TITLE: Devious Stares

RATING: Mature, NOTICE THE RATING CHANGE!

CHARACTERS: All, mostly

PAIRING: Shassiter

WARNINGS: Um, some sexual situation later on, possible narcotic usage, There has been a rating CHANGE. Notice the change people. Notice it!

SUMMARY: Shawn suffers a motorcycle accident that leaves him different for the rest of his life. Suddenly, his psychic fakeness isn't so fake, and it really does hurt.

Chapter Four: Hangin' Round

Carlton Lassiter did not believe in psychics. Not even slightly. He was raised Irish-Catholic, his family was Irish-Catholic, and Irish-Catholic's did not believe in psychics. He'd been born into a traditional family molded after ancestors' past and his mother had tried her damnest to make him into the perfect mold of herself. However, much to the chagrin of Mama Lassiter, Carlton did not mold. It was not his style. He rebelled his mother's demands by joining the police academy, and furthered distancing himself from his stuffy family, and all five of his siblings, by becoming detective, head detective. And yet, Carlton still did not believe in psychics. Until Shawn Spencer.

The second the motor mouth had stepped (more like flailed) into his life, Carlton had felt himself fall into a constant state of awe and confusion. Shawn was everything he hated; loud, obnoxious, eternally cheerful, and a psychic. All of this, however, did not stop the fact that Carlton did not believe in psychics, even after all the crimes the faux soothsayer solved, and the countless 'baddies' put behind bars, Lassiter still didn't believe. Until said phony psychic ended up in his care, and started changing the detectives mind.

After the episode about Katherine Swimmer, Carlton had kept his mouth shut as he pulled Spencer up off the floor, plopped him down onto the sofa and passed him his beer. Spencer was shaking, sweat drying on his skin as he accepted the beer and gulped it down. The younger man's hands shook like a person afraid, small tremors sloshed the booze in the glass bottle as he lifted it up to his lips again to drink. The air between the psychic and detective was thick with electric tension. Where did they go from here? Carlton couldn't very well call up the chief and tell her that Spencer convulsed on his floor with visions and announced that their main suspect was indeed the killer.

He'd hardly believed his ears when the chief had announced that Alex Johnson was the boyfriend, the very man Carlton believed had run Spencer off the road was also the prime suspect in the murder of Katherine Swimmer. Closing his eyes, Carlton sat down in his computer chair, suddenly exhausted, wrung out from the stress of this whole ordeal. How had things gotten so complicated so fast? He knew Spencer expected him to call up the chief, to tell her that his 'psychics divinations' had led him toward Johnson. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Carlton gulped down his own beer, wishing suddenly that it was whiskey, strong enough to dull this pounding headache.

"Lassie?" Spencer sounded odd. Unusually subdued. Weary even.

Blinking slowly, Carlton looked up at the psychic, eyes zeroing in on those long, thin fingers as they picked at the label of the beer, dried blood flaking off his torn nails. "What Spencer?"

"You, um, gonna call the chief?"

Anger flushed through Carlton like lightning, consuming him quickly. Spencer seriously expected him to call the chief? Because of what? A psychic 'flash'? Slamming his beer down on the computer desk, Carlton aimed a dark glare at the younger man, teeth clenched in a snarl. "No Spencer, I'm not going to call the chief because you had another psychic vision, or whatever the fuck that was!"

Flinching back from the anger rolling off of the detective, Shawn swallowed down the rage in is throat, the foreign feelings were too hard to handle right now. Still stinging from his vision he was wide open to Carlton's feelings. Closing his eyes, Shawn suppressed the sudden urge to flip over the coffee table, to rage and scream and tear into the world, to rip the room apart. "Lassiter. Calm down."

Snarling, Carlton shot to his feet, chair flipping back onto the floor with the suddenness of his move. "Don't tell me what to do Spencer! It's bad enough I have to deal with your visions at the station, but in my own home? I don't think so!"

Smog rolled like waves down Shawn's throat, rage pooling in his stomach, disgust dripping down the back of his mouth. Licking his lips, the psychic sunk back into the cushions, shaking more visible as fear crept up on him. This day had been too trying. He had been able to block out other people's thoughts by rambling on nonstop earlier, but now he was wide open to the angry thoughts clouding the detective's mind. He knew that Carlton was scared, his episode had freaked the older man out, but he hadn't honestly expected this! This rage! The disgust. And it hurt. Worse than a gunshot wound, the disgust was a punch to the gut he didn't expect. "Lassiter… just, lets talk about his okay? I mean, I get that you don't believe me, like ever, but maybe you should just, calm down?" Licking his lips, Shawn was surprised by his own timid attitude. "Please?"

Gritting his teeth, Carlton came to himself, letting his anger fade as he noticed the sliver of fear, genuine fear in Spencer's eyes. At him. Sighing, Carlton stepped closer to the couch and dropped down onto the cushion beside Shawn. Having watched Shawn in pain before, choking for reason's Carlton couldn't explain, sob in terror while in the throws of, whatever, had instilled a real streak of panic in the detective. He didn't know what had caused that 'episode', but he did know it wasn't faked, the light hint of bruising around the man's throat was proof enough of that.

Resting a heavy hand over his eyes, Carlton felt the shift beside him before strong, sure fingers began to rub at his shoulders, working away the tension like a seasoned professional. Peaking out at the green-eyed man, Carlton bit back a grin at the cautious look on Spencer's face. "Look, Spencer… I, uh, I'm sorry for blowing up at you."

Caution slipping away at the honest sheepishness coming from the detective, Shawn rested his cast encased arm on Carlton's knee, good hand continuing to rub away the other man's stress. "It's alright Carly-bear. I get it."

Dropping his hand, Carlton looked over at Spencer, body slowly unwinding from the soft ministrations of the 'psychic'. "Alright. Tell me why it was Johnson."

Pleased, Shawn was practically glowing as he perked up beside the detective, body turning fully to face his favorite detective. "Look, I totally know you don't believe in my awesome psychic powers, but I'm serious when I say I saw Johnson." Pausing, Shawn lifted his bad hand up, shaky fingers running along the bruise on his throat, a throb of terror shooting through him, seeing Johnson's eyes again. "I saw him kill her. He…" Taking a breath, Shawn closed his eyes, fingers working along Carlton's neck now. "He beat her Lassie. He raped her." Stifling a sob, Shawn clenched his eyes, the fear he had felt still raw in his mind. "He was accusing her of cheating, but that wasn't why he killed her. She was a customer of Madam Zimbwe, the fortune teller, and he found out. He hates psychics, thinks we're agents of the devil."

Shaking his head in foul humor, Shawn let a surprisingly bitter smile pull at his lips. "I know people like him Lassie. I get hate mail from people telling me I'm going to hell everyday, but I've never felt such rage before." Looking up into Carlton's eyes, Shawn let his smile drop at the guilt in the other man's eyes. "Aww, come on Carly! I know you're feeling bad about loosing it on me, but I wasn't kidding when I said I got it, cause I do, you know?"

Looking away, Carlton shook his head. "I… don't believe in psychics Spencer."

Sighing sadly, Shawn let his fingers rest on Carlton's neck, the ends of the detectives black hair just brushing his fingertips. "I know you don't Lassiter, but I was hoping you'd believe in me. Just this once." Pulling himself up, Shawn snagged his empty beer bottle to throw away, Shawn pulled his crutches under his arms and hobbled toward the kitchen. "I'm going to turn in. We'll talk in the morning?" At the detectives nod, Shawn furiously pushed down the disappointment he was feeling that was all his own and headed toward the guestroom, tossing the bottle away as he passed. The bruise on his neck throbbed again and he knew there'd be no sleep for him tonight.

---

Yawning, Shawn stretched out in the bed, body arching like a cat as he woke. Having tossed and turned well into the night, it was nice to know he had eventually fell asleep. Glancing at his bedside clock, Shawn blinked at the early time and pulled himself up and onto his crutches. Rolling out the cricks in his neck, Shawn hobbled in the direction of the kitchen where he could smell bacon and hear Carlton's deep rumbling voice as he spoke on the phone. Grinning as he stopped in the kitchen doorway, Shawn observed a half-dressed Carlton Lassiter as he expertly fried up some eggs and bacon, phone tucked against his shoulder as he moved.

"Yes chief, no chief, of course. I will. Yes, Spencer had one of his episodes and insists it's Johnson. No, Z-I-M-B-W-E, yes. I don't know. Okay, thanks chief, I will." Pausing in his cooking to set the phone down, Carlton froze when he saw Spencer in is doorway, an unreadable look on his face. 'How long was he standing there?'

"Carly-Bear! Good morning!" Hobbling into the kitchen, Shawn sat himself down at the small table and smiled brightly at the detective, choosing to follow Carlton's mental pleas by ignoring what he'd just heard. "Whatcha making me?"

Shaking his head, Carlton turned back to his cooking in time to save his eggs. "Standard breakfast Spencer, make yourself useful and get the toast will you?"

Grinning, Shawn did as he was told, balancing on one leg at he piled the toast onto a plate and dug the butter out of the 'fridge to set on the table. "Who were you talking to Lassie-face?"

Sliding the food onto two plates, Carlton sat himself across the table from Spencer, handing him a plate and accepting the silverware offered. "The chief, say's they have found another body, of a fortune teller this time, Maya Jones?"

Choking on his food, Shawn coughed, reaching to gulp down his milk. He certainly hadn't expected that! "Maya's dead? When did she die?"

Refilling Shawn's glass, Carlton shook his head as the psychic ran a hand through his hair, the shaking wasn't gone. "They're putting it at sometime in the last two weeks, she was found in the park by a scout troop, from the cause of death they suspect Johnson. They aren't sure of the T.O.D because the M.E. was held up at another crime scene and we cant get a loan from inner-city forensics."

Closing his eyes, Shawn slumped back against his seat, head suddenly weighing a thousand pounds. "Strangled then? Damn, poor Maya."

"You knew her?"

Glancing up at the detective, Shawn offered him a shaky grin. "Yeah, I know all the psychics in Santa Barbara, we have monthly dinners at Mallory's Pub. She was, she has two kids in grade school. Donna Bell and Jordan."

Setting down his fork, Carlton shot a dark look at the telephone like it was at fault for Spencer's dark mood, and reached across the table to grasp the psychics' forearm. "Yeah, the chief said they're with their grandmother now, still in the same school district. Were you and Jones, uh, I mean, were you… close?"

Barking out a surprised laugh at the slight jealously coming from Carlton, Shawn let a real grin come to is face, turning his hand to wrap his fingers around the detectives wrist. "We weren't fucking Lassie, Maya was just a really good friend, I babysat for her a few times."

Embarrassed at his own possessiveness, Carlton looked down at their arms, brain on the fritz. "That wasn't… I, it's none of my business who you do Spencer." Pulling their arms apart, Carlton stared awkwardly over at Spencer who had a soft, calm grin on his face.

"But you want it to be." Picking up his fork again, Shawn went back to his breakfast, followed shortly by Carlton. The rest of the meal was silent.

---

After Lassiter left for the station, Shawn found himself stuck, bored and already going stir crazy. Having never been very good at sitting still, Shawn flitted from the computer to the small kitchen television to Carlton's bedroom, which also, didn't have porn. Now here he was, on the floor between the kitchen and living room, one crutch snapped in half and the other a good ten feet away. Apparently crutches did not make good pole vaults. Groaning, Shawn flipped over onto his stomach and climbed cautiously up, using the door jam the steady himself as he balanced on one foot. He knew that he was anxious because Carlton wasn't here and he was stuck waiting like a housewife while the detective was at the station. Freezing, a devious smile crossed the psychics face as the most brilliant of all brilliant ideas popped into his head.

Bouncing across the room, Shawn plopped down onto the desk chair and propelled himself through the house in search of a vacuum cleaner. After all, if he had to wait around like a housewife why shouldn't he clean like one? Finding a broom closet tucked away between the bathroom and Lassiter's bedroom, equipped with a broom, mop and vacuum. Chuckling to himself, Shawn snagged the heavy machine and set off to find a plug, wheels of his chair clacking loudly over the floorboards.

It had only taken three hours to scour the house from top to bottom, he had even scrubbed the toilet! Cleaning really wasn't easy when you were in a chair or hobbling around on one leg. Sprawled across the worlds least comfortable sofa, Shawn stared across the room at the computer monitor where he had downloaded the third season of Friends and sighed. The cleaning had been fun, he'd played some music off of the computer and had a good reason to snoop as he moved from room to room with the vacuum and dust rag he'd found under the sink. Having wisely avoided Carlton's room, Shawn had done his best to resist moving Carlton's furniture around while the cop was gone. And now here he was, trying to ignore last nights vision that kept creeping up on him.

His hands still shook, making his broken arm ache from the constant stimulation. The lingering fear from last night was an elephant in the room as he stared in devotion at the small screen across the room. He could feel the small pinpricks in the back of his mind, the insistent tugging from the darkness he was trying to block out. The vision was trying to pull him back in, trying to get him to fall back to Johnson's dark eyes and thick hands. Wincing as his head began to throb, Shawn rubbed at his temple, shaking fingers loosing feeling as the world went wishy-washy around him. Moaning, Shawn tried to climb off the couch, body trembling as he reached for the phone, his arms gave out as he leant forward, chest and face collapsing down onto the floor. Grunting, Shawn pulled his legs down as well, good hand reaching up to search blindly for the cordless telephone. There was a violent jerk in his mind, hooks dug in tight, and Shawn was gone.

---

Carlton Lassiter was not having a good day, the chief was on his ass about the Johnson murders, insisting he hop the beat with O'Hara to find solid evidence, right now. She hadn't said why it was so much more urgent all of a sudden, but the head detective had wisely kept his yap shut and done as he was bid. He and his junior detective had checked out the local palm-shops, giving a heads up to the local psychics about what was going on with Johnson while snooping around for clues. They had all expressed loss at Maya's death, and each had asked the two detectives about Spencer's wellbeing, apparently the psychic wasn't kidding when he said they all knew each other rather well.

Having hit Madame Zimbwe's first, they weren't too surprised when her sign displayed evening hours as opposed to the normal day hours the other palm readers used. With the first stop a bust, Carlton had taken a temporary back seat in the investigation and let O'Hara take the head here, following her lead as she led him around the city, checking out the other psychics in town. The blonde junior was shaping up to be a decent detective, still wet around the ears on some aspects, but a good strong cop and a loyal partner. Carlton could admit he was proud of the way she was turning out, her demeanor had changed quite a bit from her first year with him, she'd grown to be a formable woman, hardheaded enough to be a good detective but level enough to be able to separate her work from her play.

Shaking his head to clear out his wandering thoughts, Carlton grimaced slightly as they stepped into Madame Zimbwe's shop well after regular palm shop hours. The thick incense cloying the air, thousands of candles making the shop hot and sticky. He watched as O'Hara frowned, her hand lifting to her head briefly, the scent was obviously bugging her. Catching her eye, he inclined his head inquiringly, a silent 'Are you alright' in his eyes. She smiled briefly and nodded, shoulders pulling back squarely as they passed through the beaded curtain to the main of the shop. Madame Zimbwe, or Georgia Brown, was a thick woman well into her fifties, she had a turban wrapped around her head and a layered purple gown covering her from her neck to her ankles.

Georgia Brown was well known around the town, much like Spencer, as being surprisingly accurate in her predictions and for that Carlton was both strangely comfortable and irritated in her presence. Straightening his tie, Carlton slid his sunglasses into his jacket pocket, standing quietly beside his partner as he waited for her to make her move. O'Hara took a miniscule step forward to draw the woman's liquid brown eyes to her, face carefully blank, showing none of the discomfort at the smell of the shop. "Ms. Georgia Brown?"

The woman smiled, white teeth flashing in the dark room. "Detectives, I was wondering when you'd get around to seeing me." Flickering her gaze over O'Hara, she dismissed the junior detective politely and locked her eyes on Carlton's tall form. "How's my boy doing Detective Lassiter? Not too much trouble I hope, Shawn always did have a way of creeping up under your skin like a chigger." The woman laughed at the surprised look on the detectives faces. "What? Shawny never mentioned you were non-believers. Guess it makes sense though, all things considered. Ah, best anyway, you'll change your mind boy, by the end of things. But that's neither here nor there, you're here about poor Katherine. Told that girl to get rid of that man."

Shaking her head, the psychic waved toward the empty chairs opposite her, jeweled fingers drawing the detectives out of their surprised stupors. Taking the offered seats, Juliet pulled out her notebook and smiled at the woman. "How long have you known Katherine Swimmer?"

"Hmm, it would have been two years this Thursday, girl came to me the first time that man hit her, crying all over herself, a complete mess. Another customer of mine, Joanna Saint, that's 3234 Westwood Dr." She paused while Juliet wrote down the address, a mysterious smile on her dark face. "Anyway, Joanna told her where to find me, from my understanding, Jo had told Katherine that I could help her. Make her feel better. As if anyone could make a woman in that situation feel better. That poor girl, she was but a pretty thing too, didn't understand why she never listened to me. I called the police a few times, you know, begged them to do something, but Kathie was an adult, and she always turned them away. After awhile I just set my mind to helping her heal, giving her a place to sleep, pushing the idea that she should leave that man into her mind."

Smiling sadly at the two detectives, Georgia reached down and picked up a folder off the floor. "This is a note that Johnson sent me yesterday, and a note Katherine had brought me, I hope it helps."

Accepting the folder, Juliet let a surprised 'oh' slip out of her mouth at the notes inside. "Thank you Madame! This will help." Smiling earnestly, she passed the folder to Carlton, who let a pleased smirk cross his face when he saw the incriminating notes. Juliet was handing over her business card as they stood, all smiles now that the lead had actually checked out. "If you think of anything, please call."

Nodding, the Madame followed them out, her long dress sweeping over the floorboards quietly. "Of course, don't be strangers now."

Following O'Hara, Carlton paused at the doorway, watching his partner as she stopped near the car and looked at him. Lifting a finger, he turned back to the psychic and frowned. "Spencer's doing better, he's a little beat up, but he'll live."

Smiling in delight, the psychic reached up and smacked a loud kiss to the head detectives cheek. "Thank you Detective Lassiter, you tell that boy to call me! Honestly, gave me quite the fright to hear he was in the hospital again. Don't know what I'd do with out him in this world, we need his soul here." Turning away, the woman waved him away with her bejeweled hand. "You come see me again, we'll talk about you not believing in us psychics."

Shaking his head, Lassiter pushed down the urge to roll his eyes and smiled tightly at the woman's back. "Sure."

---

Pulling his tie loose, Carlton heaved an exhausted sigh, body sagging as he trudged toward his door. After he and O'Hara had visited Madame Zimbwe they had circled back to the station to put in a request for a warrant, with the threatening notes they now had in their possession they had enough to get them a warrant to search Johnson's house. However the DA wasn't Carlton's biggest fan and had taken his sweet ass time taking the request to the courts, which had pushed back their search till tomorrow, much to the chiefs disgust. The rest of the day was spent with paperwork, pushing for warrants for Johnson's car and place of employment.

Rubbing at his neck, Carlton adjusted his grip on his briefcase, unhappy that the chief was forcing him to bring home the notes and case files to show Spencer, she wanted his input, insisting that this was more Spencer's case then anyone else's. Unlocking his door, Carlton dead bolted it behind him as he dropped his coat on the rack and briefcase on the floor, already toeing off his shoes beside Spencer's sneakers. It was strange, seeing his shoes lined up with Spencer's, it left him feeling a little lost at how much he liked the sight.

Rubbing at his temple again, Carlton headed toward the living room where the sounds of a sitcom were coming from, somehow knowing that his hard drive was suffering with Spencer here. Stopping in the doorway, Lassiter took in the room, the upturned table, the spilled glass of water across the floor and Spencer's prone form sprawled across his woodwork, jerking like he was having a seizure. It took two steps from the doorway to get to Spencer, three seconds to drop to his knees and five seconds to get Spencer on his back and have his head in his hands, long fingers tight on the man's stubbly cheeks.

"Shawn! Shawn? What's wrong, what's happening?" Rubbing his fingers over Shawn's cheeks, Carlton pulled the man into his lap, arm coming to brace him across the chest as he tried to wake the psychic. The younger man was moaning, sweat beaded on his forehead, tremors jerking his body around. "Spencer! Snap out of it!"

The psychic jerked again, body convulsing against Carlton's lap before falling still, chest rising with his breath but otherwise perfectly still. The tremors started again a few seconds later, slight now though, barely noticeable as Shawn groaned, head lolling in Carlton's hand, eyelids fluttering. "Lassie?"

Good hand lifting, Shawn ran his fingers over Carlton's chin, trembling digits clutching at the collar of his white work shirt. "Damn is it good to see your baby blues Lassie-face! I've gotta tell you, impeccable timing!" Smiling up at the detective, Shawn closed his eyes and went limp against the older mans chest, the vision he'd had was the worst one yet, violent like no other, full of rage as he witnessed first hand how Katherine had gotten that deep throb in her gut between her legs. He'd felt every vile touch, every punch and pinch and slap as he took Katherine's place in the past, as Johnson raped him, violated him. The touch still burned on his skin, fire lacing down his spine where that invisible throb was, aching. Clenching his eyes shut, Shawn focused on the strong hands on his chest and cheek, the long fingers that weren't Johnson's.

The terror was still there, the fear of being Katherine was a bad taste in his mouth that he knew he'd never be able to wash out. It was part of him now, just like Katherine's love for dogs filed away in his mind, part of him now. His body was his own again, and the aches that had been Katherine's were now his own. The wounds would stay, somehow he knew this, until Johnson was brought to justice. Shifting his body closer to Carlton, Shawn suppressed the helpless sob lodged in his throat, the helplessness that had been Katherine's was now his own. Forever.

---

Evidence A. Note from Alexander Johnson to Katherine Swimmer.

Whore, I know what you've been up too. I know who you're seeing behind my back.

You think I going to sit back and let you embarrass me like that?

You think you're too good for me?

You'll regret it.

I'll make you regret it.

---

Evidence B. Note from Alexander Johnson to Georgia Brown.

You did this.

It's your fault.

I'm coming for you psychic.

---

Blinking, Shawn set down the notes in his hands, the protective plastic baggies sliding across the table. Carlton set a cup of coffee down in front of him, long legs straddling the chair beside Shawn's as he sat down. "The first one was the one from Swimmer, and the last one's from"

"Georgia. Yeah, it feels like her." Sighing, Shawn slumped back in his chair, head still throbbing from earlier. His visions were becoming uncharted territory with Lassiter. The detective got him to his feet and that was pretty much the crook of it, the whole scene was brushed under the rug like yesterdays dirty laundry. The notes were no real surprise, he'd gotten one, hand delivered from the chief because it had been delivered to the station, when he was still in the hospital. The words had been similar to the ones on Georgia's. Short, sweet and to the point. He'd given the note to the chief for evidence but hadn't expected it to be thrown in his face like this.

Carlton had handed him the case files on the Johnson murders, which included these notes. He was worried about Georgia, even though he had heard Carlton's thoughts and knew that she was being watched by two uniforms in civvies. This thought though, it didn't take away the nagging feeling that something was coming, something dark was about to happen. "I cant get a hook on the guy Lassie! It's… frustrating." Pushing the files away in disgust, Shawn downed his coffee and sighed again. "I know it was Johnson. These are definitely his work, but I don't know how to nab him for you."

A warm hand came down on the back of his neck, long fingers rubbing at the tense skin soothingly, under the ministrations Shawn went boneless, head lolling on his chest as he groaned. "I can feel him under my skin, just under the surface. I can practically taste him!" Wincing at the accurate description to the disgust he was still feeling, Shawn leant into Carlton's touch, eyes searching out the detectives. "I have to catch this guy Lassie. I have to! I cant let him do this to anyone else. Its… do you know what he did to Katherine? Did you know what he did to her weeks before he killed her? Fuck, years! He's not going to stop either, I can feel it from these letters, from what I saw in his eyes in my visions. He's going to kill all of us. I cant let that happen."

Closing his eyes, Shawn smiled shyly at the press of those fingers on his neck. "Jesus fuck Lassie, when did things get so serious?"

Beside him, Carlton smiled bitterly, blue eyes worried. "I don't know Spencer. When that truck ran you off the road?"

Laughing, Shawn fell heavily against the chair, squashing Carlton's fingers as he let his head drop back. His laughter echoed slightly in the kitchen, hysteria turning it over in his mouth and soon Shawn was sobbing, chest heaving, tears rolling down his face as he lifted a hand to cover his eyes. Unstoppable panic gripped at his chest, filling him with terror all over again. Every time he closed his eyes he saw Johnson above him, those dark eyes staring in to his own. The hate that clogged his mind. He dimly heard the scrape of Carlton's chair as the detective knelt beside him on the floor, long arms wrapping around him, holding him close. No words were said, just the silent reassurance that he wasn't alone, that Johnson wasn't really here. That in Carlton's apartment Shawn was safe. If only just for now.

---

"Are they on to you?"

Dark eyes glared across the dim room at the voice, the flash of light in shadows as he smirked coldly. "Yes. But that fuckin' cop aint gon' stop me. Not when I get my hands on that fucking psychic."

Laughing, Tom Harold leant in close to his associate, smile making his moustache twitch. "I wasn't asking if it was going to stop you, I just wanted to know if I needed to get out of town or not."

Sucking deeply on his lit cigarette, Alex Johnson was all shark as he smiled maliciously in the small room. "Well, get going if you're gonna, but I aint waiting. You want left out? Then you never shoulda helped me with that Jones bitch!"

Shaking his head, Tom heaved himself up out of his chair, heavy set body lumbering across the room, suitcase clasped in a meaty hand. "I'm gone, I was expecting this. You know what they say about chickens." Chuckling at his own joke, Tom passed Alex a manila folder from his breast pocket as he was leaving, bad toupee shifting against his scalp when he pushed open the heavy door, wind blowing in his face. "Going to storm Alex, I suggest you get a move on pretty soon. Easier to see tracks in the mud."

Grasping the thick folder in his hand, Johnson's smile turned grim, eyes greedy on the small bundle. All he needed to take down that fucking psychic was in here. Everything. Licking his lips, Alex slipped a thick finger under the seal, already tipping the envelope sideways to spill out the papers inside. Dozens of photographs fell into his lap, the glossy surfaces shining from the single bare bulb lighting the far corner. The psychic stared up at him, smirking, winking, laughing. Growling low in his throat, Alex lifted up the newest shot, that damn lanky cop just barely in the frame. Shawn Spencer's handsome face stared up at him, green eyes glinting even on paper. Crumpling the picture in his fist, Johnson lifted the sheet of information from underneath the pile of pictures. Three short lines in the center of the page was all he needed. Spencer's address.