CHAPTER TEN: Confrontations

. . . .

. . .

Silvers caught up with Bobby Howard on Thursday afternoon, just as Trout's circling of the bullpen was bringing him closer and closer to Juliet's iceberg.

It bought her some time—time to figure out what he might have up his trouty sleeves.

Throwing himself back in a chair in Interrogation, Bobby gave off the attitude she expected, one suggesting he was a bad-ass the likes of which had never bad-assed its way across Santa Barbara, and everyone should watch out.

She sat across from him, Dobson leaning against the wall.

For a moment, she flashed back to Carlton doing the same during interviews, his long lanky frame belying the speed and strength with which he could stop the forward motion of any suspect who intended to flee. All quiet control...

Then another flashback to the dream, where that quiet control had given way to animal passion…

"Mr. Howard," she said pleasantly. "Do you own a gun?"

"Hell no. I'm a felon." His smile was insolent.

Hers was cool. "Then the gun Officer Silvers found on you—where did that come from?"

He shrugged. "He planted it."

"Ah. And why would he do that?"

"It's what y'all do, I heard."

Y'all. Juliet didn't hear that much around these parts. Bobby's jacket said he was from Shreveport, Louisiana, with notes indicating he'd been sent to live with an aunt in Santa Barbara when he was seventeen and close to landing in jail back home.

Seemed like he might have been better off in Louisiana, given how much of the seven years since then that he'd spent in jail.

"No, I'm really curious," she said. "Why would he plant a gun on you?"

Bobby shrugged again. "Y'all got quotas. I'm it. Don't play like it ain't true."

"Hmm. Okay, you're right." She looked over at Dobson. "Dobson, sorry, but I'm low on arrests this month. You mind if I toss you in holding for a few hours to get my numbers up?"

Dobson's shrug matched Bobby's. "Sure. Payback next month for my quota?"

"Deal."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever. Why am I sittin' here?"

Juliet opened the folder. "Did you know Paco Garcia?"

"Maybe. Lotta Mexicans around."

"You would have met him at Ringo's."

"Never heard of it."

She sighed. "Dobson, why do they always lie about stuff like this?"

"They think we're idiots," he suggested.

Leaning forward to glare at Bobby, she snapped, "You've spent the better part of the last year at Ringo's hanging out with your busboy buddy and harassing the customers and staff."

He sat back. "Hell I harassed anybody."

"Lots of people there say so, Bobby."

"They don't know nothin'."

"So you'd deny to dozens of witnesses that you were ever in Ringo's?"

"Didn't say I was never in Ringo's."

"A minute ago you said you never heard of it."

Sly grin. "I mighta been mistaken. But I don't harass anybody, darlin'."

"Witnesses," she repeated.

"Come on. Don't you think a smart Southern boy like me knows not to leave witnesses?"

For a second—maybe two—she felt a little chill. This was the guy.

She tapped the folder. "Paco Garcia."

He shook his head, obviously thinking yet again that he was smarter than anybody else. "Nope."

"James Carroll. Also known as Puff?"

His expression flickered. He hadn't been expecting that one. "No."

Juliet smiled. "Yes. Both men killed with a .22 near Ringo's, late at night. Both robbed."

"Nothin' to do with me, and I don't own a gun," he repeated.

"You were carrying one today."

"Planted."

"Why did you kill them?"

"Kill who?"

Waste of time. She pushed her chair back. "All right. You want a lawyer?"

"Do I need one, darlin'?"

"Probably so, sugah," she drawled, "because Ballistics is fixin' to tell us whether the bullet which killed Garcia came from the gun Silvers found on you."

He didn't like it. It was in his eyes, mixed up with the insolence, but all he did was shrug again. "If you say so. But even if it did, all it means is y'all are settin' me up with that planted gun."

She laughed. "To meet our quota?"

"Guess so. Folks have been persecutin' me since the day I was born."

"Funny, I heard it the other way around. More like you've been doing the persecuting."

Bobby smiled broadly. "I dunno how these rumors get started."

She tapped the folder again. "Probably because of how much time you've spent in jail."

Dobson asked casually, "How much money did you get off Puff Carroll the night you killed him?"

Bobby's head jerked around so fast his lank hair slapped him in the face. "What the hell you talkin' about? I didn't kill Puff Carroll."

"What kind of name is Puff anyway?"

"Sissy-ass. Thought he was Puff Daddy, I guess." He turned to glare at Juliet. "And just cause I'm speculatin' about a nickname don't mean I know the guy."

She was sweet. "We didn't ask you if you knew him. We asked you if you killed him."

Oh, Bobby Howard hated her right now.

"Y'all can go to hell. Get me a lawyer on the way."

. . . .

. . .

"So where are we exactly?" Trout pressed. "Waiting for the guy to spontaneously confess?"

"Ballistics is running the tests now. Dobson is bringing in the busboy to quiz him about having seen Howard with a gun. Silvers is canvassing the area again with a photo of Howard to see who else he's harassed. If the bullet came from that gun, it won't matter how hard his lawyer pushes the bogus claim of entrapment."

He rocked on his heels, surveying her with that familiar dismissive expression, his pale blue eyes devoid of any… soul, honestly.

"And?"

Juliet bit back the urge to punch him. "We've also confirmed with Puff Carroll's employer that he got a five hundred dollar tip for his work on a fishing excursion, and was out celebrating the night he was killed."

"But Garcia had less than a hundred."

"Howard doesn't look to be picky. And frankly, he seems like someone who'd kill because he could."

Sort of the way you look, she thought, and wasn't even much surprised by it.

Not that he would, of course. No, he'd be the kind to hire it out—or better yet, blackmail someone into committing murder for him. He'd never get blood on his own hands.

You are really much too involved in how much you don't like your boss, girl.

Trout had moved on anyway, rattling on about stats and assignments and what he expected her to have accomplished within the next week. "Wrap this Garcia case up, O'Hara. If you can fold Carroll into it, bonus power bars for you. Just get it done."

Juliet nodded, but as she started to leave, he said the words she hated most.

"One more thing."

Turning around again, she waited.

Trout smiled. The shark smile.

"You know I'll be bringing the psychos back for round two, right?"

Silently, she explained to Trout how much she despised him. She used plain and simple vocabulary, richly detailed and descriptive, because if by some chance he could read minds, she didn't want him to miss a single nuance.

Outwardly, she said, "As you see fit. Anything else?"

"Not for now."

Not for now.

. . . .

. . .

The first email read: The Santa Paula Police Department would be pleased to speak with you about openings in our detective squad. Chief Alex Mancuso will contact you personally on Friday.

The second one was from Chief Mancuso himself, time-stamped five minutes later. I'll call on Friday but wanted to touch base now. Glad you're interested in working with us. Your record stands out in California law enforcement.

The third email was from the Ventura Police Department, Chief Ray Kiser presiding. Give me a call at your earliest convenience. Very interested in having an officer of your caliber on our team.

Carlton was surprised. Pleased. Startled. He knew he was damned good at his job, but he also knew he had a reputation for his crankiness as well as his police work. To have his first two signal flares met with positive reactions was more than he expected.

Trout'll spit up.

Bonus.

He shut down the laptop, and with that motion he began to wonder how much of an effort Trout would make to interfere with his getting a job outside the county. It would be purely out of spite if he took an active role.

But he wouldn't have to take an active role. After all, Carlton could hardly conceal from prospective employers that he'd been demoted two months ago. Questions would be asked, and they weren't questions he could evade. It wouldn't be enough to use 'politics' as an answer, even if it was largely true.

Who are you kidding? The law enforcement network in this part of the state is like a bunch of old gossipy biddies. By now they know all about Trout, and Spencer's involvement in SBPD cases was certainly known to them before that—along with Spencer's tendency to play it like he'd done all the work and the SBPD was just a little clubhouse he used for fun.

But then it occurred to him…

They want to talk to you anyway.

Trout, demotion, and all the times he himself had been shown up by Spencer-crap … and they wanted to talk to him anyway.

Huh. He poured another cup of coffee, feeling a smile coming along.

. . . .

. . .

She hadn't been home and she hadn't responded to Shawn's texts, and since his ban from the station was still in effect, he couldn't storm the Bastille to get to her.

So when she did park the Bug in the driveway as the sun was about to set, she was hardly shocked to find Shawn waiting for her at the front door, pacing back and forth on the step.

What shocked her was how much she didn't want to talk to him at all.

This is your boyfriend. Your relationship has been tested already in a huge way. You came back from that. Groceries cannot be the villain here; it's too ridiculous.

(Did you come back from that test, really?)

She walked slowly to meet him, and he held the door open and then followed her up the stairs into the living room.

"You left last night without a word, and you wouldn't talk to me today."

Sinking into the overstuffed chair she loved, feeling impossibly bone-weary, she put her feet up on the coffee table and looked at him.

"I called you from the hotel."

"You left a message. It's not the same."

He was uneasy. Restless in a way which reminded her of how volatile—almost unstable—he'd been in the wake of Henry's shooting.

"Jules. That's serious."

"There wasn't a lot I could say about Twizzlers."

He sat down, then got up again, then sat down again. "Sweetie. I'm sorry. I didn't have much cash so I looked for bargains."

"Sale on Red Bull?"

"It's an energy drink! We both need that. And bacon and peanut butter are for protein and Twizzlers are for strengthening jaw muscles and the Tostados are for crunch, because a day without crunch is—"

"Shawn, stop it." She rubbed her face, wondering why she felt twice her age these days.

"Look, I got a job today. I mean, I lined up two clients to meet tomorrow. I want to take you out to dinner for date night."

Juliet eyed him. "Date night?"

"Tomorrow night. You, me, Mikayla's. We'll have a bottle of wine, a good appetizer, a great meal and maybe even some quiet conversation."

"You don't really do quiet conversation," she pointed out gently.

"Don't say no, Jules. I want to do this right."

"But Shawn." So tired. So incredibly tired. "On Saturday morning I want to get up, have coffee, maybe some milk and cereal. Or toast. Eggs. I want to open the fridge or the cabinets and find food so we can have a nice lunch later. Or even a mediocre lunch. You see?"

"I see." He picked up a pillow to hug tight against himself.

"This has to be about more than you not having money. You always have access to money because you can always find work. I don't understand why buying groceries, to do your share, is such an impossible task."

He flung the pillow aside. "Look. Just… look. You've been mad at me a long time, Jules. Ever since Trout. Maybe before." His hazel gaze flickered a moment; she knew he did not want to say out loud since you found out I was a fake. "And I know this is a big deal to you, the groceries. It's like a bigger deal than almost anything else right now. You stayed in a hotel last night and shut me out today. That's… I don't like it. It scares me. You know?"

"It scares me too," she admitted. "But I wasn't trying to scare you. I just needed to have some peace and comfort and… and some kind of relief from what's been going on all summer. You've had so many jobs, I don't think you really understand what it's like for me to know I'm about to lose mine. I love my job, Shawn. I need it. I don't mean to pay bills. I mean I need it because being a cop is who I am and what I love to do more than anything else."

The lights were low and behind him through the windows the last of the sun was going. It was quiet now, and quiet in her head, if not her heart.

Shawn said softly, "But what if I buy groceries—I mean, everything you say you want, down to the last jar of marmalade—and you're still mad at me?"

Oh, Shawn.

For several moments she marveled at seeing him seriously, truly… contemplate… their relationship.

"I lost you once already," he whispered. "I can't risk losing you again."

Damn him; he could still get to her, make her heart ache.

But if he was really invested in this conversation, now was the time to make it count.

"You have taken more risks—more needless risks—in the last seven years than anyone else I know. You've risked your life, Gus'—mine and Carlton's too—in the course of solving crimes."

He frowned. "If they solved crime, they weren't needless risks."

"No, I mean… well, I mean like this, Shawn. You're risking our relationship over groceries because you think buying them won't solve the bigger problems, and since you don't want to face any bigger problems, you keep us stuck on this one. That's a needless risk, because it keeps me angry and frustrated about something really stupid at a time in my life when I'm already damned close to the end of my rope."

She stood up, retrieving the pillow he'd flung aside earlier and putting it back on the sofa.

"Everything is so hard at the station right now. I have a boss who hates me, I have a ton of new responsibilities, and I don't have Carlton at my side. If I could come home to… to something normal. Comforting. Loving. Something to take the pressure off, even a little—Shawn, that would be so nice. It would help so much. Don't you get that?"

I'm asking you to put me first. Just once. Just... please.

Shawn sighed. "I get it. Okay, Jules. Tomorrow I'll work my new cases, and then I'll take you out for date night. I'll buy a houseful of groceries on Saturday morning before you even wake up, and we'll be all right." He rose and came to plant a kiss on her forehead. "You'll see, sweetie."

She let him hug her, declined an offer of bacon Tostada cheeseless nachos with a glass of Red Bull on ice, and went to bed later wondering what in the hell she'd thought her life would be like with Shawn Spencer.

And once she fell asleep, she dreamed again of making love with Carlton.

. . . .

. . .

Chief Mancuso cleared his throat. "So, Detective Lassiter, I heard a little about some upsets over at the SBPD."

Don't deny. The biddies always know better.

"You heard right. I decided it was time to move on, but I still have a lot of years of law enforcement left in me."

"I'd wager you do. Impressive arrest record. Santa Barbara's loss."

Damn straight.

He knew better than to say it out loud. This was only a preliminary phone call and how he acted would very likely determine whether he got a real interview out of it.

"Thank you. I've been reading up on Santa Paula's crime stats. You've got crime on the decline, so your guys must be pretty good."

"I like to think so. Can I get you over here for an interview next week?"

"Yes, sir." That was easy.

"Great. I've got a chiefs' conference Monday through Wednesday but I'll be back in the office on Thursday, and there's an eleven a.m. slot open for you if you can make it over."

"Not a problem at all."

Not one bit of it.

When he spoke to Chief Kiser in Ventura later, it was much the same. Kiser was attending the same police chiefs' conference in Pasadena, so their formal interview was set up for Friday morning.

Trout would be at the conference, of course. Carlton knew it. The man would not miss a chance to flaunt his 'successes' at SBPD; nor would he miss a chance to take shots at Carlton in absentia. Kiser and Mancuso, professional investigators, beyond being part of the natural biddy network, would make it their business to have a word with him to suss out his side of the story. Carlton would do the same in their place.

He was prepared for one or both of those interviews to be cancelled. Even if they deduced for themselves that Trout was a nutjob, the man had influence, and hiring Carlton might generate bad P.R. for their departments.

Well, screw it anyway. He had to start somewhere. If nothing else, he could still sell the condo, get an apartment, ride out a few months of inactivity until Trout had moved on to harvest some other hapless community, and then start over again.

Yippee.

"Don't be so negative."

He looked around the condo, but Juliet's voice had been only in his head.

She'd said it to him a hundred times over the years, usually followed by some sort of reminder that no matter what anyone else thought, she knew he was the best and she'd always be at his side.

Fanciful talk, given who he was… and given that he'd pushed her away with a truth he wished he'd never spoken aloud.

He wished he could call her up and tell her about the interviews, but he was pretty sure she wouldn't want to hear it right now. Or maybe ever.

. . . .

. . .

"He'll admit to carrying the gun, but nothing else."

The public defender was bored. He'd had too many clients like Bobby Howard. He'd uphold the law but he wouldn't exactly be making inspirational speeches about his client.

Juliet looked at Bobby, whose perpetual sneer was at half-mast.

"Mr. Kirkland, you know he committed those murders."

"I know no such thing." He closed his briefcase. "He'll do the time for the gun, no contest."

"And when he gets out, he'll get another gun, and he'll kill someone else."

"I never killed anybody," Bobby insisted.

"Yeah, and I never had gas," Dobson remarked from his position at the wall. "Anybody in here believe that?"

Kirkland ignored them both. "If he killed anyone, Detective O'Hara, you'll have to prove it. That's how the court system works."

"I had no idea," she said sweetly. "Good thing we found six neighborhood residents to pick him out of a photo lineup."

He frowned. "For what?"

"Vandalism, threatening behavior, attempted muggings. We also tracked down some Ringo's customers who were in the bar the night Puff Carroll was murdered who'll swear in court that Bobby was hanging around near closing time and taking a special interest in Puff and his big fat wallet."

Bobby stopped grinning, but Kirkland laughed. "And where was all this in-depth police work when you were investigating his death?"

Truthfully, she'd wondered that herself. It hadn't been her case; Carlton had assigned it to Rel Dillard, who retired shortly afterward.

He pressed on, "Seems like if Mr. Howard was such a viable suspect then, we wouldn't be talking about Paco Garcia now."

"We're willing to talk about whoever we have to talk about to get Bobby here off the streets," Dobson said coolly.

Kirkland smiled. "Then you can count on talking about incompetence in the Carroll case when we do make it to court."

"You sure you want to take shots at us in the name of protecting your client, if it means admitting we should have caught him earlier?"

Not so smug anymore, Mr. Kirkland. He scowled. "The gun charge is all you have. Make the most of it."

Seemed to be a standoff.

Juliet smiled.

"We already have, Mr. Kirkland." She pushed a copy of the ballistics report across the table. "Bobby's gun killed Garcia."

It wasn't accurate to say Bobby's response was "Sheeeee-it," she thought later, because there were way more syllables than just the two.

Kirkland's response was wrapped up in lawyerese, but the essence of it was the same.

Oh, how she loved her job.

. . . .

. . .

"How did Trout take it?" Shawn asked.

Juliet grinned. "Icing on the cake. He really really wanted me to fail, and he had this huge internal battle going on as to whether he should congratulate me or stomp his feet in petulant rage. Finally he just muttered something about how it shouldn't have taken so long, and I should get back to work."

"What about the gun-running thing out of Willow Floral?"

"Honestly? I doubt there ever was one."

The appetizer of Italian nachos had been vanquished, and she sipped her wine while the waiter set before them Shawn's steak with potatoes and her grilled chicken marsala.

Shawn had crowed moderately about working two cases that day, one office embezzlement ("duh, it was the girl over by the copier") and one missing iPad ("being hired by teenagers again is like a new personal low for me"), and although he had to use part of the office manager's check to pay for replacing their water cooler, he did have seventy dollars on hand, in cash, devoted entirely to their dinner—and he showed it to her, counting it out lovingly.

She wasn't sure how any of that was going to pay for groceries in the morning, but he told her not to worry; he had A Plan.

Dinner almost hadn't happened at all. When she got home to change for their date, she found a half-full ashtray on the coffee table and some empty soda cans on the floor by the sofa. He'd explained that the teenagers had come over to talk about the missing iPad.

There were a few moments—distressingly familiar these days—when she couldn't speak. "You brought clients to our house?"

"Well. Uh. Yeah?" He was alarmed that she was angry.

"You have an office. A business office. This is our home. Where we live. We don't bring clients or criminals here. It's our… our space, Shawn."

"Well. I… I mean the office was kind of far for them and I…"

She stared at him in complete consternation. "Shawn. This is unacceptable."

"Hey! A few months ago, you, like, kickboxed a guy into submission right here in the living room!" he protested.

"Well, it's not like I invited him over!" she yelled.

"Okay!" He put his hands up. "Okay! You're right. I shouldn't have done it. I was just taking a shortcut and I didn't think it through. Lesson learned, I swear. I'll never do it again. Please, let's just start over from here. Dinner, Jules. Come on. We both deserve a break from… from ourselves."

Somehow she'd put aside the helpless rage—again—and gotten herself together for dinner. A long shower helped, as did being able to put on a nice dress and pretty jewelry and a layer of hope for the best, or at least the best for the next few hours.

Shawn looked nice; he'd shaved and was wearing a fairly unwrinkled tie and his best black jeans.

Let it all just go, she thought, sipping a little more wine. You've been friends a long time and this is the relationship you chose—that you both fought for.

That you nearly lost Carlton over.

Deep breath. Just… let tonight be.

She smiled. They could make this work. She would enjoy a good meal with the charming, amusing Shawn she remembered from years ago: the one who was actually trying to woo her.

Gus sat down in the chair between them. "Shawn. Why haven't you answered my texts?"

Shawn was as surprised as she was. "Dude. Seriously? I'm on Date Night."

"Shawn, this is important! We don't have much time!"

"Gus, just go buy the thing and I'll pay you back."

Juliet set her fork down. "What's this about?"

Gus spared her a glance. "Hey, Juliet. You look great. I'll just be a minute." To Shawn, he said insistently, "You won't pay me back, and if you don't pay me back, then the lifesize cardboard cutout of John Stamos will be 100% mine, and you won't even be allowed to look at it."

"I'll pay you back! I took two cases today while you were doing that other thing."

"My pharmaceutical job? The one which pays most of your bills? That thing?"

"I've heard it both ways. Look, Gus, my girlfriend here has a gun and she will shoot you if you don't stop screwing up our Date Night."

"It's true," she agreed mildly, although she would also shoot Shawn if it came to that.

"I will leave as soon as you pay up. There's only one left at Eighties-R-Us and tomorrow they're changing out the display."

"Really? What it's going to be?"

"Ricky Schroeder, I think. Never mind. Your half is fifty bucks, Shawn, and I need it now if you're going in on Stamos with me."

"I will pay you back," Shawn insisted. "Just go."

Juliet polished off her wine. The waiter appeared to refill her glass, and she got half of that down in the next few seconds.

Gus huffed. "You won't pay me back, and you know it. Looks like Stamos comes to live in Gusterville." He started to get up.

"Wait!" Shawn clutched at his arm and forced him to sit again. "Fine." He opened his wallet and fished out fifty dollars. "There, dammit. Now get the hell out of here before you ruin Date Night completely."

Gus grinned and pocketed the money, made a quick apology to Juliet, and took off running.

Shawn let out a deep breath, giving her a cautious smile. "Sorry about that."

Funny how ice could form so quickly, wasn't it? She'd heard about black ice. Ice you couldn't see, forming on apparently dry surfaces in the dead of a cold night—in the darkness of a cold heart—and lurking… waiting…

"Shawn," she began casually.

"Sweetie?"

"How are you going to pay for dinner?"

He blanched.

She waited for her rage… but it wasn't there. There was only ice.

"Oh my God, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. Jules, look, I'm sorry. I'll call him back. I'll—what are you doing?"

She was getting up. She was getting her handbag.

"Jules, wait—"

She was saying goodnight.

She was walking out.

. . . .

. . .