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The next afternoon…

Patrick Jane picked up his tea and wandered through the bullpen, glancing furtively at desktops as he passed. Death of a suspect generated a lot of paperwork, but when that suspect was Red John? Well, everyone from the Governor's office to the parking lot attendant wanted a report on it.

He didn't care what the reports actually said. He was just glad it was over. There was some underlying guilt about Cho having to visit the CBI mind-molder, getting examined for PTSD following lawful discharge of a firearm and for killing a suspect, but he told himself Cho would use the opportunity to learn additional interview techniques. It was all good.

When he'd looked forward to the day that the world would be free of Red John, he found one possible aspect that he dreaded; he'd be a wandering nobody again. He'd be as useless as the day he wandered into CBI, looking for a purpose. Back then he thought for certain that he'd look at the Red John files and maybe see one or two facts that eluded the police. Maybe he could do some good. Maybe he could find a way to get revenge for Charlotte and Angela's deaths.

It was now eleven years later and hundreds of cases solved, 90 percent of them having nothing to do with Red John. So what was he going to do with his life, now?

Spend eleven more years – or more – solving thousands of cases. One hundred percent of them would have nothing to do with Red John. It was a wonderful feeling. He had truly made a difference.

As he approached Lisbon's office, he saw the blinds were open but there was someone with her.

LaRoche! What the hell was he doing in there? Every protective impulse in Jane's body surged into his muscles and he burst through the door.

"—Exemplary work of your te— " The Internal Affairs investigator stopped mid-word, staring at the CBI consultant as though Jane were tossing fried cheese in the air while wearing a giant grasshopper on his head.

Jane was used to that. It was one of LaRoche's more overused techniques – the hard study. In antipathy, he intentionally mispronounced the man's name and added an outrageous accent. "Mon Sewer In Speck Tour Lah Roe Chay!"

Lisbon glared not just daggers at him but everything else in the weapons box that was sharp and pointed.

"Mr. Jane," LaRoche said solemnly. "I was just congratulating your boss for successfully bringing down Red John."

Boss.

He'd let it slide just this once. Besides, it was just payback for mispronouncing the investigator's name in the first place.

"My… boss…has done a marvelous thing." He gave LaRoche a dazzling smile even though he knew it never worked on him. It merely served as a signal that the verbal scrap had begun. "And Cho is a first-rate marksman. Kudos to him for his expert shot."

The large, bald man leaned back in his seat, again trying the hard stare while thinking of his next words.

"You seem very happy, Mr. Jane."

Jane shoved his hands in his jacket pocket and bounced on the balls of his feet a bit before crossing to the sofa. He flung himself onto it, relaxing into the cushions which were well-versed in molding to his shape.

"It's a great time to be alive, Mr. LaRoche. Wouldn't you agree, Agent Lisbon?"

"Could be better." She smiled when she said it.

"Meh," he said. "You're an unnatural slave to paperwork, Lisbon. You really need to get out of this office."

LaRoche looked from Lisbon to Jane and back to Lisbon before rising to his feet.

"Well, I just wanted to congratulate you and your team again for doing it by the book."

He turned to leave but Jane raised his arm.

"What book would that be, Mr. LaRoche? Great Expectations? Don Quixote? Men Without Women?"

"All great novels, Mr. Jane." LaRoche smirked in sly amusement. "Have you read any of them?"

Jane sat up, staring at his sparring partner. "All of them, plus a couple more." He rose to his feet again and crossed the room until he was between but a little to the side of Lisbon and LaRoche. "And in keeping with that last title, I wanted to ask you a simple but direct question."

"Those are usually the best kind, Mr. Jane, although generally unexpected, coming from you."

Jane winked surreptitiously at Lisbon and then grinned again at LaRoche.

"My question is about the CBI book. In the section about relationships between agents of the same unit, it states very clearly they are not allowed to date. Is that correct?"

"It very clearly states that, yes."

Jane glanced at Lisbon again. She looked leery and even a little worried.

"However, if a consultant of the unit – a freelance independent, so to speak – wished to enjoy the company of the Senior Agent in Charge for dinner tonight and perhaps drinks afterward? Or a movie? Film Noir festival at the Old Vic Theatre?"

LaRoche stared at him, a smile slowly crawling onto his usually stoic face.

"The rules are strangely unclear about that scenario," he said softly. "In fact, consultants aren't mentioned. Shocking oversight, don't you think?" Then he started for the door. "I recommend Bertucci's over on Sixth. They have a wonderful atmosphere and excellent Pansotti alla genovese. And it's just a block down from the Vic." Over his shoulder, he tossed a bigger smile at Jane as he departed.

Jane turned his most charming smile at Lisbon only to find her with her forehead down on her desktop.

"Lisbon? Are you all right?"

A strangled, squeaky voice floated up from her.

"My God, Jane, aren't you ever embarrassed by your own behavior?"

"Embarrassed? Why would I be embarrassed? Did I not just now exhibit outstanding common sense by clarifying the rules of this prison with the Dungeon Master?"

She lifted her head and glared at him. Having run out of daggers and other sharp-edged things, she was evidently thinking of a way to glare with guns. Or maybe a cannon.

"And I showed good taste, of course."

Her jaw dropped open, her eyes widened. He continued.

"After all, the Sacramento Film Noir Festival is the place to be seen, if you have discriminating tastes."

It was priceless to see her face. As the shock melted away, it was replaced by confusion, then anger. She looked around for something to throw in her fury. He laughed gleefully and made a dash toward the door, pulling it closed behind him. After a few seconds, he slowly stuck his head back in.

Her face was tilted toward her desk, her skin flushed from her lower neck all the way to her forehead. She was also smiling in a stunned kind of way.

"Hey," he said softly. Then he grinned when she jumped at the sound of his voice. Her green eyes – opened wide like those of a startled deer – stared at him. "I made reservations for six o'clock at Antoine's, also over by the Old Vic. Is Italian okay?"

A sweet, pleased smile came to her gorgeous, trembling lips, and she nodded. "I'm looking forward to it."

He nodded gently in return and pulled his head back, feeling very pleased with himself. As he started for the break room to refresh his tea, he almost jumped in the air to kick his heels together.

She is looking forward to it, Patrick. And you should too. It will be perfect.

He stopped at the words, almost gasping. Then he rubbed his ear with the heel of his thumb.

Angela?

No, no, no, it couldn't be, although the voice was the same sweet tones he once jumped through hoops to hear.

He shook his head. Those two blows the day before were causing auditory hallucinations. Or were the hallucinations caused by guilt? Except he didn't feel guilty. He felt…

Reborn.

Taking a deep breath, he continued toward the break room. Time for tea. Then he stopped and glanced around before changing direction to head for the elevator. Tea later. Now was the time to find a good barber and a florist.


TBC: Green Light to Red Light