They moved operations to the nearest public library. Juliet signed up for a library card to get them a computer and internet access, as well as reverse directories and research materials. They commandeered the computer farthest from the door to work.
They were too far out of their jurisdiction for McNab to help. Furthermore, even if they got the debit card number from the restaurant, anything they got from running a bank account without a warrant would be fruit of the poison tree and inadmissible in court. The only reason they could do anything at all was because they were on leave, and somewhat private citizens.
It also meant they had to follow private citizen rules.
They had no idea where Despereaux was, and only one instance of where he'd been. They needed to get out ahead of him, to find out where he was going to be.
"First question, why is he here?" Lassiter said, unwrapping his new notepad and uncapping a pen. "San Francisco is rich in targets big enough to draw out Despereaux's old operation, but it's got to be something other than insurance fraud to justify not heading out to Fiji."
Juliet nodded, typing in "art museums San Francisco." After perusing both the museums and their exhibits, and Googling the museum owners and curators, they were both drowning in possibilities – and that wasn't even counting the private collectors.
"Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way," Juliet said as they stood up, clearing out of the way for the next patron when their time ran out. They moved over to a reading table, pulling up chairs and looking at their list. None of the curators seemed to be having undue financial trouble, but none of the news articles suggested enough wealth to rule them out, either.
"How so?" Carlton asked, rubbing his chin. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing his still too-bony wrists. He'd obviously punched a new hole in his belt.
"Despereaux is a peacock. He likes attention, panache, someone to admire him. He has to keep a low profile around his partners in fraud and when he's scoping his targets to keep from getting caught, but in his hotels and other habits – he's money and charm and… Catwoman."
"The upscale hotels aren't going to give him up based on a picture," Carlton countered. "They're paid to be discreet. Same with high-end merchants and bankers. What else is there?"
Juliet drummed her pencil against the table quietly.
"He's a lothario," Carlton said, finally, "though that doesn't really help us. It's not as if a pack of 'desperate housewives' is going to admit to a tumble in the hay with an 'exciting blonde' just because a couple of on-leave cops show up with his picture. It'll be worse than going to the hotels."
Juliet smiled. There was one thing capable of getting past hotels' discretion, and that something was also interested in rich women and scandal.
"That's it. The paparazzi. They keep track of everyone who might be anyone looking for a story. If Despereaux has been out-and-about with his rich women friends, they'd've seen him. And for the right price, they'll talk."
Carlton smiled, predatory and joyous.
"O'Hara, you're brilliant."
Juliet preened.
They grabbed an early dinner, and then returned to the library to hit up Google for the contact information of the local paparazzi. Between only being able to use the computer for short bursts and waiting for those higher up on the list to have a turn, the process took until the library closed.
After they returned to the hotel and showered, Juliet lay awake staring at the ceiling, invisible in the dark. She didn't think about what Carlton had said at lunch, or what it might mean, or whether that counted as circumstantial evidence or proof or not. She didn't wonder about Ben being alive or dead, or worry about whether or not Shawn would even take her back after this.
Instead, she went over and over her planned opener for the paparazzi the next day, and only when she was sure of her approach did she close her eyes and try to sleep.
She dreamed, and though she woke the next morning with a pounding heart and a vague sense of unease, she couldn't remember the dream itself.
Lassiter was a cop again.
Not exactly a cop – he was a private citizen(ish) with no badge and no authority – but he was chasing a wanted criminal using paperwork and hitting the pavement and good old-fashioned detective work, and doing so with his partner at his side and no more equipment than a handgun.
It was as close to joy as he could feel, and everything he could have asked from Lady Justice. He clung to it, and to O'Hara's regard: back to normal, and so much different than what they'd had since he'd found out about her dating Spencer (though he was sure half that distance was his fault). Even knowing her breakup with Spencer was temporary, having him gone cleared the air.
Telling O'Hara the truth had cleared the air, too. She didn't blame him for caving that man's face in, and now she knew the truth behind his introduction to Spencer. Whether she would believe it, would at last be able to shake off the con artist's razzle-dazzle routine was another matter.
But there was time for that. Something, though he didn't know what, about their ordeal had shaken her faith in Spencer. He didn't wish O'Hara the pain of finding out the truth. And he definitely didn't want her to know what Spencer was just to make himself look better by comparison (okay, maybe a bit, even though he still wouldn't be able to chase her either way for fear of bringing Spencer's retaliation down on her head). But he at least wanted her to finally understand what she was dealing with. What she'd signed on for.
That Spencer didn't have some magical gift that meant he was better than O'Hara. He was just a man, and a man who should be proving himself to O'Hara, not the other way around.
And what was more, their temporary breakup meant Spencer wasn't around to protect Despereaux this time. Despereaux was his, his and O'Hara's, if only they could find his target.
Lassiter was far more comfortable as predator than prey.
Part of him wondered if that hadn't been what had caught Ben's attention in the first place, the way his world was narrowing down to Despereaux's trail and the overwhelming need to follow it, to finally bring him down.
"Ready to bag an art thief?" O'Hara asked, knocking on his door with two pastries and two cups of free coffee.
Even if he was more comfortable hunting than hunted, so was O'Hara. His partner was no less energized than him, the dark despair parting in the sheer rush of it.
"Always."
The paparazzi didn't follow everyone in the city: only the famous ones. Fortunately for Lassiter and O'Hara, the rich followed the famous ones as well.
"Yeah," they were finally told by a paparazzo named "Foxy Harris" for a not-insubstantial bribe, "I've seen him around. He's been palling around wit' a lady, Alara Montesserat, real cougar. Usually goes for the younger ones, but this one, 'e 'ad charm. Pretty camera shy, this one, ducked out of every shot, an' well, that's something you notice."
Alara Montesserat, married to one Randall Simons the Third and mother to Randall Simons the Fourth (called Randy-Quad by his prep-school-for-the-Ivy-League friends on his Facebook), lived in a house that lived up to both names: posh and gleaming in the center of new-money residences. The surrounding area was undeveloped, waiting for buyers wealthy enough for the privilege of high ground and to pay the water bill for extravagant landscaping. It was easy enough to stake out the property with a telephoto lens (which Juliet had packed for taking scenery shots) and binoculars.
They hit paydirt almost immediately: Despereaux was dropped off by a high-end driver service (the car was a dead giveaway). He had doubtlessly been shown the secret ways onto the property by Alara: she'd sent the servants away, and was unsurprised when Despereaux appeared in the living room without setting off a single alarm, including the large Belgian Malinois that guarded the property.
They watched through the camera and binoculars, Carlton rattling off their dialogue as he read their lips. Despereaux was charming, his words seductive even when stripped of context and recited with Carlton's dripping disdain.
As the evening drew to a close, Alara promised to show Despereaux something "special." This far out, there wasn't much worry of casual passer-by seeing them. Apparently Alara didn't know enough about Despereaux (she referred to him as Edgar) to be worried about police surveillance, so she neither closed the curtains nor drew the blinds. Instead she led Despereaux up to the office with pride and fondness, interspersed with promises of desire and promises that he'd love what he saw.
When they reached the posh office, decorated with gilded refinement and a reproduction of "Starry Night over the Rhone," Alara pushed the reproduction aside to reveal the true star of the room. Carlton didn't recognize the painting, but Juliet gasped and started taking pictures almost immediately.
"What?" Carlton demanded.
"You don't recognize that?" Juliet said, still snapping pictures as Despereaux faked disbelief at what was before him.
"No," Carlton said, not even bothering to relay Despereaux's lies. The gleam in his eyes was covetous enough for anyone to see who wasn't blinded by romance-colored glasses. "It wasn't on our list of targets."
"It's 'View of the Sea from the Cathedral,'" Juliet said, still clicking away, her voice high and excited. "It's by Graubaer von Boker. It was stolen from the Dutch National Art Museum in 2002, and it's been missing ever since." Juliet paused, and hearing that the name wasn't recognized, continued, "Von Boker was an 1800s Impressionist artist operating in Holland at the same time van Gogh was in France. He's almost as big a deal. I have coffee mugs with both von Boker's 'The Black Smoke' and 'The Heart of the Island.'"
"Well," Carlton said, viciously pleased. "Now we know why he's in San Francisco."
Now that there were two crimes involved – both Despereaux being free and the ownership of stolen property – they had to tread carefully. It was pointless to capture Despereaux only to not have enough evidence to pin the Montesserat-Simons duo for owning a priceless painting that belonged in a museum for everyone. Lassiter and O'Hara's word wasn't enough for a warrant against the kind of money Montesserat and Simons obviously had, but catching Despereaux with the painting would be enough to convince him to turn on Alara for a lighter sentence.
Carlton wanted all three – Despereaux, Alara, and her husband – and he wanted it with every fiber of his being. So did Juliet. And since neither Ben nor Shawn could find them, especially now that they were staking out a mansion instead of hitting the tourist traps, they were free to want it more than they were afraid.
Hemingway wrote: "There is no hunting like the hunting of man; and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never really care for anything else."
It had been one of his favorite quotes from Criminal Minds, beautiful in its truth and simplicity. Now, spending his trauma leave perched behind a sagebrush waiting for dangerous felon to show up, the quote nagged at him. Burned him. Was this what Ben had seen, what had drawn Ben to choose Carlton out of all the detectives and ex-military targets he could have chosen?
Was he really so different from the men who'd chased him through the woods?
Didn't that make him a monster, as much as what he'd done that Juliet said she forgave him for?
On the second night he confessed his doubts to Juliet. They were spending sixteen hours on, eight hours off to minimize the time they were alone. Alone time could end in unexpected sleep, or a bored dullness to the mind that led one to make mistakes.
Her reply was simple: "If this makes you an animal, Carlton, it makes me one as well because I'm right here with you. Am I a monster?"
His reply was instant: "Never."
"This is what we do, Lassiter," Juliet continued, taking her eyes away from the Simons home to look at her partner, her hand resting warm and comforting on his knee in the night air. "We find bad people who want to hurt other people, and we put them away for as long as we can. If we have to kill them to protect someone or to protect someone else, we do because we don't have another choice in that moment. That's not the same as paying to kill someone we've never met, or killing someone because we enjoy it."
Carlton looked back at the Simons home. If he was an animal – and he was, Lassiter was still certain – than at least he was a tamed one.
"Wake up!" Juliet hissed when Despereaux appeared. Before, she would have shook his shoulder or his leg, but she wasn't naïve enough to do that now. It was nearly 7AM, dawn just waning. Mr. Simons had left for a business trip the night before, and Randy-Quad was still at his boarding school in Europe.
Carlton made a sleepy sound and roused himself.
"What?"
"Despereaux." She didn't need to say anything more. Carlton shot up, adjusting his seat and wiping the sleep from his eyes. He took the binoculars from the glove compartment. Despereaux entered the property same way he'd entered the first night they'd seen him with Alara, but with key differences. He walked up instead of being dropped off in a car. After greeting the Malinois he gave it a piece of meat, doubtlessly drugged. He even knew the dog's Dutch "take" command. He dodged the servants just as he had the night before, winding his way up the office. He slid the reproduced painting aside.
Juliet twitched. If they were on-duty, they could rush in with backup at their heels and have them both. But they weren't on-duty or in-jurisdiction. A citizen's arrest wasn't valid on private property belonging to another. They had to wait until Despereaux got into the street with the stolen goods.
They watched as Despereaux removed the painting. It was only 18 inches tall, just small enough to be wrapped in silk and lowered on the old-fashioned dumbwaiter. Despereaux tracked back across the quiet home. They lost sight of him.
Juliet tensed, scanning to the left as Carlton scanned to the right. They couldn't have lost him. Well, they could, Despereaux was tricky like that, but it would be a bitter loss.
Juliet heard the rattle of a diesel engine laboring up hill. She turned her camera to face the source of the sound: a laundry service truck.
"Got him," Lassiter said, sharp and clear. "The old laundry cart trick."
Indeed, she didn't have to be a lip reader to see the servants were complaining to the laundry men how much heavier the cart was than normal. The cart – which was more than big enough to hold a man and the painting with sheets and towels on top – was loaded into the truck and the door slid shut.
"Perfect crime my ass," Lassiter spat, starting up the car. "Nothing more than a common criminal."
Juliet grabbed her weapon, her pulse rushing. This was it. Despereaux wouldn't be able to pull the painting from the cart and exit with it while the truck was being loaded. He had to plan to exit at the laundry facility itself. He probably had a car parked nearby, and a jet on standby.
Lassiter caught up to the laundry truck and passed it. Juliet leaped from the car as soon as Carlton parked. Lassiter parked sideways in the middle of the street: the truck couldn't just drive around.
"What the Hell?" the driver demanded.
"You've got a stowaway," Juliet said as Carlton ran around the side of the van. "And we want him."
"Are you crazy?" the driver said, his partner opening the door and stepping out. Neither of them looked menacing or even unsurprised. They weren't professionals, just an unsuspecting service crew. Despereaux had obviously heard Juliet talking, or else Carlton had reached the back of the van, because both she and the laundrymen heard the back of the van slide open.
They also heard the crack of flesh on flesh and a body hitting the pavement.
"Got him," Lassiter barked. Juliet pulled out the disposable cell they'd bought just for this purpose and dialed 911.
"San Francisco Dispatch. What is the emergency?" The woman's voice was disciplined.
"This is Juliet O'Hara at the corner of Brentwood and Oakwood," Juliet said calmly, even though her heart was racing. They'd done it, they'd actually done it. Even in a worst case scenario, that the charges didn't stick and they couldn't get the Simonses, the painting would still be returned to the museum and Despereaux would still be in police custody. Anyone who compared Despereaux's face to his photo would be compelled to order a re-submission and comparison to Despereaux's original DNA sample, which would still be in the processing lab's cold storage. He was going back to jail.
Juliet advanced around the van. Carlton was explaining to Despereaux that he was being legally apprehended as he slapped Juliet's cuffs on the fugitive.
"We just performed a citizen's arrest of a man stealing a painting," Juliet told the dispatcher.
"And how do you know he stole the painting, Ms. O'Hara?"
"We watched him do it, and took pictures. He took the painting from the office, used the dumbwaiter to get it to the basement, and then sneak out in a laundry cart. We need police at our location."
"One car has been dispatched, Ms. O'Hara. Please stay on the line."
Despereaux was grinning.
"And where is dear Shawn?" Smug bastard.
"He's not here," Juliet said, and didn't even pretend not to take satisfaction in the way Despereaux's face fell in confused disappointment.