CHAPTER NINE: Inconceivable
. . . .
. . .
Juliet was freezing.
She could feel the cold slowly moving through her body. First her chest, then her head… her stomach and on down and across the rest of her skin and veins and blood cells and through her very bones until she might as well have been completely encased in immobilizing, sound-deadening ice.
A late summer day in Santa Barbara, and she was freezing.
Carlton had her in turmoil.
But Shawn had her in ice.
Trout too, of course. But Trout was actually trying to aggravate and antagonize her.
Shawn was supposed to be on her side. The boyfriend. The supporter. The one on her freaking side.
He and Gus stormed out after Trout's declaration—well, Gus ran out; Shawn huffed out—and now, half an hour later, she was on her way home with no clear idea of what the hell to say to Shawn to make him understand what had just happened.
She stopped to pick up a salad and drink—and a peanut butter banana shake—and when she got to the house, she went in through the back door to buy a little time. In the kitchen, she laid out her dinner on the table with her service weapon alongside.
Shawn came in to find her. "Jules! Can you believe that guy, firing us after we brought him the first real suspect in the case?"
Nothing like a little reality-rewrite.
"Hmm." She sipped from her shake. Delicious. As cold as she was.
His gaze fell to her dinner. "Anything there for me?"
With her free hand, she patted her weapon. "What do you think?"
He grinned. "I think if you have one hand on your gun and one on your shake, the rest of it's fair game."
"Ahhhh. Well see, I think that if you make one move toward any of the food that I paid for with my own money on a day I got written up," she said smoothly, "I'll have to give you a personal demonstration of my kickboxing skills."
It stilled his imminent grab, for sure.
"Ooookay." He pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. "But seriously, Trout? What is up his butt?"
"You. You are up his butt."
"Me?" Shock.
"And so am I. It's crowded in there, Shawn. Bound to make a guy cranky." But she knew she was the main target, and Shawn was merely—as Trout himself put it—a tool.
"That doesn't make sense!"
"Shawn, it's only been a few days since I explained to you what his plan was."
"Well, I didn't know you were serious."
She set the shake down, letting out a breath which she wished was as cleansing as it needed to be. "That's a lie."
Shawn blinked. "Okay, yeah, I knew you were serious. But I didn't know he was serious. I mean, look how I stood up for you!"
Juliet laughed. "You stood up for me?"
"Hell yeah I did! You were standing right there!"
"Do you mean you stood up for me by A, treating me like your toy, B, blaming Silvers for your behavior, C, taking credit for what he and Gus did at Ringo's, and finally D, calling my supervisor an ass and threatening him with physical violence?"
"Which he so had coming," Shawn said defiantly, cleverly ignoring A through C. "Guy is an ass."
"I'm not arguing that point. But Shawn, are you going to let him play you like this?"
This got his attention—or his ego's attention. "The hell I am. What are you talking about?"
"He wants to use you to give him a reason to fire me. I told you this. You said you understood. But here you are, doing everything he wants you to do so he can achieve his end goal."
"Why the hell would he want to fire you?" He got up, pacing the kitchen, opening the cabinets and fridge. "Man, we gotta get some food in here."
She waited for anger. Felt only cold. "Buy some."
"Jules, we've been through this." Again, he managed to make it sound as if she were unreasonable.
"Yes, we have. Get a job."
"It's not fair for you to bring food home like this and taunt me when I'm starving."
Her mouth hung open for a second. "Starving? When's the last time you ate?"
"That's not the point. Gus can't feed me every time I'm hungry."
"Neither can I." She stabbed a tomato with undue force.
"Just twenty bucks, Jules, and I'll go right now to pick up some staples."
Right. Oh, right.
"You would hit a churro stand on the way to the store. You would buy Doritos, frozen pizza, maybe a package of toilet paper but probably not, quite possibly some actual staples because you'd think it was funny, a kid's toy from the checkout aisle, and then you'd stop for tacos on the way home and be eating the Doritos as you come in the door. I would get one slice of pizza for breakfast, if and only if I hide it from you somewhere."
Shawn frowned. "That's a bit harsh."
Juliet stood up to face him, and feeling unutterably, deeply, cold. "I got written up today. I've never been written up before, Shawn. I'm a good cop. I learned from the best and while I won't say I'm the best too, I know I'm damned good. So the worst thing about being written up is that it didn't have anything to do with my work or my abilities at all. It's because of you and your… your gaping maw…" She had to stop, because her throat was closing up and her eyes were burning, and the thaw was starting but it wasn't the good kind. It was the kind which would flood the premises and wash away everything in its path forever.
Including this doomed, misbegotten relationship.
"Jules," he whispered. "Come on, sweetie."
She held out her hand to stop him coming closer to her.
"I'll make it up to you. I promise. I'll get a job. I'll buy the groceries. Come on. I can do this. And we'll figure out a way to get Trout off your case. Sweetie, please." His pleading sounded so genuine.
It probably was: despite how good a job he did pretending otherwise, Shawn could indeed read the writing on the wall, and she'd thrown him out before, which she was pretty sure he hadn't forgotten. Yet.
She was finally able to take another deep breath, and then another, and the pressure eased and the pounding of her head abated a little.
"Jules…" He took another step closer.
"No. I'm fine. I'm going to eat my dinner, and you're going to go back to playing whatever game you were playing when I came in, and then… and then I don't know what. But get out of the kitchen for now, Shawn. It's better for both of us."
He was about to speak—something coaxing, she suspected.
So she added flatly, "Mostly for you."
His mouth closed, and he nodded, and left her alone.
. . . .
. . .
Henry called Carlton on Wednesday to see if he might be interested in checking out the Fishing Expo on Saturday. He also threw in a suggestion about getting some lunch, and since Carlton had nothing going on except waiting for his retirement paperwork to be approved and hear from Ventura and Santa Paula while the condo seemed to get smaller every moment, he agreed.
They met at a deli near the pier. Henry pushed his cap off and settled into his chair in front of a large Reuben with chips, and Carlton wondered for the hundredth time how this shrewd, essentially focused guy could have produced the spastic anomaly that was Shawn Spencer.
They talked about the Expo a bit and dished on former coworkers. Henry said he'd heard a little more about Trout.
"Sounds like an egomaniac. I know the type."
"So do I."
"Heard he targets a few people he considers obstacles, moves them out, reshapes a department in his own image and then leaves town."
Carlton pointed at himself. "Target number one. He's going after O'Hara right now."
Henry was startled. "O'Hara? I can understand you rubbing him the wrong way, but O'Hara?"
"Thanks," he said dryly. "Looks like guilt by association. He's using your demonspawn as a weapon against her."
"The hell? What do you—oh." His expression cleared. "Hold her responsible for Shawn's screwups. Crap. That's not right."
"No it's not. But seriously, Henry. How the hell did you turn him into the Avatar of Asshattery? You're smart. You've got sense. You can use silverware. What in God's name went wrong?"
Henry sighed. "You think I haven't asked myself that a million times?" He glanced out across the street, faintly amused. "I think I was so busy trying to make him SuperCop that I chose to believe I could overcome his abnormally high levels of stubbornness. Then after Maddie left, I was even more determined to mold him, but by then he was a teenager and it was like pushing water." He looked back at Carlton. "He is smart. You know that. He can take care of himself."
"He can get other people to take care of him too," Carlton said testily. "I know he's a clever little SOB. But he's no kid anymore."
"Right. He's fully responsible for his actions. I didn't only teach him to be a cop, you know. I also taught him about being a man. About having respect and using common sense."
Carlton scratched his stubbly jaw. "Be nice if he could use a little of that common sense where O'Hara's job is concerned."
Henry's perceptive gaze narrowed. "And have you done anything about that… situation?"
Crap.
"What situation?"
"Don't play dumb, Lassiter. We've been through this battle of wills before and if you recall, I never lose." Henry smirked. It made Carlton want to toss beer at him. While still in the glass.
"Henry," he said impatiently, "as cocky as you are, let me remind you that you're advising me to make a move on a woman who's not merely in a relationship with someone else, but specifically your own son, and incidentally, she's probably not even speaking to me."
"Oh, she's speaking to you," Henry said with another smirk. "Just not while you're in the room."
"Well, I don't want to hear that." Gave him the willies thinking about it.
"You might. What a woman says when she's muttering about a man is the key to solving the problem."
He set his glass down hard, splashing a little beer on the table. "The problem is me. Takes more than muttering to solve me. And for the last time, she's not available, she wouldn't want me even if she was, and shut the hell up already."
Henry only laughed. "Okay. For now. But come Saturday at the Expo, I dunno…"
Carlton rolled his eyes. He had only himself to blame: both Spencers drove him nuts, and he'd agreed to meet with this one.
"Eat your damned sandwich."
"Eat yours," Henry retorted, "and yell at me later."
Somehow, he was sure he'd have to.
. . . .
. . .
Trout mostly left her alone on Wednesday. He acted like a man sated after a big meal, strolling the bullpen giving 'meaningful' looks to whomever made eye contact.
Most cops tried not to make eye contact at all.
Juliet held her head high. Her frozen shell was in place, and for Wednesday at least, Trout stayed clear of the iceberg around her desk. She knew it was temporary. He had no fear of her. He was merely letting her wonder how much time remained before he moved in for the kill.
She and Dobson ran the records for Bobby Howard. He was twenty-four, and as Silvers said, he'd been arrested previously for possession, mugging and burglary. Prior to his arrests and incarcerations, he'd had a gun registered to his name—a .22. She put Dobson and Silvers on the task of bringing him in, but by mid-afternoon, the gentleman was still playing hard to get.
Also playing hard to get: becoming used to this as her desk instead of Carlton's. Her chair. Her blotter.
It was the damnedest thing, feeling him all around her. Sometimes when she turned in the chair she thought she could still smell his aftershave, or simply his unique Carlton scent, a scent she knew by heart.
And missed.
In the drawer there were pens and pencils which he'd held with his long-fingered hands, writing rapidly or angrily or carelessly. The desk phone, he'd punched numbers into savagely or absent-mindedly.
This was Carlton's space.
Working its way through the controlled chaos of the bullpen, the littlest voice of all whispered to her.
He is with you.
It sank in, and made goosebumps rise on her skin.
But the actively-wounded voice snapped back that he shouldn't have left her. Dammit, and damn him.
She shook herself free of the internal argument at least briefly: dwelling on the past was a complete waste of time. Dwelling on the sensation of Carlton encompassing her… no.
A flash of an image of him holding her tightly at dawn on the clock tower. A flash of a memory of being totally enclosed in his warmth and protective embrace.
Juliet let a shuddering sigh escape.
Work, stupid. Or you really are stupid.
Work. Yes. The shooting from three months ago wormed its way to the forefront of her brain, and she looked into that case again.
James "Puff" Carroll, fisherman, was killed ten blocks from Willow Floral. The shot was heard shortly after two a.m., and he was found in a blind alley minus the contents of his wallet. No forensics, no signs of a struggle, shot at close range.
Employees at the nearest tavern—not surprisingly, Ringo's—confirmed he'd been in that evening, flashing money in which no one showed any particular interest. There was some speculation that they were ill-gotten gains, but no one knew him well enough to speculate beyond that. They said he was an okay guy who got a bit testy when service was slow.
The busboy friend of Bobby Howard's had been working there nearly a year. She made a call to Ringo's to confirm that Howard had been hanging around annoying customers and staff for at least that long.
It was almost too easy. Bobby Howard, at one time the owner of a .22, a man known to be volatile and pushy while hanging around Ringo's, plus two late-night murders of men who should have had money in their wallets and didn't.
With his unsavory connections, she didn't doubt he'd acquired another .22, legal registration be damned. She looked at his mug shots: lank hair, black-as-coal eyes, scowl, air of "Yeah, baby, I'm meaner than you" … he was as viable a suspect as they came.
All they had to do now was find the bastard.
Shawn called her late in the afternoon. "How's it going?"
"Meh."
He'd given her space last night, but had tried to wake her with amorous intentions this morning, and was surprised and disappointed when she didn't share his interest.
"When are you coming home?"
"I don't know. What did you and Gus do today?" It was rhetorical to include Gus' name.
"He worked his route for awhile to keep his boss happy and then we took in a movie. We saw—"
She interrupted, because she didn't care; it was either something they'd seen ten times already or it was something he'd promised to see first with her. "Did you buy groceries today?"
He paused. "Yes."
"You paused."
"I was thinking about the word 'grocer.' It's a funny word, 'grocer.'"
"What did you buy?"
"Groceries," he said firmly. "So when are you coming home?"
"Are you asking because you want to know if you have enough time to track Gus down, wheedle money out of him, go to the store, get back and put everything away before I get there?"
"Silly Jules," he said fondly. "Gus is right here."
Silly Jules indeed.
"I don't know when I'm coming home. We're still trying to track down Bobby Howard."
"Let me help. I can—"
"No. Put me on speaker so Gus can hear."
"Okay… go ahead."
"Gus? You there?"
"Hi, Juliet!"
"Translate this for Shawn. If you come near this case, I'll cut your head off."
There was silence from the other end.
Finally Gus asked cautiously, "My head or his head?"
"Yes," she said, and disconnected.
. . . .
. . .
The sun had long set, the night was quiet, and Carlton sat out on his patio watching the stars twinkling high above.
Damn Henry and his meddling.
He texted Juliet. No doubt she was curled up on the sofa humoring Spencer with another viewing of Pretty In Pink. She'd be annoyed to hear from him, and Spencer would toss off bits of mockery without even taking his eyes from the screen.
Any break in the Garcia case? Or Trout's head?
The phone was silent for several minutes. She wasn't going to respond. Or she had, by flushing her phone down the toilet.
At last a beep: Finally have a suspect. And my first write-up.
Crap to that.
Did you hit him?
No chance: Shawn threatened to. Told you Trout would use him against me.
I'm sorry it came to that.
Me too.
How are you?
Comfortable and full.
He frowned. Unexpected answer.
While he was thinking about how to respond, his cell rang.
"I'm at a hotel," she said without preamble. "Just had some really good room service. Grilled fish, roast potatoes, a crisp green salad and a slice of pecan pie."
"Why are you at a hotel?" Maybe it was a stakeout, but that was much better dining than they usually got.
"Because I didn't want to stay at home."
Carlton considered numerous possibilities.
She elucidated, "Long story short. Shawn promised to buy groceries but it's been over a week and there's nothing left. He even ate the expired jar of pimientos. Today he said he did finally buy some food, but when I got home all I found were Twizzlers, a case of Red Bull, five pounds of bacon, some Tostados and a jar of crunchy peanut butter."
He let this wash over him. "How many Twizzlers were you able to shove in his ears before you left?"
Juliet laughed—thank God, she laughed—and said, "Fortunately for him, he was in the other room with Gus. I called him after I got here, but didn't say where I was. I think I'll have room service for breakfast too. I heard this place has great omelets."
He wanted to ask her which hotel, but then again, she wasn't likely to invite him over. "An expensive way to make your point."
"I know. But it's been a hell of a week, Carlton. I need some pampering. I'm checking out the Jacuzzi later."
The instantaneous image of her nude and delectable body sliding into the warm water was not one he needed to have right this minute. No.
No.
He cleared his throat discreetly. "Why did Spencer threaten Trout?"
"Trout warned them off because of more property damage, Shawn called him an ass, Trout fired him, Shawn said he'd smack him with a trout, and now I have a big black mark in my file."
Ire replaced desire. "You should challenge it."
"I should, but I won't. Not this one." She yawned. "Let him have his win. I'll find another way. I do know that how I conduct myself now will go a long way toward easing my future, whether it's at SBPD or someplace else."
It hurt to think of her away from Santa Barbara. "You're too good a cop for Trout to win anything off of you."
"So are you, Carlton. But you're gone." It wasn't… quite… an accusation.
"It's not the same," he insisted, knowing he was right about this. "I'm not the same. You're on the rise in your career. I'm just paying the price for a lifetime of pissing people off."
"Nobody asked you to pay that price," she shot back. "Maybe politics would have kept you from making Chief but nobody ever wanted you out of the department. Nobody."
He could argue—and he'd be right about that too—but he didn't want to fight with her. He didn't want to add to the madness she surely felt these days. He'd already caused her enough pain.
"Okay," he said quietly.
This caused her to sigh. "Carlton. This is all such a mess."
"I know. I'm sorry you're in hell right now."
"So am I."
"You're strong. You can outsmart Trout."
"Yeah." She didn't sound convinced.
"But save some Twizzlers to shove up his nose."
God, he loved her laughter. And he loved that this was the first conversation they'd had in a long time which ended without her wanting to pistol-whip him.
. . . .
. . .
Juliet dreamed of unexpected things that night.
She did try out the hot tub, soaking in the warmth while her conversation with Carlton replayed in her head.
Shawn, she didn't think about.
She thought of Carlton's voice in her ear, especially when he made her laugh, or didn't argue when he could have.
It was a touch of the blessedly familiar in an increasingly unfamiliar world.
In the morning, over the promised-to-herself-and-so-worth it omelet, she explained the dream to herself as being the end result of a subconscious need to re-acquire the familiar… the solid ground of what she knew… the anchor of her professional life.
But in the night, when she woke in a rush of desire from a very explicit dream of having sex with her lean, naked partner in that hot tub, nothing made sense at all, especially how desperately she wanted it to be true.
. . . .
. . .
