Chapter Thirteen: There's Only So Far You Can Go When You're Living In A Hallway That Keeps Growing

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Disclaimer: I credit Wikipedia for its information regarding a certain benzodiazepine derivative. I do not own references to Edgar Allan Poe's The Tell Tale Heart. Once again, I do not own lyrics to Hungry Lucy's song Grave. I do not own the theme song to Cops. I do not own any references to The 12 Days of Christmas song. I also do not own references to The Shining.

Author's Note: (For the end of this chapter): I just want to let my readers know that I promise I am not going to go all "Law & Order: SVU (Special Victims Unit)" on you. That subject matter (of that show) is not what this story is about . . . should your minds run wild. (Which is fine, if your minds do run wild; adds intensity. ;D). The characters themselves might wonder about it for a little while, but I swear that is not the direction I intend.

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Test run by: Greg Motgemery

Test run for: Burton Guster

Source: empty water glass. Source was swabbed for residual trace; trace found most prominent on bottom of glass, also on sides. Residue found to contain nearly twice a normal dosage.

Flunitrazepam

C16H12FN3O3

Classified as a nitrobenzodiazepine

FDA considers this an illegal drug in the United States of America.

Marketed as a hypnotic drug and has sedative, anticonvulsant, antianxiety, amnesic, hypnotic and skeletal muscle relaxant properties.

Oh. My. God, Gus thought, wondering if Greg's findings were somehow mistaken. But Greg was the best; he knew exactly what he was doing at all times. Gus ran a hand over his mouth. Detective Lassiter was forced to swallow this before he had been abducted. A while ago, when he'd first started reading, sweat beads began to march across his skin. This was very important but very dangerous information, Gus knew all of a sudden. He stood up abruptly. I have to make copies of these pages, he thought. Just in case.

He hesitated in his quest as his eyes ran over the lines:

Flunitrazepam may have a paradoxical reaction in some individuals causing symptoms including anxiety, aggressiveness, agitation, confusion, disinhibition, loss of impulse control, talkativeness, violent behavior, and even convulsions. Paradoxical adverse effects may even lead to criminal behavior.

Criminal behavior? What if, as the result of being given this, Lassiter had turned to murder? But then Gus read another part again:

The effects of flunitrazepam last for approximately four to six hours. Some residual effects can persist up to 12 hours or more after administration.

When had Max Sweets' been killed? Gus counted back the days. Sweets' body had been found on August 5, but had they released a date or time of death? He'd have find that out. And if any blood was found at the scene. Lassiter had been reported missing midday of July 31, and then found on August 2. But it seemed like the body wasn't found until after Lassiter had been admitted to the hospital. Lassiter had been arrested on the 7th, after the body was identified and the gun traced to the detective. So, Lassiter had been abducted sometime in the night of July 31, drugged then . . . so that meant the drug should be out of his system sometime around mid-morning, midday August 1. Syringe. Right, Lassiter said he was given something else. So, if the first drug made him sleep, what did the second drug do? Gus wondered, hoping it had nothing to do with shooting some innocent man.

Without completely thinking it through, Gus dialed Juliet's number and asked for classified police information. He felt a little guilty doing it, knowing that Shawn had a bad influence on his behavior sometimes. Maybe it's a good thing, he reflected, after hanging up the phone. Shawn's persistence seemed to get him somewhere; Gus could only hope to have similar luck.

After he'd read the stack of papers three or four times, Gus was got up to make copies. In urgency, he hurried down to the copier and made two sets of copies from the twenty pages results. Gus took both sets back to his office, meaning to take them home later, but realized he had to do those demo runs this afternoon. Swallowing some pride, he got up from his desk and slipped the two copies in his bag. Gus tucked the original prelims in a desk drawer, and left a note on his door that read:

Left some product info packets on my kitchen table, need them, going to get them. Be back soon.

—B. Guster

This was just in case one of his bosses happened to walk by. Gus kept his face relaxed and neutral on his way out, making small talk with coworkers about meetings or new products whenever he had to, but none of them seemed concerned that he was leaving the building so early.

Gus drove to his apartment, feeling like he had the telltale heart in his bag. He got out of the car and opened his front door, making sure to the lock it behind him. He took one set of the copies and rolled them up into a tight tube and hid them with a roll of promotional pharm. posters he'd received at work in the back of his closet, behind a pile of old clothes he rarely touched. The second set he left flat, stuffed into a plastic bag for safe keeping, and then pushed it into a broken wall vent behind his bed. He used this as a safe, since it was virtually hidden from sight and useless as a heating or cooling unit. Collecting himself, he was calm as he went out the door, trying to make up a plausible story for his absence on his way back to work. He got back in with barely any notice, and the rest of the day was uneventful. Before leaving for the demo runs, Gus remembered he still had Greg's premlin results. He picked up the phone to call, and opened the desk drawer where he'd left the pages.

The pages weren't there. Gus's palms started to sweat. He closed that drawer and opened another, thinking that he may have been mistaken about which drawer he'd left them in. None of the drawers, nor the space on top of his desk, held the results. Where the hell are they? he thought with dread, doing his best not to panic. Who would possibly be interested in these results . . . who even knew about them? Himself, Greg . . . that was all, right? Unless Jimmy was included, and hadn't been as clueless as he seemed. Gus searched his office with no luck. He got up and went to his door, tentatively glancing down the hall as if the culprit were still hovering, watching him. He scowled and went back inside. This was no time for paranoia. He looked again, but still came up empty handed.

Finally, his responsibility gene kicked in and he called down to the lab, and asked for Greg. He was told that Greg left early; some kind of family emergency. Gus felt sick, and sank down in his chair. Maybe Greg had already been up here and retrieved the packet himself. Or sent Jimmy for it. Why not leave me a note, then? Gus asked himself. Maybe . . . it was more discreet not to? Gus swallowed his fear; he had to get ready for the demos. This whole thing was going to have to wait until tomorrow.

* * *

Detective Samuelson knocked on Chief Vick's door. He was surprised, though he concealed it well, to see her resting her head on her propped up elbows, staring into space. She straightened curtly, her mouth pinched. "Detective." She regarded him with her full attention.

"I wanted to inquire about Lassiter's interrogation, ma'am."

Vick sighed, "What about it?"

"Well, will it be continued?"

Vick looked into the space ahead of her, though her mind replayed the events of that first interrogation. Lassiter slumped over, resembling a person near death— she frowned deeply, hating the way that image came to her— then, Carlton's lawyer screaming at her and accusing her of coercion, of abuse. Coercion on her own Head Detective. Suspended, she reminded herself. Looking Samuelson in the eyes, she sighed again. "I'm sorry, Detective. Not yet. I want to send the psychoanalyst for another pass; she suggested that if he were to be questioned again, both she and Mr. Oswley would be present."

Samuelson's forehead creased. "That can't be normal procedure." He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her response.

Vick resisted the urge to smirk sardonically, or throw Samuelson out of her office. "These are not the usual circumstances, Samuelson," she said in a low, authoritative voice which made him stand up straighter.

"Ma'am, I wasn't suggesting—"

Vick held up her hand. "Explanations are not necessary. But I'm sorry," she repeated. "A second interrogation will have to wait." She dropped her gaze though she could still feel his frustrated stare. I'm not playing favorites, she thought defensively, as if Samuelson had asked the question aloud.

Though she imagined it took him a great deal of control, Karen heard Samuelson comment neutrally, "I understand, Chief," on his way out. He eased her door closed so the lock popped a little. She had been going over her conversation with Dr. Rhodes for the past day and a half; admittedly, Karen was worried. She was getting more worried that there really was something larger than "convenient amnesia" going on with Lassiter— but she couldn't just halt the murder investigation to figure out what it was. Karen had a strong desire to go see him in person; the last time she'd seen him had been that awful day at the station; he had appeared so haggard, so betrayed. She feared she might take that look on his face to her grave— at least, it may haunt her for some time to come.

That awful day was the second time she had ever observed him faint since she'd started at SBPD as interim Chief almost four years ago. Recalling both times chilled her; there had been many brutal crime scenes over these years, and SBPD officers put in the hospital with life threatening injuries, and through it all Lassiter remained in control, stoic, unflinching. A rock. He was not the type of man who let his emotions slosh about; well, even this late in the game, Vick had to admit that, besides the uncharacteristic reactions Lassiter had presented, very little, other than anger or hurt, tightened his face. She truly missed the authoritative, persuasive man who barked orders, whom other cops looked up to with both a respectable fear and an unwavering admiration. How could this man be gone in such a short period of time? a little inner voice asked. Her mind flashed to a specific part of her conversation with Dr. Rhodes.

"I believe your detective experienced a trauma. Its dreams, or whatever the correct terminology maybe, perhaps, memories, are putting a terrible strain on him, both physically and emotionally. His body reacts to the stress by fainting. . . . you need to admit that Detective Lassiter was kidnapped, which is traumatic enough, and that something terrible occurred while he was in the hands of his abductors."

"Something terrible," Vick said aloud, her voice thin among the few possessions within the space of her office. Dr. Rhodes had then gone onto admit that she, after meeting Carlton only once and hearing his side of the story, believed in him wholeheartedly. What was this doctor seeing— as well as Oswley, for that matter— that she wasn't?

Vick knew O'Hara was more than concerned; she wasn't her usual pleasant self; her temper flared, her lips often in a hard line. It was as if she knew something was wrong but couldn't put her finger on it, or do a thing about it.

Still, Karen couldn't ignore the facts. Even if, in its slimmest possibility, Carlton had been abducted the way he said he had, he was still implicated in the murder. It was his gun with his fingerprints on it at the crime scene. His ammo found lodged in the victim's spine and the victim's blood all over the ripped t-shirt witnesses saw him wearing before he collapsed. The simple fact that he was wandering the same beach where the body was dumped. And what about Lassiter's reaction to Samuelson's question that he may be the shooter but be unable to remember? She shuddered, recalling Lassiter's skittishness after he awoke, glancing around and behind him as if being watched. That day it seemed nothing would ever bring him around. O'Hara's and Samuelson's voices bouncing loudly off the walls, his name, again and again, and "Wake up!", shaking him. Not even smelling salts worked. Ten minutes that seemed to last two hours. This incident was too closely matched to the day—

Her eyes narrowed suddenly. She had been so concerned with the state of things of late that it just occurred to her that she hadn't seen hid nor hair of either Mr. Spencer or Mr. Guster, not since that day that she, O'Hara and Shawn had had to break down Lassiter's door. What could be keeping those two so busy that they had no need of hanging around the station?

Karen did not want Lassiter to be guilty, but this case was not about what she wanted. Part of her hoped this was all some huge misunderstanding or sick practical joke, but until someone came forward, with evidence, and explained it to her, she had to keep her guard up. "I'm sorry," she whispered to the empty room.

* * *

Carlton, having finished smearing antiseptic on his small cut, stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His blue eyes look back, full on, solemn, introspective. The text message he'd received from Spencer had been nagging him. How in the world could he have come to that conclusion— that somehow, Roman Cavaliere was involved in . . . all this? Lassiter shook his head, and said firmly, "It's not possible." He liked hearing himself say the words— they grounded him; he liked the heaviness of their fact.

Maybe, just maybe, he could give his old partner a call, old time's sake— he shook his head again. What the hell would you ask him? he scoffed at himself. Gee, Adam, are you absolutely certain, as in 100 percent certain, without a doubt, that Cavaliere is in the ground? Have you heard differently? He clenched his teeth and scowled at his own idiocy. There was no way in hell he would ever do that, not to himself, or to Marks. Hell, Marks would probably slam the phone down in his ear.

Lassiter let his mind wander back to the trial, the day of sentencing in particular. Both he and Adam Marks were present, both having testified more than once against the defendant. Cavaliere hadn't said one word to either of them. He hadn't given them a snide glance or scowled with his eyes or made any gesturings that mimicked death, such as drawing a finger across his throat or shaping his fingers like a firing pistol. There hadn't been a single threat coming out of the man's mouth. No . . . it was eerie, Carlton recalled, sitting next to Marks and his fellow SBPD colleagues in his pressed dark blue police uniform. Cavaliere had not exhibited a single emotion— not anger, fear, or remorse. He may, just following the sentence, have seemed deflated but the stone face remained. Lassiter recalled that Marks had cursed; the sentence should have been death, not merely life in prison with no chance of parole.

Lassiter tried to remember if any from the Cavaliere family had made any threats; he couldn't. After the sentence was announced, the courtroom had exploded with weeping; but it came from all sides— the many victims' families weeping for justice served, and possibly the Cavalieres weeping in disgrace of their fallen son. He remembered his reckless sneer just after the judge announced Roman Cavaliere to be led off by the bailiff to begin his sentence, which his partner had caught and set his face back to neutral with one stern look. Hell, I was just a kid, Carlton remembered, silently defending himself as if Marks were seated at his right in the courtroom pew at this moment.

Well, Carlton thought sourly, I couldn't call Marks even if I wanted. He was too ashamed to have one more person, especially the man he'd so respected as a young officer, also questioning his sanity. This isn't you, he could almost hear his old partner scold, making such outrageous claims without any evidence to back them up. Did you learn nothing from me, kid? He winced. Okay, so it seemed any kind of reminiscing lately was the most unpleasant action other than experiencing pain.

Lassiter turned off the light and went towards the kitchen, catching the latest note still pinned to the curtain out of the corner of his eye. He tried to push down the twinge of unease as the note's sentences flooded his mind, and swallowed two of the pills he'd been taking steadily to dull the pain in his wrist. What would Marks say if he saw these notes? Or Vick, or even O'Hara? Stupid, he scoffed. He already had an answer picked out that they would all choose immediately: obviously, wanting to ensure that his "abduction story" was plausible, he had written them himself. He shook his head again, trying to let his mind go blank, but words hovered.

What if— could they—? No. Don't be so— The words flashed as Lassiter thought about Spencer's mention of Cavaliere. Life's blood leaving my veins. Now I lie in my grave. A jab of panic, then the prickly sensation on the back of his neck. Don't turn around. He needed to banish the dread before it could engulf him, before he was a shaking huddle on the floor. He had never had anxiety attacks before. There were always gruesome cases every now and then that still made his stomach flip, or bit him at that raw emotional level that he was unaccustomed to knowing that well. And sure, sometimes bad dreams would linger after particularly nasty cases . . . . but then, he hadn't experienced any such thing.

Who else will taunt me? Carlton smacked his open palm on the counter, trying to get a grip. He was annoyed with himself. He started making another pot of coffee to keep his hands busy, carefully measuring each scoopful and adjusting the water accordingly. His mind wandered back to the conversation he'd had with his old partner the day the news hit the station.

* * *

August 26, 1998

"Will there be an investigation?" twenty five year old Carlton asked Adam Marks, then a man of medium build with a touch of gray to his flat brown hair. Marks was shorter and less lean than his young partner, as well as fifteen years his senior.

Marks smiled, making the lines around his eyes crinkle. "You don't have to worry about that," he said, patting his partner's shoulder once. His young partner looked eager, ready for anything at a moment's notice, which Marks appreciated. "You're going to go far, kid," he liked to say, to him. "With your toil, and great need for success, you helped crack this case wide open. Imagine, your first— helping put away a notorious slime ball drug lord who terrorized Santa Barbara for all these years— a creep who always managed to worm out of charges."

"A team effort, sir. That's what life's all about," Carlton interjected politely, with a small smile that wanted to turn into a grin, but then he grew solemn. "But sir, this, uh, incident— it's not—"

Marks squeezed his shoulder. "It's not anyone's fault. These aren't things you can just monitor." He paused. "Justice works in mysterious ways."

"Sir?" Lassiter's eyes opened wide, but waited for his partner to continue.

"All I'm saying is that we did our job. We caught the bastard and got him locked up for good— off the streets, away from innocent kids. What happened— well, it's not in our job description to make sure prisons are 'safe' for criminals."

"Yes, sir," Carlton said with respect. He regarded his partner with the rigid posturing of a recent Academy graduate, though he was still getting used to the idea that he'd been an actual police officer for a little over two years now. Having more than assisted to put away one of Santa Barbara's most dangerous criminals, he was confident for his next case, whatever it should be.

Marks added, "This case is in the ground— literally." He started walking down the hall, Lassiter keeping his up stride. "This is going to open many doors for you— your diligence, your hard work, the stake-outs where you put off sleeping for 48 hours at a time. Everything you did— officials of Santa Barbara will sit up and take notice. Have you thought about your future?"

"Yes, sir," young Lassiter answered immediately. "I'm willing to work harder, put away more SOBs, and never sleep, if that's what it takes. I want to make Head Detective, sir. But you know that."

"Yes," Marks chuckled. "You've been telling me that since the first day you were assigned as my partner."

"It's what I still want. I'm determined to achieve my goals, sir."

Marks nodded, smiling warmly in admiration of Lassiter's high aspirations. "Well, I have faith that you won't give up. For some detectives, they work twenty years or more before attaining promotion. Are you in it for the long haul?"

Lassiter nodded. "Yes. This is— this is what I'm meant to do with my life. Serve and protect."

Marks fixed him with a calculating eye. "Now, you know that being a cop doesn't necessarily make you some kind of superhero."

Lassiter's face was more serious. "No, I understand that. It's just— this case, all the hard work put into getting that scum bag locked up— it felt damn good, sir." Lassiter patted the center of his chest, and Marks nodded. "It just felt right— but I don't think I'm any kind of hero. I'm just doing the job I was meant to do."

Marks' face opened up again, and he grinned. "Just testing you, kid. I know you're damn good at this job— you're a natural. I'd predict that, if you keep up a steady case load at the level of the Cavaliere case, you'll make Head Detective in no less than fifteen years." He held his gaze on Lassiter to make certain his young partner wasn't getting an inflated head, but Lassiter took this comment with a respectful twinkle in his eyes.

"Thank you, sir."

"Your rate of success up to this point was stellar— that's why I specifically requested to the Chief that you were ready for more responsibility and that you were more than capable of working the Cavaliere sting." Marks laughed again. "And I was right."

* * *

Carlton heard the coffee pot shut off. He sighed. The aroma was thick and bittersweet. He hoped it would cancel out the vanilla perfume that seemed to still dance in the air before his front window, which he'd opened to help dispel the scent. He got a mug and poured himself a cup, careful not to spill any on the counter.

The pad of paper where he'd written his latest memory still sat on the edge of the island; he grabbed it and took his coffee to the couch. He took a sip, and then set it down. He flipped to the pages and reread them, stopping when he read that the man who had spoken to the woman— Donia— had said, "Your geocatoelow tried to save his life with that shirt." 'Tried to save his life', Carlton blew out an audible breath and pushed his shoulder blades against the back of the couch. Could that be—? A wave of red blurred his vision, as if he had his eyes against a panel of stained glass. When it didn't abate, he wiped furiously at his eyes. Please, he implored whatever may be the cause of this to stop. Instead, the color deepened to vermilion, and he closed his eyes to stop seeing it.

Involuntarily, he wiggled his toes inside his shoes. He could feel— his soles bare, warm, granules of sand clinging to the hair at his ankles. Waves crashed— to his left, but somewhat at a distance. Seabirds called out, maybe a handful, dipped against the gray-blue water— oh, he could see the water. He watched the birds with detached interest; the sun half hidden behind some white clouds. Ocean air wafting into nostrils, grit of sand on his feet. Fumbles of human voice wove into his hearing of the birds' caw caw caw. A roar, no, it was a bark. Or a snap. A crack? Loud, very, very loud. He jumped, heard a muffled cry, then gurgling. A hand grabbing his hand, forcing it around the shape of an object, solid, black, hot— familiar, he realized. He dropped it, rushed forward, offering red to stop up the red-black that was all over, as if a volcano had erupted.

A phone rang. Carlton wondered distantly where it was coming from. He pushed himself up from his couch— when did I go to sleep? He realized he had a splitting headache, and the phone's shrill ring wasn't helping any.

What if this proves you are innocent? The sentence slid across his mind clearly; Carlton opened his eyes wide. That's right. That was the thought he'd been trying to finish— the phone shrilled one more time and then stopped. Lassiter wiped a hand across his face, then reached for the pad. The images weren't as clear as other dreams or memories, but he put down what he could, right below the memory he'd had while at the sink.

He could already hear the words coming out of Spencer's mouth: "Like a river of blood, splashing all over everything? Like in The Shining?" Lassiter frowned with annoyance at the probable gleam in Spencer's eye as he made yet another movie reference.

Bad boys, bad boys, whatcha gonna do . . . Lassiter got up, recognizing that ring. He found his cell on his night stand, and answered it.

"Why the hell aren't you answering your phone?" Shawn snapped before the Lassiter could even say his own name.

"How did you get my home number?" Lassiter shot back, a deep frown on his face.

Shawn made an exasperated sound. "Lassie, the spirits work in mysterious ways."

"So help me, Spencer," Lassiter warned. There was a sharp knock at his front door.

"You didn't text me back," Shawn whined.

"Because what you asked— it's not kind of thing I can sum up with some stupid symbols," Lassiter snarled harshly. He wandered out to the front room. "Are you at the door?"

"If I say no, are you still going to answer it?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes, and then pressed the "end call" button out of sheer spite. It felt good— a little nocuous too, but mostly good. He still couldn't figure out how Spencer had come to this conclusion that Roman Cavaliere— it was insane.

There was another knock, and then Lassiter recognized the obnoxious sound of slurping liquid through a straw. "I'm not going away, you know," Spencer called from the other side of the door. "I don't know how you think talking like this— through the door, Lassie— is easier than a text message."

Shawn heard Lassiter unlock the door with some kind of barely veiled curse. Shawn took another slurp of his smoothie; he'd found the vendor where Juliet must have found the pineapple drink. Shawn nodded smugly as the door opened, but the expression slipped a little when he walked through the door frame and was hit with the strong fragrant vanilla; he flashed back to that night Lassiter had first pointed out the woman that he remembered, and when Shawn had chased her through the darkness, the air all around that night this same scent. Shawn hadn't thought that much of it, but here it was. Then his eyes went straight to the note pinned to the curtain of the front window.

"Geez, you found it inside your place?" Shawn asked, his eyes still focused on the paper. He went towards it. He set the plastic cup down on the end table with the land line and the house arrest box monitor.

"Yeah. Turns out she was watching me— from inside, this time." Shawn heard Lassie try to keep his tone dull, but could still pick up small infusions of disbelief and fear. Lassiter sighed. "Spencer, where the hell did you hear that name?" Reluctance now.

Shawn was reading over the note. It was honestly more scary in person. He turned slowly, an eyebrow raised. "What name would that be?"

"Roman. Cava. Liere," Lassiter pronounced slowly, as if with each syllable, he were spitting nails.

"Oh," Shawn said. "That name. Well, it's a funny story actually." He glanced at Lassiter, who had that "I'm-going-to-kill-you" look plastered all over his face. "See, it starts with me and— the spirits Googling 'Notte'. You know what that word means, Lassie?" It was too bad he couldn't tell the older man that it was Juliet who had opened this door because she had been the one who questioned the nationality of the name. Lassiter's mouth wasn't moving, because his face looked like cut stone, so Shawn continued. "It means 'night', in Italian. So, cleverly, I deducted that if I put your name into Google with the word 'Italian', I would get a solution." Of course, there were a more steps than that, but Lassiter didn't look like he was in the mood to hear them.

"You Googled me?" Lassiter asked, the stone facade breaking a little for disgust. "That was your great plan?" Carlton actually had to laugh, he couldn't help it.

Shawn rolled his eyes. "Did you hear me? 'Notte' means 'night' in Italian. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"What the hell does that have to do with Roman Cavaliere?"

Shawn swung his backpack around to his front and pulled open the first zippered pocket. He pulled out some of the articles he and Juliet had found during their initial research. The one on top was from the August 1998 Santa Barbara Daily. Lassiter took them, scanning them with a vague familiarity. He shrugged.

"Well?" Shawn prodded. "Anything?"

Lassiter sighed. "There's a huge flaw in this solution of yours, Spencer."

"What's that?" Shawn grumbled, feeling that Lassiter was deliberately trying to hold back.

"Let me get this straight," Lassiter changed the subject, "you think that just because 'Notte' has an Italian reference, and because Cavaliere was of Italian nationality, that he's the only possible criminal who might—"

"No," Shawn snapped again. "I wanted to find out from you if this guy was a lead or a dead end, Lassie. You know, before I wasted a bunch of time looking into the wrong person—" Shawn froze, his mind going back over the words Lassiter had just said. "'Was'? What do you mean, 'was'? Is that with an 's' or a 'z'?"

Spencer caught him off guard. He sputtered, now just realizing his slip. Lassiter had wanted to see if there could be any validation to what the kid may be saying— possibly, there may have been some kind of threat from the Cavalieres that he just couldn't remember . . . more than ten years had passed since then, after all. Lassiter sighed. "Yeah. Cavaliere's dead, Spencer."

"What? Are you sure?"

Spencer was so solicitous that Lassiter dropped the hard look in his eye. "Yeah, I'm sure. He was— killed in prison. He was supposed to do life; ironic, I guess, since he got death."

Shawn listened to Lassiter's strangely faraway tone, as if Lassie were speaking to someone other than him. "Why do you really think that—"

Shawn held up his head. "Can you tell me about the case? Who was this guy, Lassie? The one article I read said he was a drug lord who specialized in psychoactive drugs, but he never got caught because he was always hiding behind his well-known family name. Then when I Googled him, I got over 5000 hits, but none of those were more current than September 1998. How come I've never heard this name before?"

Lassiter nodded along, trying to be patient. He couldn't see how telling Spencer about the case had any real bearing on his current problems, but he figured Spencer wouldn't drop it until he relinquished the details. He drifted to his couch, and took a sip of the now cold coffee. Spencer didn't sit, but stood near the front window as if still looking at the note. They'd started the investigation in mid-1996, when Carlton had been twenty-three. "It was my first big case, the first one with responsibility, with too much at stake to even consider failing. They brought me and my former partner, Detective Adam Marks, in after they'd been at it for sixth months with pretty much a stalemate. Said they needed some new blood, new eyes. From the time I started work on it, I don't think I slept more than three or four hours a night for almost a year. The whole thing, from start to finish, was intensive, intrusive. But every second of frustrating crap paid off— we nailed him to the wall with condemning evidence." Lassiter paused, savoring the hard police work of this first important case from so many years prior for a few seconds. "Cavaliere had been at this kind of thing for years— he set up his first drug labs sometime during the mid-80s, though he was underground, most of his dealings on the black market."

"What was the drug of choice?" Shawn interrupted. He was still looking out the window, listening.

"Experimental stuff. Psychoactives mixed with psychostimulants, like LSD with amphetamines. The side effects of these mixes of course hadn't been studied, so there was no way to predict what the lasting result of the drugs on any person's system was going to be." Lassiter closed his eyes, his old anger rushing back. "Cavaliere's favorite target for human experimentation was children— quicker reaction, the desired hysteria, and then there was always the chance that the adults in the children's lives wouldn't be able even tell anything was wrong. He was a sick bastard."

"And it took the SBPD almost twenty years to catch him?"

Lassiter shot Shawn a sharp look. "Cavaliere and his drug rats were too smart for too long— they knew exactly how to cover their tracks, how not to leave a paper trail, when to move their labs to another abandoned hotel basement, when to fall back and cower behind that name." He scowled. "The Cavalieres used to be a powerful family in Santa Barbara in the 1980s and early 1990s."

Shawn's eyes widened. He spoke before he could stop himself. "Like the mafia?"

"No," Lassiter snapped. "There were not mafia associated. The Cavalieres were wealthy, towering, but for the most part, pillars of the community. They held many benefits for charities, they sponsored the arts, they offered scholarships and internships from the company they helped found— Central Coast Pharmaceuticals, actually."

"That's where Gus works," Shawn mumbled, more to himself. He cleared his throat. "So he was the only black sheep then?"

"I guess you could say that."

Shawn raised an eyebrow. "So what happened after Cavaliere's conviction? Did the family just— vanish?"

"They were proud people. They valued older traditions. One of their own had shamed them, had defiled their good family name. The Cavalieres sold Central Coast and moved on— to a place where they were unknown, to start over."

Shawn let out a low whistle. "That's harsh. One of those articles said that Roman Cavaliere was a— he killed kids."

Lassiter nodded. "Scum bag. It wasn't direct— like opening firing on a crowded playground, but it was just as goddamm bad." Lassiter clenched his fist until his knuckles turned white. "After some experimental batch of drugs had been produced, Cavaliere's workers would bring in filler for candy or prize machines— then they would coat them with the drugs and have their 'private company' fill these machines, up and down Santa Barbara."

Shawn nodded, his memory flashing over the article he'd read about the vending machines in front of El Trinciante. "Was the Westside a place Roman Cavaliere controlled?"

Lassiter thought hard, trying to clear his head. "Not exactly, but during that time it was a less affluent area than now—"

Shawn heard the echo of the hardware store owner's words in Lassiter's. "Geez, then it must have been a falling down dump—"

Lassiter opened his mouth to say something but closed it, remembering suddenly that that was the area where Spencer had been attacked. It could just be a coincidence, he reminded himself. "That's basically the whole story, Spencer. The trial was agonizing, listening to each family whose children were affected by drugged gumballs or poison infused jewelry, and then listening to Cavaliere's high powered lawyers trying to rebuke all the evidence against him. But we had 18 months of solid proof— it was over for him fast." Lassiter stopped, realizing how true and untrue that statement was.

Spencer was oddly silent. Lassiter peered over and saw that he was reading the note again. Shawn turned his head. "I really thought I had something here. Can you remember anyone— was it a large family, Lassie? Maybe some of them—"

"Oh," Lassiter mumbled. "Uh." He tried to pick out their faces in the courtroom, but he had only seem some in passing. Surely some had been only friends of the family? "I can't remember. The only time I ever saw them was in court, but I wasn't counting them out."

"You think she was standing here a long time?" Spencer sounded almost wistful.

Lassiter stiffened. "I don't know. I don't want to know."

"Lassie, what if this latest—" Shawn flicked the note. "What's if it's some message to get you to remember Cavaliere?"

Lassiter frowned. "Spencer, the Cavaliere family is gone from Santa Barbara. They were pariahs here after Roman was found guilty." Though, hadn't he wondered over this possibility earlier?

"The 'shadows' mentioned here could be the SBPD closing in on him. The 'devil's treasure' could be the pleasure he took in committing crimes against innocents," Shawn spoke hurriedly, attempting to continue his theory. "Then this part here about the grave, someone wants to remind you of his death—"

Lassiter turned slightly. He tried to make the best sense of what Spencer was saying, though Spencer's interpretation was chilling to him. "Or taunt me into expecting mine soon," he mumbled coldly.

Shawn ignored him. "This last part about the 'sad faces frowning' and the 'knife's blood burning'—" Shawn was about to joke about how the words seemed to be a demented version of that carol, The 12 Days of Christmas, when he got sight of how deadly white Lassiter's face had gone. "Lassie, what?"

The image of Spencer with his face cut up rushed back to Lassiter, unbidden. Spencer, with blood dripping down his arm, yelling at him, "You did this!" He heard a different voice, a cool purr, say, "You did this," with a little laugh. Donia. Then he heard her say, "And what happens if you talk to police?" "Something bad," Lassiter mumbled aloud. "Something bad."

"Lassie! Lassie!" Shawn shook Lassiter's shoulders frantically, trying to get the older man to awaken. Lassiter's eyes were rolled back in his head, but not closed, so Shawn could see whites of his eyes. Shawn admitted that it was seriously creepy. Lassiter seemed to be in between two worlds. His body was slack, all but his neck, which was tilted over the back of the couch. When Shawn tried to move Lassiter's head, his neck remained arched. God, I hope this isn't a seizure, Shawn thought, trying not to freak out.

"Donia," Lassiter murmured.

"What?" Shawn cried, shaking the detective more.

"Something bad. Something bad," Lassiter murmured. Some inner hold released, and Lassiter's entire body went slack and he crumpled forward. Shawn's mouth dropped open but he was able to catch Lassiter before the man's forehead slammed into the coffee table.

"Lassie?" Shawn asked louder. He pushed Lassiter back to the couch and then let go. Lassiter was still for a few moments; his eyes slowly opened. He noticed that Spencer was pacing, his mouth pulled into a tight line across his face. "What?" he started to ask, but Spencer cut him off.

"Who the hell is Donia, Lassie?"

"Don—" Her name stopped on his tongue. "How did you?" Why am I so groggy? he wondered.

Shawn threw up his hands. "You were just, like, passed out for five minutes, Lassie." Shawn frowned. "Don't tell me you don't remember!"

Lassiter frowned back with a dour expression. "How dare you," he began in a low snarl. Had he blacked out? He couldn't remember a thing.

"Who the hell is Donia, Lassie?" Shawn repeated louder, his eyes flashing.

"Donia Notte." Her name was out of her mouth before he could stop it. Spencer paused mid step, one foot in the air. "She's— I got this memory earlier, when I was cleaning up glass." He scrubbed a hand over his face, and then put his hand on the pad of paper, and held it out to Shawn. "Here."

Shawn just stared at it for a few seconds, then plodded over and took it, but didn't open it. "She's the one from the station? The one who cut you? The one I chased?"

Lassiter nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat.

"And when were you going to mention this?" Shawn asked, his voice raising with anger.

Lassiter looked up, momentarily surprised, but kept his cool. "I just did."

Shawn opened his mouth to scream profanities, but closed it quick. He felt overwhelmingly tired, and for once, unwilling to argue. He tossed the pad to the floor. "It was such a mistake, me trying to help you," Shawn spat. "What was I thinking? Gus tried to tell me. One of these days, I should start listening to him."

Lassiter was stunned, but kept his mouth shut. He let his face go blank.

"I mean, I almost get kidnapped, and you're still holding things back. Ugg!" Shawn clenched his teeth hard. He strode to the door, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

Lassiter got to his feet. "Spence—"

"Save it," Shawn shot back. "Deal with your stupid problems yourself." Lassiter winced when Spencer slammed the front door shut.

Anger and regret washing over him, Lassiter sank back down to the couch. Very slowly, the dream he'd had came back to him. Why did he keep seeing that ghost image? Life's blood leaving my veins, Now I lie in my grave. He hadn't recalled it until just now, but he wanted to spare Spencer that disturbing image anyway. He got up and picked up the pad from the floor, and retrieved the note and pin from curtain. Lassiter opened the pad to a blank page and pinned the note within. He sighed. He hadn't meant to keep anything from Spencer— since the kid had been so determined and insistent that he was also involved. "Well, maybe this is for the best," Lassiter said passively. "Keep him out of trouble— out of my trouble, anyway," he amended.

* * *

Juliet's mid-morning and afternoon were swamped, so she didn't have any free moments to check the computer databases. When she got a chance for lunch around 4 o'clock, she grabbed a meal bar out of her desk and ducked down the back stairs, headed for the room where pre-computer documents, closed case files, and cold cases, were filed. Juliet tried to come up with a plausible excuse why she was going down there.

"Hey, Charlie." Juliet smiled gratefully when she saw that Charlie, who was in his sixties and retired from field work, was the only person at the desk just inside the doorway to the files room. She kept her smile in place while signing her name.

"Hello, Detective O'Hara," Charlie said, his wrinkled skin crinkling into a smile for her. "What can I do for you today?"

Juliet paused, looking over his shoulder into the room with its various shelves stacked high with boxes. That's a good question, she thought, feeling a bit overwhelmed. Charlie cleared his throat, and her eyes went back to his face with an apologetic look. "Sorry, I . . ." Too late to chicken out now! she encouraged herself. She started with the simplest question. "Charlie, do you remember a Detective named Adam Marks?" Juliet started to add a time frame when she thought the detective would have been here, but Charlie's face lit up with dormant knowledge.

"Sure I do," he told her. "He was a detective with the SBPD for fifteen years." The man nodded, more to himself than to Juliet, she thought. She started to ask what happened to him, but Charlie supplied her with the information. "Yes, I certainly remember him. His last case here was that whole thing with that bastard Roman Cavaliere." Charlie frowned when he said Cavaliere's name, but then offered her a small smile. "Much before your time, Detective. Actually, Adam Marks was partnered with Detective Lassiter then— if I recall correctly, Lassiter was only about twenty-three or twenty-four at the time."

"Really?" Juliet's eyes were shining a little. Her partner seemed to talk so little about his early years; it was just nice to hear something about him. "You say that that case was Detective Marks' last here?" Her eyebrows arched pointedly.

Charlie chuckled, running a hand over his thin, steely gray hair. "Because of Marks'— and Lassiter's— performance on that case"— it wasn't lost on Juliet that Charlie tactfully did not mention Cavaliere's name— "Marks was promoted and transferred to the LAPD's narcotics division. Lassiter was still only an officer, but he exerted so much effort into putting that bastard in jail that it really got him noticed around the station."

Juliet nodded, imagining that this case was the springboard for launching Lassiter's career as Head Detective. Charlie confirmed her thoughts a few seconds later. She wondered if she would be pushing her luck if she asked Charlie to describe some of the case with her. "What kind of case was it?" she asked tentatively.

"Drugs," Charlie said, a glint in his gray eyes. "This creep they took down— Cavaliere— he was more than just a creator and distributor of unusual drugs."

"Oh?" Juliet asked, raising her eyebrows.

"He was a sociopath, if you want my personal opinion, Detective. Bastard got more pleasure out of handing out drug laced sweets to kids than the actual production of the drugs." The deep frown had returned to Charlie's face, making him look ten years older. "Hell of a case. It's really no wonder Lassiter shot straight to the top after that. Kid really proved himself— now he's Head Detective and all." Charlie looked at her conspiratorially. "Can you keep a secret, Detective?"

"Um, sure," Juliet said, her eyes focused on his face.

"I think this murder charge that got him on is a bunch of hooey. I know Lassiter. The kid's no killer."

Juliet nodded, feeling a warm sensation in her chest. It was little strange to hear Lassiter referred to as a "kid", but Charlie referred to anyone younger than himself as a "kid". Her answering smile was a little more than polite. "Thank you," she told him, very softly.

Charlie's eyes twinkled but he didn't respond to that. "You know," he said after a few moments, "the only thing that they weren't able to prove in that case was Cavaliere's connection to Central Coast. It seemed blatant— after all, his family owned it. Easy access to any combo of drug cocktails he could possibly want."

"I'm sorry, did you say Roman Cavaliere's family owned Central Coast? The Pharmaceutical company?"

"Certainly did," Charlie confirmed. "But after all of Roman's law troubles, they sold it. Whole family moved away, except him, since he was stuck in maximum security." Charlie saw the look on Juliet's face. "You gotta understand, Detective, the Cavalieres were too proud for their own good. Roman shamed them; from their point of view, there wasn't any coming back from that."

"Wow," Juliet muttered. She had never heard of such a thing before.

"Here I am, talking your ear off. Was there a file I could help you find?" He gestured behind him at the massive collection of white boxes.

Juliet itched to read through Lassiter's files on Roman Cavaliere, but knew that it wasn't something she could pull off without more of a solid purpose. Juliet suspected if she wanted to find out more, she was going to have to do her own research without aid of Lassiter's old case files. She had been lucky that Charlie had given her as much as he had. She shook her head slowly, glancing at her watch. She pretended that it was later than she had figured, and then thanked him for his conversation. He nodded and didn't push why she was leaving without seeing any files.

"Oh, the hospital," Charlie called out when Juliet was in the hall. She turned back around and appeared in the doorway with a quizzical look. "I'd almost forgotten," Charlie began, "the Cavalieres also had a wing at the hospital."

Juliet's brows knitted together. "At Santa Barbara General?"

"Yes," Charlie said, his face all lit up with remembering. "But after the trial, patients and their families complained. The whole fiasco produced enough bad press that Santa Barbara General actually removed the Cavaliere name from the wing, for some undisclosed sum." He paused, dropping his voice conspiratorially again, so she had to lean in to hear him. "Detective, would you like to peruse the case file?"

Juliet stood up straight, her cheeks flushing a little. She realized she had no business being down here, except for simple curiosity. "Ye—no," she said with a firm shake of her head. "But thank you for all your help." She smiled politely and took her leave.

Upstairs, she ducked into a break room and unwrapped her meal bar. As she chewed it, she let her thoughts wander back over her conversation with Shawn. Was going to him really a good plan? She sighed. She did have faith in SBPD's head psychic; he might be the only one able to prove Carlton innocent. She hoped Shawn could. Juliet wondered if he'd had a chance to talk to Lassiter— maybe something had been revealed that would prove helpful. I'll give Shawn a call tomorrow, she thought, if he doesn't drop by first.

* * *

Karen Vick was on her way out of the station for the evening when Buzz McNab nearly collided with her. He was holding unmarked VHS tape and an 8 x 11 manilla envelope in one hand. "Sorry, ma'am," he said hurriedly. "I'm glad I caught you before you left."

Karen stifled a sigh. "You were looking for me?" she asked, looking up into his dark brown eyes.

He nodded. "About ten minutes ago, an anonymous tip came into the switchboard. It was patched through to Officer March." As he explained what the unknown person had said, Karen felt her jaw slackening.

"Well, was this checked out?" she asked curtly, trying her best to keep the disbelief and surprise from her face.

"Yes, ma'am," Buzz continued. "This VHS and a packet of banking statements and lists of pharmaceuticals, with his name on all the documents, were dropped off in an unmarked envelope. Officer March watched the tape; ma'am, he says it's pretty incriminating."

Vick took the tape and the envelope from his hand. She stared at their blank surfaces as if they could offer some kind of explanation. "Go get O'Hara and Samuelson. Tell them to meet me in Screening," she ordered and Buzz nodded, turning to find them. She went into one of the screening rooms and popped the tape into a VCR. She watched the tape three times before O'Hara poked her head into the room.

"Chief, you wanted me?"

Vick motioned her into the room. She rewound the tape, and then summarized what McNab had told her. Vick suspected that the look O'Hara wore was very similar to what had been on her own face earlier.

"That can't be true," Juliet said, her eyes wide. Vick handed over the envelope. Juliet pulled out the stack of documents, her eyes scanning everything wildly. How can any of this be possible? I know him. Don't I? "Is this really his signature, Chief?"

"We'll have to look at comparison handwriting samples— there must be some around the station. God," Vick sighed. She put her hand on her forehead. "It's too late tonight to get a warrant. First thing tomorrow morning."

Juliet tensed. She had hoped there would be some time to offer a warning— though she knew, in good conscience to her job, that she couldn't really do that. She and Vick watched the tape while they waited for Juliet's new temporary partner to be found.

"But, the person"s dressed all in black, Chief," Juliet pointed out quietly, staring at the screen. "Even the face is covered. How can we be sure it's him?"

Vick's mouth twitched. "We can't— but those documents alone are enough for a warrant, O'Hara. You know that."

"Yes," Juliet demurred. Worry prickled at the back of her neck. She knew something was wrong, but she had no proof to back up that what she was seeing was anything other than she had been told.

* * *

All the way on the drive in the next morning, Gus went over every inch of his office in his head. Surely, a thick packet of twenty pages could not just vanish. He resolved to throw himself into one more full search before calling down to see if Greg had returned from his family emergency. Gus was puzzled to see two SBPD patrol cars parked in front of Central Coast. One of cars' red and blue lights were flashing, but he didn't see any officers in the car. He discovered that this was because they were in the lobby, four of them, all unfamiliar faces wearing the SBPD police uniform. Gus noticed they were speaking to a small group of his coworkers; once he entered everyone turned towards him, familiar and unfamiliar faces of mixed emotions: anger, confusion, blankness. Gus started to ask what was going on.

"Burton Guster, I'm placing you under arrest for grand theft and embezzlement from Central Coast Pharmaceuticals." He must have misheard; the small crowd clustered near him, intrigued or shocked; it was impossible to tell because their faces were suddenly a blur around him.

"Wha—what?" Gus squeaked. One of the officers was cuffing his hands behind his back. "Wait, wait," Gus blurted out. "I didn't— I'm not—" He looked up then, into the faces of his coworkers; they seemed to be strangers to him. Gus was hit with an odd deja vu; what he was seeing on his colleagues' faces was very similar to what he had seen of the expressions the SBPD officers wore that day at the hospital when Lassiter was arrested: from disbelief to smugness. He heard a few voices mumbling to each other, "Anonymous tip." He was calling out to one of his bosses, whom he had glanced standing nearby. "You know me! I didn't do this! Please!" Two officers were leading him out of the building, reading him his Miranda rights, though they might has well been speaking Sanskrit.

* * *

"Can I get my phone call now?" Gus implored to the officer processing him. They hadn't even asked him any questions yet, so he thought he could hold off on calling a lawyer. He was still detached enough from his own body to let his mind fill up completely with rationalization. It was just— a misunderstanding. Yeah. When Shawn got here, he'd— Shawn. Oh, god. This is— Gus was struck stupid as a torrent of thought rushed through his head.

Somehow, he managed the call, thankful that Shawn picked up the phone rather than letting it go to voice mail. Shawn expressed relief at hearing from Gus and started to rant about how angry he was with Lassiter's behavior and how he was going to let him deal with proving his innocence on his own before Gus got the words he needed to say out. After the call was over, Gus congratulated himself on staying so calm, though, suddenly, he wanted to huddle in a corner on the floor, catatonic. I can't believe this is happening. He rolled his eyes. He was both angry as hell at Shawn for not dropping the case, though he reflected how selfish this thought was, and scared as hell as to what might happen to Shawn now, now that Gus was locked up. I got too close to something big— Gus felt a minor flash of worry for Lassiter. After all, the missing results proved that Lassiter had been drugged, and with something not just potent but illegal. Oh, god. Gus fretted over his best friend. I can't let him drop the case, not now, no matter how annoying he thinks Lassiter is acting, Gus thought. The guy's just . . . scared. Who the hell wouldn't be? Gus looked around the cell, disbelieving that he was actually inside it. He suppressed a shiver.

Shawn told Gus over the phone that he was going to Vick, or at least Juliet to straighten this out and then he would be there. Vick wouldn't see him; Buzz actually had to drag him out of her office because he was yelling at her like a child.

"Shawn, you have to calm down," Buzz insisted, having pulled Shawn down the hall towards the stairway leading to the holding cells. "You're not going to be able see Gus if you get yourself thrown into a cell for civil disturbance."

Shawn didn't stop struggling, though his angry cries at Vick had died out shortly after he realized Buzz wouldn't be releasing him. Juliet appeared, her small face pale and tight. "Come with me," she said quietly, gesturing for Buzz to follow and bring Shawn. Stealing a glance over her shoulder, Juliet disappeared into the stairwell. Buzz let go of Shawn as soon as they were at the stairs, and he practically jumped the length of the steps in his search for Gus.

Gus was in the middle cell at the end of the hallway. His eyes sparked a little when he saw Shawn, but he braced himself for what he had to do.

"Gus, what's going on here?" Shawn yelled in confusion. He ran right up to the cell, Juliet and McNab just behind him. He waved them angrily back.

Gus stood in his jail cell, up against the bars. "Shawn, I didn't do this. I didn't steal any drugs." Gus's voice was hushed; he was still not over the shock of being arrested.

"Is that what they're saying you did? They wouldn't tell me anything!" Shawn's voice was high pitched and dangerously loud. He flung himself around, staring accusedly at any police officers he laid his eyes on. "Gus is not a thief!" he yelled. "You made a mistake! Now open the door."

"Shawn," Gus whispered. He reached through the bars and grabbed his friend's wrist. "You have to calm down."

"Me?" Shawn swung his head back towards Gus, his eyes flashing. "No way! You've been framed and you want me to just stand here, silent—" Gus suspected that Shawn's voice could be heard upstairs. He urgently shook Shawn's arm.

"Please, Shawn," he whispered again, making Shawn lean in close to hear him. "I need to tell you something."

Shawn opened his mouth to ask what, but Gus pressed a finger against his own lips to signal Shawn to keep his voice down. "It's important," Gus whispered. He waved Shawn in closer, still holding onto him in case Shawn got skittish and tried to bolt. He spoke right into Shawn's ear.

"Shawn, I got the preliminary results on the glass. Remember?" he added discreetly. Shawn nodded, so Gus continued. "I was shocked, Shawn. I wanted to tell you right away, but I knew they were important, so I made copies."

When Shawn tried to speak, Gus shushed him. "Not yet, just wait. I made copies and hid them. Good thing, because my source didn't get a chance to file the full results— the prelims were—ugh, I don't know what happened to them." He dropped his voice even lower. "I left them in my desk, but then I left the office. Later, when I looked for them, they were gone."

"What?" Shawn whispered back. "Gus, what are you saying? What was in that glass?"

Gus's lips vibrated against Shawn's ear and Shawn's entire body went tense. He pulled away with look of utter shock. Gus nodded, and again mouthed the word.

"Rohypnol."