Chapter 10

"Hang on," said Henry, suddenly irritated. His eyes weren't helping his mood. They burned like crazy and kept watering so he had to swipe at them with a tissue. It was pissing him off. "We can't know that for sure. If they followed us, they could've been after Lassiter again, or Gus. We were all at the house. How can you say they were only after me and Shawn?"

Lassiter shrugged. "I'm just saying that I think they only had two targets on their radar tonight, and those targets were your place and Shawn's."

"Psych isn't where Shawn lives," said Henry.

"Do you know where he lives?" asked Lassiter sarcastically.

Henry opened his mouth to retort and then realized that he wasn't 100% sure which dump Shawn had moved into most recently. He changed places so often, he really couldn't say honestly that he knew where his son lived. He growled and leaned his head back to put the mostly-warmed ice pack over his eyes again. "But why would they only be gunning for Shawn now, or even less likely, me and Shawn? It doesn't make sense," he grumbled.

"I have to agree," said Chief Vick, flashing a warning look at Lassiter's indignant expression. "So I'll keep an officer stationed at Detective O'Hara's room, and I'm going to have an officer stay with each of you as well, at least for the next couple of days until we can get to the bottom of this."

Henry looked up at Karen, noticing a small smile on Shawn's face and wondering what the kid could be amused by in this situation. Shawn could find something amusing in the middle of any disaster. He supposed that was a good thing, but mostly it was just incomprehensible to him.

"Chief!" protested Lassiter.

"No arguments, please," she said sternly.

Lassiter pouted and crossed his arms again. "Well, I'm not planning on going home, so you can cancel that unit for tonight anyway. I'll be in Juliet's room."

Karen sighed and looked at Henry. "I know you handled a few cases concerning the mob in your time, Henry. I take it you also think that is what's happening here?"

"I'm the one who gave them the idea," he said. "I saw similar patterns."

"Patterns," said Karen, but Henry didn't offer to elaborate. "Do you think you can identify who's doing this?"

Henry pursed his lips and glanced at Lassiter for a moment. He'd retrieved a photograph from his files earlier, when the detective had fallen asleep on the couch. He'd meant to show him the picture, but then the attack had occurred. "No, not really," he said. "I just recognized the general tactics."

Karen eyed him for a moment as if sensing that he was holding something back, but then she sighed and turned away. "Okay, gentlemen. With the information you've given me, I'm going to call the FBI and see if they know of a connection between Maxwell Francis and the mob. We'll put out a BOLO on Charlotte Rey as well, although she's probably already out of the state by now. I can just imagine what the D.A. is going to say about that," she said glumly.

"Can I at least interrogate the guy we caught tonight, Chief?" asked Lassiter.

"No, I'm sorry. I've got Dobson working on it. If the guy's going to crack, Dobson can do it," said the chief. The "if" in her statement hung heavily in the air. Lassiter frowned darkly but kept quiet.

"Okay, get some rest. Go home, those of you willing to do so," she said with a look at Lassiter. "Don't worry about your safety." She looked at Gus who gave her an embarrassed smile and a small shrug. "Don't try to elude your protectors and go off conducting your own investigation." She looked at Shawn who was chewing a nail and staring into space.

He looked up at her and said, "I would never do such a thing...alone."

The chief just shook her head and walked out of the room, pulling out her cell phone and punching in numbers before she'd cleared the door. Henry sighed and swiped at his watering eyes. He felt tired, but he oddly dreaded going back to the house. Everything was going to smell like gasoline. He kicked himself for overreacting. Don't let the bastards win, he lectured himself.

"I'm pretty sure that guy we caught tonight is the fake custodian," said Lassiter suddenly.

They all stared at him. Henry knew he was angry about not being able to work on the case, but he was still somewhat shocked that he hadn't told Karen this information.

"Dude, really?" hissed Shawn, glancing towards the door as if afraid the chief had heard. "Why didn't you tell her?"

"I will," said Lassiter. "Tomorrow. When I have to go to the station to tell her," he said with a wily expression.

Henry smirked and shook his head. Shawn's grin grew larger as Gus's expression remained confused. "I don't get it," said Gus.

"He's going to the station to tell the chief tomorrow," said Shawn.

"I got THAT part, Shawn," grumbled Gus.

"So, he'll be AT the station, tomorrow, like when that guy's getting interrogated."

Gus's face brightened as realization dawned. "Oh! Okay, I get it."

"And I'll have to give my statement on this guy, and then a description of the hitman, maybe insist on using a sketch artist. Maybe I can talk to the FBI," said Lassiter, squinting at all of the possibilities. His eyes widened at a thought. "Maybe I can insist on using an FBI sketch artist." Shawn grinned at him, obviously enjoying the glimpse into the detective's devious side.

Henry rubbed his forehead and felt the night's activities weighing him down. "Well, I'm going home," he said. "Who can give me a ride?"

"I can, Mr. Spencer," said Gus with a hint of hopefulness in his expression.

Henry cocked an eyebrow. "Do you want to stay at my house tonight, Gus?"

"Could I?" he asked with such a hopeful tone that Henry flashed back to when the kids were 10 and would beg for sleepovers.

"Sure," he said with a small laugh. And he had to admit that the idea of having company was comforting. The evening's experience had shaken him up a bit. "You coming too, Shawn?"

"Um, yeah," said Shawn looking a bit dazed. "I guess so."

They all stood up and started for the door.

"Lassie," said Shawn. "You're staying in Juliet's room then?"

Lassiter nodded.

"Okay, man. Take it easy. Have fun tomorrow. You'll have to tell us what you can find out," said Shawn with an expectant look.

"We'll see, Spencer," said Lassiter.

Henry said, "Yeah, on that note, maybe we can have another meeting tomorrow. There was something else I had to show you all, especially you, Lassiter. The whole arson attempt and hospital trip kind of interrupted me."

Lassiter's eyebrows raised. "Okay. Let's do that."

Henry nodded. He'd figured greasing the wheels a little with Lassiter would encourage his willingness to share any information he learned. And he was pretty sure the photograph he'd found in his files would prove useful, with Lassiter's confirmation, although a part of him dreaded the possibility as well. He found himself wishing he'd brought his sunglasses along in the middle of the night as he squinted his way through the bright lights of the hospital hallways and followed the boys out to the little blue car.

OoOoOoO

Lassiter heard a voice and opened his eyes, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu as he found himself once again waking up in the chair in Juliet's hospital room. He turned his head, feeling the now-familiar pounding in his skull and a new, painful kink in his neck. The voice was murmuring softly, but it stopped when he shifted his position towards the room's interior.

"Hey, Lassie," said Shawn who was sitting on the far side of Juliet's bed, one hand resting lightly on her arm.

Lassiter blinked. "Spencer."

"Sorry if I woke you up."

Lassiter sat up and rubbed his face, noticing the weak light coming in through the blinds. He glanced at the clock and was slightly shocked to find it only read 5:30AM. "What's wrong?" he asked, figuring Spencer wouldn't be up at that hour of the morning unless there was a problem.

"Nothing," said Shawn quickly. "I just couldn't sleep."

"Oh."

"I just," Shawn faltered and looked at Juliet, then back at Lassiter with a hint of embarrassment. "I had to tell her something."

Lassiter felt a flush of embarrassment himself, feeling suddenly like he was intruding on something private even though he'd been sound asleep. He cleared his throat and asked, "How did you get in here?"

"They let me in. I guess they figured since you were asleep you didn't count as a visitor," said Shawn with a faint smirk. Then his expression sobered. "To be honest, I begged shamelessly."

Lassiter stood up and stifled a groan at all of the aches and stiff muscles that protested his movement.

"Did you want to sleep more?" asked Shawn. "I can take off."

"No. I'm going to get some real clothes at home and head to the station."

"Oh, come on, you don't think green tablecloth material counts as real clothes?" quipped Shawn, but then his expression changed back to serious once again. He picked at the edge of Juliet's blanket as he cleared his throat. "Hey, um, I just wanted to say thank you for being there last night. You saved my dad's house, and maybe my dad."

Now Lassiter felt uncomfortable and cringed inwardly. "I just did what, you know," he stuttered to a stop. "Don't mention it."

Shawn smiled faintly and nodded, still keeping his eyes down. Lassiter sighed and escaped into the restroom to splash some water on his face. He was never able to grasp how Shawn and Henry could be at each others' throats so much while still caring so obviously for each other. At least, it was obvious during moments of crisis. He felt a pang inside that he tried not to recognize as jealousy and scrubbed his face until his headache protested. It was a relationship he couldn't identify with. He didn't have enough of a similar experience to compare with it. He sighed again and forced his mind to focus on the present instead of the past. He had a possible mob enforcer to run to ground.

OoOoOoO

Bob took a large bit of his cruller, savoring its melt-in-your mouth freshness. Nothing beat donuts straight from the bakery oven first thing in the morning. Morton was making happy grunting noises as he wolfed down his apple fritter. They were the only customers in the tiny bakery, sitting at the only table in the room. It was a friendly bakery and one they frequented most mornings. As Bob took a cautious swig of the extra-hot coffee, he noticed a yuppie-looking guy walking along the sidewalk and slowing as he approached the door. His brow furrowed. Hopefully the guy would conduct his business quickly, because they were supposed to be having a meeting in just another ten minutes. The man was older, but not as old as he and Morton. Bob guessed the he was somewhere in his sixties, although the way he carried himself came across as younger. He was wearing a trilby hat that Bob recalled from his youth as standard menswear, though he'd been noticing more recently that young kids had been favoring them again. Fads come and go, he thought wryly. The man reached for the door handle and pulled off his sunglasses as he entered. His eyes met Bob's and sent a frisson of surprise through him.

"Gentlemen," said Sinclair as he sat in the third chair. "I'm a bit early." His long hair had been cut to shoulder-length and pulled into a pony-tail, and his beard was neatly trimmed. He was wearing khaki slacks and a white t-shirt under a blue linen blazer. He pulled his hat off and set it on the table while his black eyes twinkled at Morton's shocked expression.

"My god!" hissed Morton as he focused on the killer. "What are you supposed to be in that get-up?"

Sinclair gave Morton a crooked smile. "Different," he said.

"You look like one of those damned Hollywood-types that skulk around here," huffed Morton, then he snickered and shook his head. "You are something else."

Bob went to the counter and retrieved a fresh coffee and a plain cake donut for Sinclair as he and Morton began their conversation. The cruller was suddenly sitting heavily in his stomach as he listened to them discuss Morton's desires. His friend's sudden bloodlust seemed so out of character, at least, it was more extreme than he'd seen for several decades. And Sinclair's enthusiasm for killing had always made his skin crawl. Maybe he really was getting old and soft, he thought grimly. He'd gotten comfortable being away from the lifestyle and the conflict and the cold-bloodedness. The past years had been spent in relative quiet, just sitting with Morton in the evenings for smokes and drinks, talking over old memories or griping about current affairs. He sat silently as the men talked, but he realized after a while that Sinclair was flashing him piercing glances. Bob felt a thrill of fear run down his spine. He kicked himself for telegraphing his mood. It could be a fatal mistake around predators like Sinclair.

"So the psychic kid, Mortie? How'd he get under your skin so bad?"

"Ah, don't ask," grumbled the old man. "I got my reasons."

Sinclair nodded. "I get that. Tell the truth, I did a little checking into these guys after the other day," he said. Morton raised his eyebrows and Sinclair shrugged. "I got curious. They're quite the crew, the cops and these two kids. And come to find out I had a run-in with the psychic's dad some time ago. He used to be a cop, too."

"Huh," said the old man. "No wonder I hated the guy on sight." They all laughed at that one.

"Well, I have some fun stuff planned. Things I've been...developing...that need testing," said Sinclair with a happily feral grin. "So I wasn't put out at the idea of coming back. Like I said before, I haven't had this kind of fun in a while. Not too many other people out in the desert, you know."

Bob felt the tingle of fear and disgust run down his spine again at Sinclair's words. The man was essentially a psychopath who had found a way to make money with his taste and talent for death. He remembered some years ago speaking to Sinclair about a job and the man had said "Do what you love." It had ruined the phrase for Bob ever since, and he would cringe when he heard it on sappy morning shows or when he saw it on greeting cards. He saw Sinclair glance at him again and stood up to get a refill.

As was usual with Sinclair, they only talked about "business" very briefly, then they settled into an almost pleasant conversation about the old days in Chicago. Bob felt himself relax, finally, and joined in happily, chiding himself for overreacting earlier. He still wasn't thrilled about Morton's desire to punish the psychic kid and his dad, but it wasn't his place to worry about Morton's motivations. He just had to help facilitate things. And the quicker the business was finished, the faster they could get back to their habits. Maybe he'd even venture to contact Maxwell at some point and try to talk sense into the dolt. If he and Morton could mend some fences it would go a long way towards making Morton's, and so Bob's, life more pleasant. He was daydreaming his conversation with Maxwell when he realized that Sinclair was rising to leave.

"Hey, Bob, can I talk to you a sec?" asked Sinclair as he put his hat on and pulled out his sunglasses.

Bob blinked, feeling his stomach do an uncomfortable flip. "Sure thing," said Bob, hoping his enthusiasm didn't sound forced. He followed as Sinclair stepped outside.

"How you doing there, Bob? You looked like you had a sour stomach earlier. You feeling okay?" asked Sinclair as he watched the street, only glancing peripherally at Bob.

"Oh, yeah, I'm just fine."

"Good," said Sinclair with a toothy grin. "You've always been a rock, Bob. I'd hate to see you starting to crack like Mortie."

Bob's face fell and his chest seemed to get tight. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, don't be coy. I know why he had to come out here and drop off the radar. The families started to doubt him, because of that dumbass kid of his and their issues. He was making iffy moves. I know you're the one who got him away safe, negotiated this...exile...if you will."

Bob pursed his lips and glanced into the bakery for a moment, but Morton was chatting with his friend behind the counter.

"That's okay, Bob. You don't have to talk about it. I just wanted to make sure you weren't flaking out, like he did all those years ago. I just wanted to make sure you keep your perspective now, like you did then, so that you can keep him...and yourself...safe," said Sinclair.

The threat in his words carried in the pleasant, conversational tone, made it even more blood-curdling. Bob blinked and stared at the man for a moment. "I'm not sure I'm understanding you," he said with a whisper.

"I think you got it," said Sinclair meeting his gaze, his black stare boring into him. "You take care of yourself, now, and Mortie too. You two aren't getting any younger, you know."

Bob watched as the killer grinned and put on his sunglasses before turning away, strolling down the street like he owned it.

OoOoOoO

Shawn walked out of the hospital some time after 9AM and felt like he had enough energy to run to the police station. After Lassie had left, he'd found himself growing sleepy and had taken over the chair in Juliet's room, dozing for a couple of hours. The nurses had come in to get Juliet for some tests and had asked him to leave. He'd held her hand for another minute, mumbling a goodbye, when he'd felt her hand twitch in his, as if her fingers were trying to tighten around his own. He'd yelled with excitement. The nurse had noted down the incident in Juliet's file, but had tried to keep his expectations from getting too high. He'd nodded at her words, but inside he ignored her cautions. It was like a weight had been lifted from his chest and he could breathe freely again when he hadn't even realized he wasn't before. The relief was so very sweet that he wasn't about to squash it. Juliet was going to be okay.

He walked over to his bike, humming a song that had been stuck in his head all night and waving at the squad car that was assigned to shadow him around. For some reason, he glanced across the street and noticed a man in a blue coat and an old-fashioned looking hat. Trilby, he thought, flashing back to one of his dad's "how many hats" lessons. The guy looked kind of old to be wearing the hat, or not old enough? Shawn shrugged and smiled, thinking of the jokes he could be making about the guy to Gus if he'd been there. He looked up at the man one more time, taking in more details in order to tell the jokes to Gus in retrospect, just in case there wasn't anything at the station to make fun of later. The guy seemed to be looking at him, which was creepy. What the hell was he doing standing there anyway? It wasn't a bus stop. Maybe he was waiting for a friend to get out of the hospital. His sunglasses seemed too big for his face. Shawn ran through some bug-eyes or fly-eyes quips in his head as he got on the bike and headed to the SBPD.

The rest of the day was spent hovering at the fringes of the bustling station. The chief tried to kick Shawn and Gus out at first. She was already irritated by her earlier argument with Lassie, which she had lost, and she wasn't in the mood to tolerate them as well. They vowed to be on their best behavior, though, and were saved at last by the chief getting a phone call. Lassiter was giving a statement to one of the other detectives about the fake custodian. When Shawn realized this, he happily performed a dramatic "vision" regarding the spilled toner and the footprints near the Psych office and Hammond's house as his way of corroborating Lassie's statement. The chief had seemed relieved when the spilled toner near the records room was pointed out since they seemed to finally be making progress. She had sent out forensics units to check Psych and Hammond's yard for toner. The forensics team had already discovered and recorded the footprint in the yard previously, and the chief let slip that the footprint matched the man Lassie had caught. So the good news just kept coming, and Shawn's spirits kept rising. At one point, he managed to sidle up to Lassiter who stopped growling at him when he told him about the hand-holding incident with Juliet. His face lit up with relief, and for a second Shawn thought he might even give him a hug.

But then the action at the station ratcheted up another level in tension when two FBI agents arrived late in the afternoon to discuss the possible mob connection with the chief. Shawn and Gus and Lassiter were all forbidden to join in, though. The chief sternly told them to leave, but then she softened her tone enough to say that she would give the FBI all of the information they had given her and would stress the need to investigate the matter. They all knew the chief was going to bat for them, so they decided to gather at Henry's house again to continue their own discussions. They filed out of the station to their vehicles. Shawn tossed his helmet in Gus's car and suggested that his police guard remain at the station to watch over his bike instead. The officer didn't seem amused by the idea, but Shawn couldn't help feeling happy and cracking jokes. After he climbed in the passenger seat, he noticed a man sitting on the bottom step of the station reading a newspaper. He was wearing shorts with black socks that made Shawn grin, and he had on a baseball cap and big sunglasses. Something about the man seemed familiar, but then Gus started griping about his lack of churros for the past couple of days, demanding back payment. They argued terms as they pulled out and the whole group of them drove like a caravan across town: blue Crown Vic, police cruiser, Blueberry, police cruiser.