A/N: Here's the new chapter, loves. Please read, review, and of course, enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing and the gremlin…well, you know the drill.
Felicity sipped on her thankfully sweet mocha as she picked her way across the stagnant puddles of oil and old sea water that dotted the warehouse floor. Shawn and Gus had been more than happy to give her a lift in the car she'd seen in Lassiter's memories. She was going to ask about that incident one of these days, she suspected one hell of an awesome story.
As she neared the crime scene tape, she spotted Lassiter standing next to a very pretty blonde that she assumed to be Detective O'Hara.
"If you need a brown paper bag, Sawyer, Guster keeps spares in his pocket," the detective called out with a mocking smirk.
"I've seen dead bodies, Detective, though I'll be more than happy to lend you one of my Care Bears DVD's, if you're needing a little comfort this evening. Might make for more interesting porn than what you've been watching," she shrugged lightly, ducking under the tape with a mild expression.
Hearing him sputter was a reward in and of itself. Felicity stepped towards the younger woman at Lassiter's side.
"Detective O'Hara," she greeted with a friendly smile, one that was returned.
"Ms. Sawyer, I've heard a lot about you."
Felicity snorted.
"If the source is who I think it is, please disregard it, then. And Felicity will work just fine."
The blonde woman laughed quietly.
"Believe me, you develop a filter after a while. And you're welcome to call me Juliet."
Felicity nodded as Lassiter grumbled something unintelligible under his breath. Shawn sidled up next to Juliet while Gus stepped close to her side. Felicity glanced at the barrel in front of them, the bright blue plastic scuffed and reeking. Her head tilted. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shawn's fingers leap to his eyebrow.
"I'm sensing that she was a waitress and that she was…she was killed here."
Felicity lifted her eyes, lips twitching, to see Shawn take off like a shot towards the back of the warehouse. Juliet and Gus were hot on his heels and when she turned her attention back towards the barrel, she saw Lassiter shaking his head with his hands on his hips. She ignored him, grey eyes narrowing as she stepped closer. Setting down her travel cup on a nearby crate, she held out her hand towards the detective. His expression was derisive as he glanced down at her upturned palm.
"You need a hand to hold, Sawyer? Ask Guster over there."
The look she gave him could have frozen tap water.
"Gloves?" She asked, wiggling her fingers for emphasis.
Grumbling again, he reached down, tore off the gloves he had on and handed them to her. Felicity tugged the too large latex over her hands, crouching down next to the barrel.
"Hey, hey, what the hell are you doing, Sawyer, don't touch anything!"
Letting out an exasperated breath, Felicity looked up at him, waving her hands at him exaggeratedly.
"Clairvoyant, Detective. I have to touch in order to see anything, unlike Mr. Spencer."
"No, no way, you are not touching evidence, Sawyer, do you—"
Felicity controlled her urge to flip Lassiter off by slamming her palm into the barrel. The body hadn't been removed yet, so it thudded duly back against her hand and she fought down the instinctive need to jerk her palm back in revulsion. Dead or alive, that was a person in there who deserved to have their death vindicated. Felicity spread her fingers wide across the scarred barrel. The connection was faint, but instantaneous, almost as if she had pressed her hand against the dead woman's.
Pain. Fear. Blood seeping from bare feet on chilly, wet concrete. Running, no air. Black laughter and blind panic. Help me! My son! God, please save my son! Echoing screams.
"Oh, Ashley...I am so sorry," she murmured, her fingertips moving against the cold plastic.
"Well?" Lassiter asked impatiently, his arms folded across his lean chest.
Felicity stood, her eyes misty, the connection between her and the deceased reverberating straight to her heart, making her chest ache. Christ, people were just animals.
"She—she was strangled. You'll likely find probably prints on and around her neck, if any of the skin tissue is still intact. It didn't kill her, just knocked her unconscious. It—it w—was the—"
Felicity couldn't finish the sentence, turning around so that he couldn't see her hands shaking as she struggled to pull off the gloves. The motion was normal, soothing, and helped to steel her voice.
"Lye, he used lye to kill her and then to disposed of the remains. She...she was alive when he dumped her in the barrel and filled it with the powder." Felicity breathed in very deliberately through her nose. "There should be traces of it on the rim of the barrel that the water didn't reach."
She heard a hiss of breath, followed by a curse.
"Son of a bitch. Alright, you said he."
It wasn't a question and when she had taken another calming breath and balled up the gloves, she turned back to him, clear eyes steady.
"Yeah, that's my impression. Male, tall, slight build, shaggy blonde hair. If you can find me a sketch artist, I can give you a composite."
The skepticism was still lingering on his face, but it seemed that he had worked long enough with Shawn to at least give her information a shot.
"McNabb!" he barked, the tall dark-haired officer from this morning rushing over to him eagerly.
While Lassiter fired off orders, Felicity plucked up her mocha and headed over to Shawn and Gus, making herself gulp down the suddenly too sweet liquid. It coated her tongue and made the need to gag stronger, but she knew that she was going to need the caffeine later. Shawn was examining the layout of the warehouse, eyes squinting and his mouth moving as if he were having a silent conversation with someone.
Juliet excused herself as her name was called just when Felicity drew close.
"What'd you divine, Shawn?" Felicity asked softly and he whirled around with a grin.
"Thank you for using the right term, Felicity, it's wonderful to have someone that knows that without being asked. As for what the spirits tell me, the victim was killed here."
He pointed towards a back office tucked in a corner of the building and lifted a hand to his temple.
"They're saying that…it happened right…over there."
His body jerked towards the office, Felicity and Gus sharing a look before following. Shawn burst through the door, closing his eyes dramatically as his fingers hovered near his eyebrow.
"I sense a great struggle here," he declared, throwing his arms up and opening his eyes, "Wow, I wasn't kidding."
The entire office looked like an airplane had flown through it. Felicity stepped gingerly over shards of broken glass towards the overturned desk. Glancing around, she spotted a computer, one of those old, blocky white ones and moved to brush her fingertips against the monitor. Images, and the overpowering, burning stench of lye made her want to gag.
"Shawn's right," she said hoarsely, her fingers at her throat again, "This is where it started."
She turned around, noting that Shawn's eyes were flickering over a spot in the corner. She looked, seeing a large indentation where something heavy used to stand. Turning, she also saw drag marks on the concrete just outside the office. Gus stepped beside her, his hand coming to squeeze her shoulder comfortingly.
"It's alright, Felicity, Gus is here."
Slightly uncomfortable, Felicity gave him a small, bland smile and eased out from under his touch towards the doorway.
"Detectives!" she called out before turning back to the psychic. Gus shot her a quick glance, then moved next to Shawn.
"Are you picking up any vibes about motive, Shawn?" he asked with a minute jerk of his head towards Felicity that she doubted he thought she could see.
Shawn's eyes were flickering again, shifting over everything that was present, from the papers strewn across the floor to the binders that lined the shelf just behind the desk.
"It was because she was pregnant," Felicity answered, both men whirling to her, their mouths hanging open.
"What, really?"
She nodded, her throat constricting again.
"With a son."
The two guys shared a glance.
"How can you possibly know that?" Gus asked and Felicity pointed towards Shawn with a bemused expression.
"Same way he does."
"What, by loo—"
A foot rammed down on Gus's when Felicity turned her attention towards the approaching footsteps. She missed the mumbled exchange between the two, except the very tail end when Gus squeaked. When she gave him a quizzical expression, they just shook their heads simultaneously. With a shrug, she shifted from the doorway, gesturing towards the desk as the detectives approached.
"Shawn and I believe this is where the struggle started."
Lassiter seemed about to say something, but when his eyes met hers, he just turned away to inspect the scene. It was a strange moment, and Felicity wondered if he had seen something, but dismissed it. He was probably just focusing on his job instead of giving her a hard time.
"O'Hara, look at this."
Reaching into his jacket for a pen, he leaned down and used it to gently lift a small pistol from the top drawer of the desk. Felicity tilted her head again, her brows drawing together before lifting with a grin.
"Sweet Jesus, is that a Beretta .22 Bobcat? Compact, rugged small frame, measures just 4.9 inches overall, weighs only 11.5 ounces, features a lightweight, alloy frame, blued steel slide, tip-up barrel, and... is that a single action?" She let out a low, appreciative whistle.
Everyone just stopped and looked at her. A flush started to creep up her neck and into her cheeks. She ducked her head, rubbing nervous fingers through her curls and wrapping the other around her middle.
"Kind of a...gun enthusiast...except the oil smell, I, um, can't stand that," she muttered before clearing her throat.
When she looked up again, her eyes met Lassiter's over the desk, a look in the blue depths that she couldn't identify. She starting to have a strong suspicion that if she could ever figure out how to accurately read those eyes...Mentally shaking the question off, she gestured to the gun.
"May I, uh, see that for a second?"
Whatever had been going on behind those icy irises was quickly shuttered up again and he lay the gun on the table. She went to touch it, but he shook his head.
"I know the temptation, Sawyer, but please, gloves?"
She resisted the sudden urge to kick him in the shins at his tone and just nodded. A tech handed her another pair and she pulled them on quickly, her fingers itching to caress the cool metal of the Beretta. Oh, the feel of that gun kissing her palm was better than sex any day of the week. Trying to keep another grin from curving her lips, she opened a connection to the gun. Gunfire echoed in her ears, the scent of grass and wind tickling her nose. Her head snapped up, putting down the pistol reluctantly.
"This was shot at a firing range, but not here, at least, not recently. The person that fired it, however, is your guy. Trace the serial on this gun, you'll have your killer."
Lassiter pointed behind her.
"We'll see. Spencer, take Sawyer back to the precinct, find her a sketch artist."
Shawn held up his hands, index fingers up.
"Actually, Lassie, the three of us are heading to grab a pineapple and ham pizza-"
"That's just gross, Shawn," Gus interrupted, but Shawn ignored him.
"So we'll be unable to take Felicity back to the station until after we consume enough pieces of heaven that we can die happily and contentedly like curled up kittens in the sunshine. Gus," he gestured, holding out his arm, then the other for Juliet, who just rolled her eyes.
"Unless, of course, Felicity would like to join us," Gus added, his voice deepening and Felicity had to bite her cheek and turn her head, pretending to cough in order to keep from giggling.
"No, thanks, I had lunch earlier. I appreciate it anyway."
Lassiter's lips tightened as O'Hara gave him an apologetic look over her shoulder as the three of them strode out of the small office, Gus with a forlorn expression. Felicity turned to the detective with a questioning glance. Rolling his eyes and clenching his fists in front of him, he stomped around the desk, gesturing with a jerky motion for Felicity to follow him. Snarling a series of further orders, Lassiter strode so fast that she had to nearly run to catch up. She'd be damned if she was going to ask him to slow up though.
They reached the car and Lassiter stormed around it to the driver's side. Felicity paused with her hands on the door handle, quirking a brow.
"I don't suppose you'll let me drive?"
He really did snarl then, wrenching open his door. Felicity chuckled dryly, pulling open her door and getting in. As soon as her butt hit leather, Lassiter turned to her, his finger already pointing at her nose.
"Look, rule number one, do not touch a single thing except your seat belt in this car. Rule number two, do not sing, hum, or mouth a single lyric of any tune or I will boot you out of this car, and rule number three, if-"
Felicity shoved his finger away from her nose with a swipe of her hand.
"What did I tell you about intimidating me?" She asked irritably.
That gave him pause, but only for a very brief moment, then a condescending grin started.
"C'mon, Sawyer, there's nobody here for you to impress, cut the crap. You've got as much psychic ability as a dead rat."
Under normal circumstances, she wouldn't have even risked it. But he'd been pushing her buttons all day and, at that moment, it was too much to pass up.
Grabbing his surprisingly warm hand with hers, Felicity met startled blue eyes with her own determinedly. Admittedly, she'd skirted the truth with Henry. No, she couldn't project information, but there was one little other trick she could do. Unfortunately, it left her with a mother of a migraine that could usually only be cured with two straight days of sleep and large quantities of apple juice, but she was willing to put up with the side effects if only to shut this pompous ass's trap for a little while.
She could feel that same energy again, the soft indication of why she'd bothered to take the damned job. Felicity drew it to her, twining it with her own and thrusting it from her hand and into his. His hand warmed even further and she would bet fifty bucks that his palm was tingling nearly as bad as her own. Releasing him, she turned in her seat and buckled herself in.
"Take it as indicative of whatever you like. Now, if you don't mind," she tilted her head and glanced at him before fixing her gaze firmly forward, "I have an apple craving."
The rest of their ride back to the station was completely silent. Lassiter wouldn't even look at her and Felicity wondered if she'd made a bigger mistake than she'd anticipated. It wasn't like her to show off. While transferring energy was not her strongest skill, any psychic had the ability to a certain degree. It was part of what being a psychic meant.
She sighed, the first sound she'd made since they'd left the docks. Her head was already throbbing, but if she was exceptionally lucky, there'd be a bottle of apple juice in some vending machine, somewhere in the precinct. They pulled up in front of the station and Lassiter turned off the ignition. He paused as he placed his hand on the door handle, turning towards her and his lips parted. She watched him, brows raising expectantly, but he just shut his mouth again and got out of the car.
Felicity bit back the next sigh that tried to escape and just followed suit. He climbed the steps to the doors two at a time, and Felicity quickened her pace.
"Johansen!" Lassiter barked as soon as they entered the bullpen, and a short, curly-haired officer jumped to his feet from where he'd been leaning against a desk.
"Sir?"
"Find Sawyer here a sketch artist, now! Bring him to the conference room."
Then he was striding away, leaving Felicity standing in the hallway with her hand up to ask where the conference room was. Dropping it to her hip and shaking her head, she politely asked a passing uniform for directions. By the time she sat down in one of the swivel chairs, the artist was in the doorway, knocking the glass lightly.
"Ms. Sawyer? I'm Charlie Keller."
She shook his hand, ignoring the flashes of a sweet faced woman with long blonde hair and the scent of charcoal. He had a pleasant face, wearing rimless glasses that made his brown eyes seem bigger. His dirty blonde hair was cropped short and she noted that his fingertips seemed stained as he placed his sketchbook and pencils on the large desk.
"Now, why don't you describe to me what you saw? I'll ask you questions as we go, so please don't be offended if I interrupt you."
It was something she could tell that he'd said many times, so she just smiled and nodded.
"Alright. The most distinctive feature I think was his mouth, he..."
The interview went fairly smoothly. Felicity only had to correct him a handful of times about some of his facial features, but she was really pleased with Charlie's work. She held up the sketch, tilting it to get gaze at it in a better light. The man was decently handsome, with slicked back hair and a straight, Romanesque nose. His eyes were wide apart and obviously a light color, the line of his jaw clean and strong. His mouth was hard, almost abnormally thin, as if someone had just slashed a line across his face.
"That's exactly who I saw, Charlie, thank you."
She handed the sketch back to him and stretched as another officer took it to Lassiter. When Felicity stood and cracked her neck, O'Hara stopped by the doorway.
"Felicity, the Chief wants to speak with you."
She took a deep breath and then released it.
"Alright, I'm on the way."
By the time she got home that evening, all she wanted to do was curl up with one of her Sinatra CD's playing very softly. Her head felt like it was going to just fall completely off. Thankfully, she'd had a steady supply of apple juice to make it through the rest of the afternoon, but once she'd placed the key in the lock of their house, it had slammed back into with the force of a Sherman tank, making her headband feel like a vice clamping down just behind her ears.
"God, what a day," she muttered, kicking off her shoes and pulling down a brown bottle and a small glass tumbler.
The heat from the whiskey was a welcome sensation as she tossed it back, not even bothering to put the bottle back in the cabinet. The light was off beneath Mac's door, the house dark as she padded to her bedroom. Humming with relief, she slipped out of her work clothes and fell into bed, reaching over to fumble with the alarm. Her headache would at least be down to a dull roar by the morning.
The sleep of the exhausted crept over her, though it failed to keep her from dreaming. The dead woman's screams haunted her well into the night.