repeated quietly.
"Yes, Sir." Buzz confirmed. "She's missing…the crime scene guys said it looks like someone followed her inside…there was a struggle…the Chief's on his way, but he won't be here for a while…I thought you'd want to know…"
Lassiter didn't say anything.
He couldn't have if he tried.
He stared blankly down at the receiver in his hand, then slowly put it back on the cradle without another word and grabbed his keys.
He began to head for the door, but suddenly stopped short.
Before he knew what he was doing, he had fished his cell phone out of his pocket and was dialing.
"Spencer!" He barked when Shawn finally answered. "Where the hell are you?"
