12. LET'S KEEP THIS PROFESSIONAL

Ordinarily, Jane's habit of punching his way through every radio station while in the car would have made Lisbon's head want to explode. But the fact that they finally had something substantial to do on the case plus his recent good behavior induced her to let it slide. That plus the fact that the car radio could only pick up five stations as they drove deeper into nowhere. The first two blared tinny country music. The next played rap, then there was raucous jazz—not the soft kind—and when the last station emitted a kind of Bolly-techno sound, Jane turned it back to the jazz and lowered the volume. Lisbon realized he meant for it to be background music so they could talk. Great.

Before he could start, however, her cell gave off a shrill set of tones. She glanced at the caller ID and groaned. She really would have preferred conversation with the man beside her. He looked at her questioningly, and when she showed him the screen, he grimaced at her in sympathy and turned the radio volume down further.

"Lisbon." She said curtly, not wanting to give anything away.

"Agent Lisbon, can you tell me why I've had three calls from the United States Army as well as the Adjutant General in the last hour, telling me that you are interfering with an ongoing military investigation and attempting to access classified information by breaching several security protocols? If I didn't know better, I'd think this was a Jane situation."

"No, ma'am, that is not what this is. Jane hasn't even come in contact with anyone from the military." She gave him a hard look, and he shook his head and crossed his heart. "We're handling the investigation in a thorough and professional manner, like we would any other case. In the process of pursuing various leads, we're looking at members of a Rangers' unit that was active during the Gulf War, and we're just trying to cover all bases."

Jane grimaced at her again, but this time it was in annoyance. Honestly? The woman sounded like she was reading out of the CBI manual. She gave him a look and a one-shoulder shrug as if to ask him, "Well, what should I say?" before she turned her attention back to the call. She didn't notice him taking out his own phone and punching in a number.

"Well, Agent Lisbon, I think you should be able to investigate Tina Landry's death without bringing the U.S. military down on our heads. I'm aware that you have a personal interest in this case, and I hope this isn't a matter of you . . . just a minute . . . Lisbon, is Jane with you?"

"Yes, ma'am, he is, but I assure you—"

The line went dead. Patrick's eyes brightened as he spoke into his phone.

"Yes, hello, Madeleine. I just want to assure you that we're doing everything necessary to solve this case . . . No, no, I've been with Lisbon the whole time . . . No, just needed some background information for the case. That's why we were hoping someone could question Carl Woolsey. Apparently, there's some sort of mix-up with the army—I don't know what that's all about, but I'm sure you'll be able to smooth things over with very little effort. Just work your magic the way you do . . . Madeleine? I'm sorry, we're heading into some pretty isolated countryside . . . I may lose you."

He rolled down his window and held his phone outside the moving vehicle as he continued to yell toward it.

"I . . . sorry . . . breaking up!" Snapping the phone shut, he rolled the window up and turned to face her as he slid his cell back into his pocket. She was looking straight ahead, mouth gaping in disbelief, still holding her open phone. She finally managed to tear her eyes away from the road.

"Jane! What the hell—?"

"Oh, come on. You didn't want to listen to her kvetch at you on and on about something you're going to keep at anyway, did you? . . . Be honest." He hurriedly added when he saw her forming a protest.

She rolled it around mentally for a few seconds, then snapped her phone shut and dropped it into a cup holder on the console. Her voice was much lower—more subdued—when she spoke again.

"She's got reason to be concerned, you know. I feel like we're just sort of blundering through this. I'm not sure what we even hope to find out from Bowles."

He liked keeping Lisbon slightly off balance—liked having her in his personal loop just enough to let her be part of what he was doing but not so much that she wasn't surprised by the outcome. He liked a big finish. Some things he just couldn't change. She had implied to him once in a moment when they were both angry that she didn't want to work with him, that she had no respect for his genius. She may have forgotten those words spoken over two years ago, but he hadn't, and sometimes they still stung a bit. Yes, he enjoyed Lisbon off balance, but only when the circumstances were of his making. To hear her unsure, questioning herself and her instincts and abilities always produced an uncomfortable weight in his chest.

"Look, we know Acer has something to do with this. We know he was in the Gulf War with Woolsey. It can't be coincidence."

"Why? Because according to you, there's no such thing?"

She still sounded disheartened. He thought for a moment.

"No. Because your instincts tell you it's not. You know there's something there; we just have to figure out what it is. It's a puzzle, and all of the pieces aren't in the box. Maybe Bowles is a part of the puzzle, maybe he's not. We've driven a lot further out of our way on less. We can't give up. You can't give up. You have to push and question and . . . blunder until you're sure you've covered everything, until you get whoever did this."

She was quiet for a while, seeming to absorb what he'd said. Eventually, the right side of her mouth lifted in a lazy quirk.

"Is that the end of the pep talk?"

"You should know better than anyone, Lisbon, that I don't do 'pep'."

She was surprised that he was willing to leave it at that when he reclined in his seat and closed his eyes. He wanted to give her some space, and there was too much seriousness hanging in the air. He decided not to talk unless she wanted to.

Jane was very comfortable being quiet with her. He had heard of "companionable silences" but had never experienced it firsthand with anyone until Lisbon. He had always thought he preferred noise and conversation.

The first time was sometime during the first year they worked together. The rest of the team had gone home for the evening, and, bored with being alone, he had wandered into her office and without invitation lain down on her couch. This in itself was not unusual, but his being silent was. He had thought to engage her in conversation, but noticing how engrossed she was in her forms and computer screen, he decided instead to let her work. Her quiet activity—the occasional turning of a page, the scratching of her pen and the clicking as she typed—were very soothing. Working without interruption relaxed her. The space around her was saturated with calm. It also allowed him to covertly watch her. Concentrating on her work, she didn't realize when she bit her lip, smiled to herself, grimaced at her cold coffee or stroked the cross that always lay against her throat. She also didn't notice his smiling "in his sleep" over such occurrences.

Over the next few weeks, he had experimented with repeat performances in the office and, eventually, in the car. Then, one evening before he could decide whether to trade his couch for hers, he had been quietly delighted to hear her walk out into the bullpen and take a seat at his unused desk near his much used couch to continue her work into the night.

He felt her starting to relax, and when the jazz station went into some mellow piano music, he didn't fight the light doze that overtook him.

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They arrived in Oasis a little less than an hour later. They drove past the Last Ditch to get a feel for the place. It looked like a front for enough illegal activity to keep vice and drug units busy full-time on its own. Lisbon parked across the street, hauled herself out of the SUV and started to head toward the bar as Jane pulled off his jacket and threw it in the back seat.

"You're not going in like that, are you?"

Unsure of what he was getting at, she let the question hang in the air.

"You look like a cop." He rolled up his sleeves, squinting at her against the bright sun.

"I am a cop."

"Well, yes, you are, but if you go in there as 'Agent-Lisbon-CBI-we-need-to-ask-you-some-questions', I can guarantee you won't get any takers."

When she rolled her eyes and walked back toward him, he knew she was seriously considering what he was saying. He motioned toward a small shop with a placard in the window denoting the place as "Cecily's", but the clothing in the window belied the demure name.

"I'm sure we can find whatever we need in this lovely establishment."

He pushed the door open and reached back for her, grasping her wrist and pulling her forward then moving his hand to her back and sweeping her through the opening. Lisbon took two steps into the shop, froze for an instant then started to back out.

"Jane, I think we need to find another shop."

"This is the only one that I saw that carries women's clothes, so unless you're hoping to find something to wear in the taxidermy place down the street, you'd better start shopping."

Twenty minutes later, they stepped out into the street, on their way to meet Arthur Bowles. They'd found out from the sales clerks at Cecily's that Bowles had lived in the area all of his life and that he was some kind of war hero. His wife had left him a few years ago, and he had won "The Ditch"—as the locals called it—in a poker game, playing owner and bartender and—due to his size and violent proclivities—bouncer. He was barely keeping his head above water financially, in spite of the many "side businesses" in which he engaged. It never ceased to amaze Jane what information there was to be had in a small town if you just asked the right people.

"Try to relax, woman. I know this isn't the first time you've worn a skirt. And are you going to carry your gun and badge into the bar like that?"

"This is the first time I've worn part of a skirt—well, since I was seventeen, anyway. And just where would you suggest I carry my gun?"

All of this was hissed at him through clenched teeth. She had stopped on the sidewalk and rounded on him, angry that he'd managed to talk her into the highly inappropriate outfit she was wearing. Why did she let him get her into this crap?

She blushed and looked away as he let his eyes roam over her. She was wearing a snake-skin print skirt in shades of deep silver and dark gray that stretched tight to fit her, the hem cutting across her mid-thigh. The top was thick, stretchy black lace with wide straps that rested just at the curve of her shoulder and was lined with a narrow solid black strapless bra insert. Her gun and badge weren't the only things she had to remove to accommodate the outfit. She didn't mind the shoes so much. She'd wanted black gladiator sandals for a while but hadn't bought them because she couldn't imagine when she would ever wear them. She just hoped she didn't have to chase anybody. Or sit down.

Jane's silent consideration of her dilemma was starting to make her feel very uncomfortable. She hadn't meant for him to put that much thought and . . . perusal into it.

She looked at him, half afraid of just where his eyes might be and was surprised to see him looking at her face. No . . . not her face . . . her neck. He was looking at her neck.

Lisbon had swept her hair up into a high ponytail, relaxing it at her crown to give it some height. He had never seen her wear her hair this way and knew it was because it was too distinctly feminine for her to indulge in it at work. It wasn't nearly as serviceable as the low bun or ponytail in which she usually contained her curls. Now, without the serious-cop/old-maid-librarian hair and the standing collar of her usual oxford shirt, he could see the full graceful sweep of her neck. He'd recognized the slender waist beneath her protective and professional layers, and had caught a glimpse of the toned, shapely legs once when he'd seen her in that oversized men's sports jersey. But her neck . . .

She turned in an embarrassed huff and marched to the SUV. Opening the door, she leaned in to slide her weapon and badge under the front passenger seat and tossed her discarded clothes into the back. When she extended one leg behind her to balance herself, he let his eyes slide down the length of her body slowly and back up again.

"Lisbon, I've always known you're attractive. Lovely even. But you are actually quite hot."

She snapped upright and wheeled to face him, standing stiff.

"Jane—"

"Seriously. You are fiercely and undeniably hot."

Deep pink seemed to soak into her cheeks from beneath her skin. She pulled self-consciously at the hem of her skirt and bit her bottom lip at the same time. Why had he never thought of doing something like this before? She wasn't just hot. She was downright winsome—a blending of innocent and seductive. He had to take a deep breath to steady himself. Lisbon didn't seem to be as affected.

"Well, Bowles isn't going to come out and talk to us, so I guess we'd better go in."

He nodded and stepped to her side as she looked both ways before crossing the street. A few minutes later, when the patrons of The Ditch got a look at her, he thought this might have been one of the worst ideas he'd ever had.