Summary: The news that Jane has an 'evil twin' is spreading like wildfire throughout the building. Last she heard, some people are taking it as a sign that the apocalypse is imminent and have fled the city already. [Jane/Lisbon. Slightly crazy (and by that I of course mean 100% insane)]
Disclaimer: Don't own The Mentalist, blah blah blah
Author's Notes: Thank you so much to everybody who has reviewed/favourited/followed etc. I am so, so grateful; it really does stoke the flames, and so I was able to produce this chapter a lot quicker than I thought I would.
Quick reminder that italics indicate future scenes (which are not necessarily linear, by the way). I'm thrilled that so many of you like Paul, despite his evil (sort of) nature. Hopefully you'll enjoy this chapter, which contains a little bit more of him than Chapter 2. Happy reading!
This time, they're proactive. Lisbon does a PowerPoint presentation in the seminar room to six different units, in particular highlighting Cohen's (few) distinguishing features. "If in doubt," she finishes darkly, "just remember that Cohen is a bigger pain in the ass." She blinks. "You know, relatively speaking."
Higgins from Narcotics fixes her with a grim stare. "And it's shoot to kill, right?"
She juts her lower jaw forward. "For the sixth time, no."
Covey clears his throat. "Look, I'm not saying that this guy's existence is an abomination, but… I mean, biblically speaking, we're all worried, okay?"
"Biblically speaking, Tom, you need to put 'monozygotic twins' into Wikipedia and stop freaking out." She heaves a deep sigh and tries to relax. "Look, I realise this is not exactly a fun extracurricular activity for anybody, but don't forget – this guy is either going to jail or he's going to skip bail. If he does that, he's probably going to leave the state as well. I'm just warning you about this because there's a chance he might cross your radar – that's all."
"Yeah," Brogan snipes from the back row, "didn't they say the exact same thing about Jane ten years ago? Yet I've got two agents who basically tried to shoot each other last week after he stirred shit up between them."
She presses her fingertips into her thigh and tries to hold her temper in check. "If you honestly think those agents would have been best buddies if it hadn't been for Jane," she says tightly, "then you need to have another talk with your people. And a psych evaluation," she adds under her breath. "Okay, I'm done, thanks very much – please collect your promotional 'This is not Jane' DVD at the door."
Van Pelt waits until most of the agents have exited, grumbling and making dark predictions about 'mistaken identity' and 'in the line of duty'. "Boss," she says, eyeing the stragglers warily, "I've got some news."
For the first time in several days, Lisbon is starting to feel as though she has some small amount of control over this situation. She can't lock up Cohen and throw away the key, but she can try to keep a close eye on him and make sure he attends his own trial in a month's time. If he ever shows up in Sacramento, that is.
Van Pelt and Cho have taken the lead for the scenario that he might get 'lost' somewhere along the way.
"I just got off the phone with Deputy Sheriff Byrne in Bakersfield. Highway patrol spotted Cohen driving a Ford Thunderbird north along the I-5." Van Pelt hands her a printout from the DMV. "It doesn't belong to him, but the deputy spoke to the owner before she called me – apparently Cohen is delivering it to the owner's brother in Santa Clara."
"Uh-huh." Lisbon is unconvinced. "I'll believe it when I see it. Call the locals in San Jose and San Francisco and remind them of his court date, would you?"
"Sure thing, boss." Van Pelt pauses at the door. "Oh, and Ardiles called for you before. Said it wasn't important, though." She smiles slyly as she darts away, and Lisbon suppresses a groan. Van Pelt is a die-hard romantic, which is fine – except when she decides to involve Lisbon in her machinations.
In fairness, Lisbon supposes, all Van Pelt tends to do is get excited from a distance. She's never crossed the line of actively trying to engineer Lisbon's love life… but that doesn't mean Lisbon would put it past her.
This disturbing train of thought is cut short by the sharp sound of knuckles rapping against glass, and she almost jumps out of her skin. "Sorry," says Jane, rounding the doorframe into the room and sounding unusually contrite. His eyes meet hers only for a second before they're drawn to the screen behind her. "Oh, so this is what you've been up to."
She glances over her shoulder to see her final slide still on display. 'In Summary,' it declares in bold at the top, followed by two pictures. 'Jane' one is captioned; the other, helpfully, 'Not Jane'.
She scowls, realising that her message of 'catch Cohen if he so much as looks at you funny' has been somewhat overshadowed by her fear that Jane will spend the next month being tackled to the ground by his own colleagues.
Strangely, Jane seems to find this both amusing and endearing. "Maybe I should wear a t-shirt," he muses, as she packs her laptop away. "One that says 'Property of Teresa Lisbon – for her handcuffs only'." He tosses her a rather wicked grin as he holds the door for her.
She takes the opportunity to smack him in the stomach on the way past. "Don't you dare," she warns half-heartedly. "If you really want to be helpful, you could spend some time endearing yourself to other agents. You know," she adds, as he falls into step with her, "since the paperwork every time you get injured is so tedious, and all."
"Ah, yes, the paperwork." He nods sagely. "Save the trees, and so on."
"Uh-huh." She toes the door to her office open, dumping the laptop bag in the corner and sinking gratefully into her comfortable leather desk chair. Jane, as per usual, finds some way to take up every inch of space on her couch. Like a large cat, she thinks uncharitably. "Anyway, according to Van Pelt, Cohen is sort of meandering in this general direction. So I figure we should just sit tight for now."
"Hmm." Jane seems unconcerned, pillowing his hands on his stomach and closing his eyes. "I agree. Uh, wake me up later, will you?"
She narrows her eyes. "What are you up to?"
He opens one eye to peer lazily at her. "Up to? Lisbon, you wound me terrib –"
"Jane."
He makes a big show of tutting and huffing, but she can tell he's a little bit pleased with himself. He props his back up with a cushion, but his eyes still droop closed as he talks. "I've been giving it some thought," he explains, "and it occurs to me that whatever Paul Cohen's been doing since he ran away from the circus, he was at least part of that world for a short time in his life. So I've been in touch with some of the old gang, trying to dig up some information."
She can't help but wonder if that decision was partly driven by an urge to know more about what happened to his brother after they were parted as infants… but that's a can of worms Jane isn't ready to acknowledge yet, let alone open. "Okay," she says instead. "And… anything?"
He nods. "Oh, lots."
When he doesn't elaborate, she grits her teeth and starts flicking paperclips at him. Her aim is spectacular – the first one strikes the top of his curly head, and the second one bounces off his nose. "Ow," he says, sitting up abruptly. "Lisbon, I think we need to talk about these pent-up anger issues of yours."
She holds a third paperclip aloft. "Talk, carnie boy," she threatens.
There's a flicker of something in his eyes – a flash of warmth and intensity that startles her – and then it's gone all too soon. Perhaps she never saw it at all. "Pete and Sam did some digging for me," he says. "Specifically, they had a chat with Barb O'Keefe, who lives in a retirement community in Escondido these days. By all accounts, she was very fond of him, but she didn't waste any time trying to tie him down. He was a, uh, 'wild thing' with 'no loyalty, no love and no respect'."
Lisbon frowns. "So why the heck was she fond of him? Especially since he was dumped on her and her husband."
"An excellent question, Lisbon," he replies, and seems to mean it. "Reading between the lines, he picked up some rather useful skills that went beyond simple pickpocketing. Barb and Archie were friends with some bright sparks who were involved in credit card fraud – as it was in those days, anyway. There was big money to be had, if you picked the right mark, and people weren't as sharp about checking their account activity back then." He shrugs. "I think Barb and Archie made use of his profitable activities for as long as they could… but sooner or later he realised he could leave them behind and keep every cent for himself."
Lisbon closes her eyes briefly and tries to imagine that young, feral boy with so little to call his own. Picturing him like that, she can only feel pity. But when the boy's face morphs into that of Paul Cohen, sneering at her across the table, she finds her sympathy in short supply.
Logically, she doesn't need the missing pieces to complete this puzzle – Paul Cohen has never had any parents or even any friends. He raised himself using the only information he had at the time – that skills meant money, and money meant independence. Human feelings weren't part of the equation. She wonders if he even recognised that something was missing.
She glances across at Jane, and finds him watching her curiously. "What a perfect candidate he would have been," he muses, "for 'mother bear' Teresa Lisbon's brood."
She rolls her eyes. "Not to be insensitive about your age, Jane, but I was quite a bit younger than him when he fell by life's wayside."
His brow furrows. "A couple of years, perhaps," he says reluctantly. "Try to leave my ego in one piece, Lisbon, if you could."
She hides her smile. Jane is five years older than her, but they've never discussed it before. She had no idea it could be such a sore spot. Useful, she thinks briefly, before clearing her throat and steering the conversation back to safer territory. "Okay, so his criminal upbringing was more traditional than yours," she offers, "and as far as we know, he's done some time in juvie but kept everything else off the radar, somehow, until now." She raises her hands expectantly. "That was all they had to say? 'He ran off too soon'?"
Jane's frown of displeasure is not aimed at her, she realises. "I don't know," he murmurs. "I get the feeling there was something else, but you've met Pete and Sam. If they don't want to tell you, you'll have more luck beating your head against your own desk." He seems a little uncomfortable. "They're not so easy for me to read, either."
Lisbon doesn't often have the satisfaction of realising something about Jane that he hasn't quite realised about himself, and she feels guilty for experiencing it now – he's far more emotionally invested in his brother than he knows. Maybe it's because he wasn't so happy with his own childhood, and finding out that Cohen had it worse has been a shock to the system.
Or maybe it's because Cohen is an ever-present reminder of the fact that Jane could have followed a very similar path… that they have more in common than he would like to admit.
Whatever the reason, she knows there's nothing she can say or do to make this better. It's an internal battle of Jane's own making… but at the very least, she can lend a hand if he wants it.
As if he's picked up on her train of thought, Jane catches her eye deliberately. "I'm sorry I haven't made this easy on you," he says softly. "You've been more patient than I deserve, Lisbon, and to say I'm grateful is a ridiculous understatement. But I'd like to say it anyway." That warmth is there again in his eyes, and this time it doesn't disappear with a blink. It's as though he wants her to see it. "I don't know how all of this is going to pan out," he continues, "but I hope you won't think badly of me when it's over."
Badly of him?
She frowns, echoing this aloud. "What are you talking about?"
He sighs deeply, closing his eyes again. "I spent maybe ten minutes with Cohen three weeks ago, and it brought out the worst side of me. If we meet again, I can't guarantee it'll be any different, especially if he –" He cuts himself off abruptly, shifting uncomfortably. "Anyway, I hope it won't come to that, but if it does, I need you to do me a favour."
She's distracted, pondering the meaning of his half-finished sentence (especially if he what?) so she says, "Of course," without thinking. Then, hastily, "what kind of favour?"
His gaze is firm, but she can see the thin edge of desperation underneath. "Promise me you'll stay as far away from him as possible."
"What?" she half-laughs. "Jane, I've just spent the last week annoying the other teams to death about contacting me if they see Cohen up to no good. I've promised Ardiles we'll keep everything under control until the trial. What do you want me to do if he shows up? Run like hell while Cho slaps the cuffs on him?"
She hopes he'll see the humour here, but his mouth is set in a thin line as he stares at her, unblinking. "I'm not kidding, Lisbon. Do what you need to do, by all means, but don't talk to him, don't touch him, and don't – above all else – let him get you alone."
She doesn't know how long she sits there, staring at him like an idiot, utterly unable to comprehend what he's suggesting. "Why do you think that's even going to be an issue?" she manages eventually.
He doesn't meet her eyes. "Just call it a brotherly intuition."
He refuses to say anymore, eventually feigning sleep until she leaves him alone. It's only later that she realises that she never really agreed to anything, and she isn't sure how she feels about that.
He acts as though he's completely at home – he even takes the empty milk carton into the kitchen and dumps it in the trashcan. She hopes he'll leave it at that, but no – when he walks back into the living room he begins to casually inspect the items she's foolishly left lying around.
Not for the first time, she wishes she were better organised.
Then again, he obviously doesn't let drawers and cupboard doors stand in his way. "Interesting taste in music," he remarks, waving her Spice Girls CD in her general direction. "I had a girlfriend who used to listen to this on repeat. We lasted about a week, but I still remember some of the words." His grin contains an element of challenge. "How does it go again? 'Tonight is the night' when something something?"
She glares at him from across the room. "Tonight is the night when my neighbours hear you screaming for help, but they don't call the cops because they assume I've got it in hand."
He frowns thoughtfully. "No, I don't think that's it."
She watches him with growing unease as he picks through the shelves. She's torn between going over there to put a stop to this, and maintaining some physical distance. This isn't so much because of Jane's request – though heaven knows she's broken her not-quite-promise at least a dozen times already – but because she senses something's different tonight. She can't put her finger on it, but there's some kind of intent radiating from him that she's never picked up on before.
The problem is, she's not sure addressing it would be such a smart move. Which leaves her in a difficult position if she ever wants to get this jackass out of her house.
Eventually, she opts for something of a misdirect. "Big day on Thursday," she says cheerily. "You picked out a good suit for court yet?"
His back stiffens, and when he turns to her she can see the lines of tension in his face. "Now why would you bring that up?" he asks tightly.
She raises an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sorry, I thought we were playing that game where we make each other really uncomfortable. Is that not what you were going for?"
He raises his chin, and at this angle his smirk looks more like a sneer. "Let's be honest here," he says, folding his arms across his chest, "you know exactly what I'm 'going for', and since you haven't pulled a gun on me yet, I'd say I've still got a shot." He watches her carefully. "How's that for uncomfortable?"
She knows her pulse just picked up speed a little, but she tries her best to ignore it. Traitorous heart, she thinks. You're responding to the wrong face, you idiot.
"Seriously, Goldilocks, you need to leave," she says instead. "You've had your fun with this little house invasion, but I have limited patience and quite a few concealed weapons, so…" She steps aside, gesturing to the door. "Out."
His eyes darken as he crosses the room. Only he isn't heading for the door, she finds; her back hits the wall as he closes the distance between them. "Good choice with the Goldilocks metaphor," he says roughly, his breath brushing against her hair. "But I figure I didn't get the full deal – I mean, Goldilocks got a meal, a chair… and slept in someone else's bed." He angles his head, his arm sliding around her waist. "Why mess with the status quo?"
His body is firm against hers, and his mouth is fast closing the gap.
If she wanted to, she realises, she could road-test the fantasy without any of the messy complications. She could see, feel and taste – everything she's been trying not to imagine for the last who knows how many years?
But her conscience – as usual – gets the best of her. It wouldn't be right, she acknowledges.
Still, as she brings her knee up swiftly towards his groin, she manages to shock herself with the realisation that she regrets curtailing this experience for more than one reason.
The thing is, even though outwardly Lisbon has been preparing other teams for the possibility that they'll encounter Cohen first, she's been assuming it'll be her own unit. After all, Cohen's the one who made a big deal of his 'family ties' to the San Diego judge, so if he actually plans to turn up for this trial, surely he'll also make contact with Jane. (What his purpose will be in doing so, she has no idea, but that's a problem she's prepared to deal with later.)
Anyway, the point is, she's been so busy watching her own bullpen for signs of worrying activity that she hasn't exactly kept in touch with other units.
So when Jack Elias calls her and rather cagily asks her to come down to Fraud on the second floor, she naturally assumes he wants in on the bet. The pool is steadily getting larger; she doesn't even know what the odds are anymore, but people are placing crazier and crazier bets with each passing day, so frankly Cohen skipping bail looks like a safe option to most people.
The point is, she doesn't question Elias's request, and she doesn't take her gun.
In retrospect, that's probably a good thing.
She's in a good mood when she arrives on the second floor. They've solved three cases in as many days, they're up to date on paperwork, Jane is finally starting to come out of the other side of this discovery... life is good. She isn't intentionally grinning as she raps twice on Elias's office door, but she hears the smile in her voice when she pushes it open without waiting for an answer, half-stepping through the gap. "Hey Jack," she says brightly. "Long odds are on the existence of triplets, if you're looking for a tip..."
She trails off as she opens the door wider. She's not sure what, exactly, sets off her internal alarm. Maybe it's the tension in Elias's face, or the way he seems to be perched on the edge of his desk chair. Both of those things are concerning, but neither is responsible for the prickling of the hairs at the back of her neck, or the sensation of ice sliding down her spine. She feels the smile fall away from her face as she turns in the doorway to look at the man leaning carelessly against the wall, one foot planted against the brick, his thumbs curled into his belt loops.
As she meets his eyes, he pushes away from the wall and steps towards her. "Good to see you again, Agent Lisbon," says Paul Cohen, with an outstretched hand. "Or can I call you Teresa? You know… since we'll be working together and all."
Author's Notes: Oh no she didn't! *Clears throat* Er, oh yes I did… sort of. All will be explained in Chapter 4. In the meantime, if anybody finds a Simon Baker doppelganger, please tranquilize him safely and get in touch so that I may collect him for purely innocent purposes.
(Also, I crave your reviews to tame my rabid insecurities. Please leave me a few words of love below! *cheesy grin*)
