A/N: After a rather long hiatus, I'm back. Of course, I have three essays due for my midterms in classes next week so I'm picking this up now. Nothing like fanfictioning the Mentalist for procrastination, right? I realize I'm a bit outdated now with the whole Bosco thing, but I imagine that the case will get back to our crew eventually. I'm working under the theory that Red John's going to murder Bosco, personally. He just likes playing with Jane too much. But, without any further ado…
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Lisbon led Jane out to her car after she had sent the rest of the team away.
"Where are we going?" Jane asked.
"To check the places on the lists of deliveries Holly Pasto made last week," Lisbon answered. Jane gave her a look. "It could give us something useful," Lisbon suggested, trying to retain some optimism, despite the fact that Jane hadn't said a word. He hadn't needed to. The look had been enough.
Lisbon drove while Jane once again took up fiddling with the radio. Lisbon was glad when they approached the drab the first building on their list. She didn't like the idea of breaking her radio, because she would have to pay to repair it and she didn't think that beating Jane upside the head while she was driving would be especially safe for her to do and it would be a very poor way to end the day, wrecking her car. At the very least, if any of the local law enforcement saw she would be bound to get pulled over for it. Traffic law wasn't her thing, but Lisbon was sure that committing bodily assault while driving would be considered some sort of moving violation. Those were, however, beginning to seem like her two best options.
Lisbon parked in one of the three designated 'visitor' parking spots, all of which were empty, as were the two handicap spaces. The rest of the lot was filled with compact economy cars, mostly foreign makes like Hondas and Toyotas, all in uninspiring colors.
Jane surveyed the scene in front of him. "This was a sad little life for a girl who wanted to be a movie star," he commented. Lisbon didn't answer him. He looked at her for a moment and then said, "I can stop playing with the radio if you want."
Lisbon gave him a sideways glare. "Yes, you can," she answered. "Or I can break your fingers."
Jane perked up a bit. "That's new," he said.
Lisbon looked at him as if he were insane. "What's new?" she asked.
"That thought," Jane said. "Breaking my fingers. In the car you were seesawing between breaking your radio or just beating me upside the head. Did you just come up with it now?"
Lisbon momentarily looked dumbstruck before answering, "Yes, actually, I did. Now how the hell did you know that?"
"Oh, it was in the way that you looked at the radio every time I touched it," Jane said offhandedly. "And the way you were avoiding looking at me at all, while giving that special angry glare to the medium. But really, if it bothers you that much, I'll stop playing with it."
"Why didn't you just stop earlier?" Lisbon sighed.
"Because you amuse me when you're frustrated," Jane said. "You have these wonderful looks that you get."
Lisbon turned away from him, most likely to conceal the fact that she was glaring again and knew it. "Come on," she said shortly. "Let's earn our paychecks." She walked through the plain glass front doors, not looking to see whether Jane followed behind her, but feeling confident that he did.
After all, this was a Red John case. This wasn't something that Jane would miss.
They found out quickly, though, that the first place on their list was a dead end. According to the receptionist, Holly had given her the package. She had signed it and then Holly had left, with nothing unusual happening beyond that. Holly had never even made it past the lobby.
In the car, driving to the next place on the list, Jane slumped down in his seat and his usually unflappable face looked forlorn. Lisbon found that she almost wished that he would play with the radio.
The second place provided a bit more interest. It was the publishing house of a magazine called "Guns and Independence," although publishing house might be too kind of a phrase. Really, it was the bottom level of a gun shop, in which the owner, writer, editor and publisher, who were three men, although they never made clear who was who, accosted Lisbon and Jane about violating their civil liberties, government interference, how they would see no cooperation from them without search warrants and subpoenas, and somehow managed to fit in their prevailing view that the assassination of John F. Kennedy was a plot of the underground communist conspiracy that was actually in charge of the Secret Service and the CIA. They even asked Lisbon if she was wearing a wire.
They were not, however, guilty.
"Granted, I wouldn't put it past the tall one to murder a nice looking woman for kicks after a beer or two," Jane said, "although he wasn't responsible for this particular murder. The publisher doesn't have the nerve, however, and the editor is secretly gay."
"How do you know that?" Lisbon said. "And for that matter, which one was the publisher and which one was the editor?"
"The chubby one was the publisher, the brunette was the editor," Jane said. "And I can just tell. At any rate, none of them were Red John."
"I got that impression myself," Lisbon said.
"Yes," Jane said. "Somehow, when we meet him, I don't think that he's going to be spouting off conspiracy theories about the Secret Service and JFK."
As they once again got into the car, Lisbon felt slightly reassured on how he had said, "we."
The next place had nothing good to offer, nor did the place after that. The fifth and final place contained a large number of slightly overweight mundane looking average American workers, this time complete with square cut matching purple polo shirts all around, the kind that don't look good on anyone, with the name of the employee and "We're Here To Serve!" embroidered on the front beside the company emblem.
Jane pondered the sort of atmosphere that whoever bought those shirts thought they would create against the effect that seeing so many people wearing them created (a faintly ridiculous one), while Lisbon suddenly felt happier about her jeans and tee-shirts and Jane's three piece suits. They also both took note of the fact that despite what the polo shirts said, the woman who directed them to where they needed to go seemed less than happy to do so.
"So much for that service, right?" Lisbon murmured to Jane as they navigated the halls under the vague direction of "take that hallway straight, go left, and then eventually you'll hit it," that they had gotten from the disgruntled receptionist.
"Right," Jane said. "But I imagine you'd be a lot less happy doing your job if you had to do it in that shirt, too."
"No kidding," Lisbon said.
Eventually, they did hit the office they were looking for. Lisbon knocked on the door and a slightly chubby, pallid looking man with thinning brown hair answered. "Can I help you?" he said.
Lisbon flashed her badge. "We're with the CBI," Lisbon said. "We're here about a girl, she delivered a package here a little less than a week ago. Do you remember her?"
"Where was she delivering it from?" he asked.
"Norfolk's Paper Supply Company," Lisbon answered.
He looked pensive for a moment and then said, "Oh, yes, her, I remember her. She delivered the invoicing sheets, I remember. Did something happen to her?"
"She's dead," Jane said.
The man's eyebrows went up in shock, "Is she really? She had such a pretty smile…"
"Yes, well," Lisbon said. "We're investigating her murder and-"
"How is it going?" the man interrupted her. "You always see on those crime shows on TV, how the investigators collect all the clues and one by one they add up until you get your killer."
"This isn't TV," Lisbon answered.
"Do you like those crime shows?" Jane said.
"Oh, yes," he answered, like a man being asked about his grandchild or his favorite pet. "The books, too. Like they always say, the truth really is stranger than fiction. I've got all of the seasons of CSI on DVD. I can recite all of the first season lines. You really can learn a lot about forensics from them and I know people disparage true crime novels but I must say..."
"About the case," Lisbon interrupted, getting back on topic. She was clearly, once again, annoyed. "Holly Pasto delivered invoice sheets here from Norfolk's Paper Supply last Wednesday. Did you notice anything unusual then?"
"About her?" he asked. "No. She was a pretty girl. Very nice. But that was all. She seemed happy. She was also very prompt in her paperwork. I liked that. Is that helpful?"
"Did you notice anything else?" Lisbon asked.
"No, that was all," the man said. "Do you think that someone followed her home from one of her deliveries and-" he made a motion, drawing his index finger across his throat. "That would make an excellent plot for one of those crime shows," he added excitedly.
"A girl is dead," Lisbon said, her voice hard.
"Oh, of course," the man answered, suddenly looking and sounding contrite. "Well, if I can be of any help to you, you can come find me, any time that you like. I'd be happy to help."
"I'm sure you would be," Lisbon answered, before turning to leave. Once they were sufficiently far down the hallway, she said to Jane, "Well, that was no help at all. It just confirmed what everyone else said: Holly Pasto was a friendly, happy girl…"
"Up until she ended up dead at the hands of Red John on her living room floor," Jane finished.
Lisbon couldn't for the life of her think of something to say in response.
It was another dead end.