XVII. Innocent & Heartless

Gus knew he couldn't handle spending too much time with Shawn that afternoon. It wasn't in him, and that pained him further. The tension between them was so palpable Gus shivered in its ensorcelling shadow. They had talked things out in the kitchen. Gus had profusely apologized. Shawn talked about "wedding brain" again, as if it were a real disease the CDC was looking into and planning quarantines. It was beginning to seem real to Gus. Shawn had been pleasant and modest against Gus's guilt, waving it away with a hand, saying there was nothing to forgive, that they were as solid as ever.

And that worried Gus further. When would it really hit Shawn that from that point on, it was all change, change, change? Next to never, that was likely. Shawn had already gone through personal dishevelments in the last year. At least it wasn't wedding brain, but it had a name, nonetheless, an anomaly known as Adrian Harris-Collins. What had happened between Shawn and Adrian was so intense, so deep, so puzzling, that Gus had not been able to capture much of it. He caught it in flashes, in downdrafts, in little storms and quivers that shook Shawn, made his eyes dance as if with fire and the light on top of the ocean waves. He just assumed that Shawn enjoyed Adrian's company. He didn't ask a lot of questions; it wasn't his business. Guys didn't ask questions like that, Gus had explained to Juliet when she asked him, really and deadly-true asked him, if he hadn't seen Shawn's breakup coming. What was there to see when he'd roamed blind beside Shawn for the last year?

"There was you," Gus had told Juliet, pointing delicately at her, "and there was me," he pointed to himself, "and that's all I've really seen of a relationship the last year. I didn't mean to let my vigilance slip. I didn't know it was my year to babysit him." To which Juliet had proclaimed that it wasn't his year, that they should've all paid more attention. She rubbed his arms and kneaded away the toughness of his personal doubts.

He felt that he'd let Shawn down. Shawn, to his credit, denied it. His jokes about "wedding brain" were cute, to be sure, but it all meant nothing to Shawn. And Shawn was not without admitting his own faults.

"I should've told you guys more—more about everything," he'd said when the two of them were in the kitchen, "and I didn't because I chose not to. He's hard to get to know—and I feel like, now, like I barely knew him. And what I did know, I guess I thought you wouldn't like, that you'd see the scratches in the surface of his imperfections. His moments of meanness. His drinking. He never treated me badly, but in treating himself badly, he treated me badly, too. And you'd spend your time worrying about me. I didn't want that. Or warning me to watch out. I didn't want that either. I knew what you'd say. Could hear it, clear as a bell on a clear, clear day. It wasn't going to last. It wasn't." He'd paused, thumb and finger to his eyelids downed over watery eyeballs. "Even my imagined versions of what you guys would say were more right than I was—and I saw him—every day—and I didn't know he'd turn his back on me."

Gus had tried to pull at the thread hanging from this whimpering glimmer of the near-past. "What did he say to you, Shawn?" Because Gus had thought as everyone else had, that it had ended because Adrian was good-looking, gregarious, well-off: he had obviously cheated on Shawn. That had been clear. Crystal. And now it was fog hanging over a murky swamp.

Shawn had opened his mouth to speak, to fan away the fog surrounding the mystery, but he pushed his lips together again, stared at the floor to find answers there. All he'd found was what he knew he'd find. "It's too soon, dude. I can't say yet."

"What about," Gus had haltered there, terrified to go on, put an idea in Shawn's head, "what about a reconciliation? Do you think it's possible? What would you do if Adrian said he was sorry—that he'd made a mistake?" The look on Shawn's face had frightened Gus. It was full of light and hope—then tumbled into darkness and sorrow all without Shawn doing more than blink.

"No," he'd responded softly. "No—and another big no. Even if he did come back, I-I—no. Why would I want to be with someone that felt that way about me? I couldn't do it. I wouldn't want to do it."

Gus had left it alone. They talked about Lassiter instead. He was their common ground. People talked about food or the weather, but they talked about Lassiter. Gus asked about their fake-date at IHOP that morning, and how it'd gone there, then at the workshop. Shawn was respectful of Lassiter's help, and relieved that breakfast had been paid for. The only problem was that they'd really found out nothing.

"Dude," Shawn said in the car, staring at his phone, "is it flirting with Lassie if I tell him I'd hug him anyway?"

Gus wasn't sure how to respond. If Juliet had her way, and Cupid fulfilled her whim, he'd be hearing a lot more of this in the future. "In what context?"

Shawn read the messages about the bet at the station, finishing with his yet-to-be-sent text about hugging.

"You can send that," Gus said. "He'll think you're an idiot, but at least you're an affectionate idiot."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Shawn sent the text, put the phone in his hoodie pocket, and stared out the window. It beat looking ahead of him, heart hitting its pitch when he saw a car that looked like Adrian's. How long until this pain subsided? "Oh, I have a date tonight. I think it's a date, anyway."

Gus did a double-take. Shawn was cool and unruffled, as if this was an everyday occurrence. For a while there, before Shawn settled in with Adrian, it kind of was. "I thought you said it was too soon! Are you going out with that cute guy from the massage parlor?"

"He asked me out to dinner tonight, and I said yes. It's mostly business. I think. Well, either way, we can get what we want. I think Lassiter's pissed about it." He quieted for a second, feeling his phone in his pocket, thinking back to the morning. "Is that weird? Do you think he's jealous?"

"He probably wants that cute little guy for himself," Gus chuckled, satisfied with his take on it. He didn't like the look Shawn threw him. "Oh, what, objectively I can't say that he's cute? He's cute."

"Would you go out with him?"

"I'm engaged, and no."

"Quiet 'no'—or more like a loud, Texas hell no?"

"More like a no—you know—a good no. A solid no. He is cute, but a solid no. Are you going to sleep with him?"

This is what guys talked about. Between the two of them, there was no dancing around a subject. Shawn gave an amused noise, looking out the side window again.

"I haven't decided yet. Is that bad? Should I feel guilty?"

"You should probably feel something. I don't know if it's guilt. That's between you and your conscience."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he repeated what he'd said a minute ago. "Will is really cute. Dangerously cute. I don't know. Why isn't a guy that cute seeing someone?"

"I've heard a theory about this. Want to hear it?"

"Do woodchucks chuck wood? Yeah, I do. Lay it on me."

"A lot of people would never approach a good-looking person just automatically assuming that a good-looking person already has someone he or she is dating. So, consequently, they don't get asked out a lot on dates."

Shawn gaped at him. "Are you freaking serious right now?"

"Really, it's true. I heard it on a talk show in one of the doctor's office on my route. I know! Fascinating, right? So, that's probably why Will doesn't have anyone."

"Or he's a psycho."

"Also a viable option."

"Or the worst masseuse ever."

"Could be. Doubtful, though. Man, how great would it be to date a masseuse?"

"I don't know, probably wouldn't be all that awesome. I mean, how long would that magic last before they realize that going home just means more work?"

"Like strippers?"

"Very similar. I'd have to tell Will about Adrian, not use his name, of course, but tell him it'd just be a one-off and it probably won't go anywhere until I can fix myself up, pick myself up, dust myself off, and start all over again."

"Excellent use of Dorothy Fields lyrics."

"Thanks, I thought so."

The two fist-bumped before Gus took a turn that led them into a swanky neighborhood east of Santa Barbara. They were on their way to visit the former owners of Englers grocery store. Shawn had initially wanted to make the trek alone, on the Norton, and make a quick entrance, make a quick getaway. Gus wouldn't allow it. Shawn wasn't sure, but he supposed pity and fear had more to do with Gus's decision than friendship. But what was the root of friendship if it wasn't pity and fear? He gave a silent smirk at his own joke. The Piccards would likely know if someone fitting the description of The Body had been employed at Englers in the past. Thus leading to an identification, and Shawn would solve his part of the case.

It'd been Henry Spencer's comment yesterday that'd made Shawn consider it a possibility. People go where they're comfortable. And while Dad might've been talking about something completely different, the idea raised Shawn's awareness. What if The Body had gone to Englers merely because it'd been like home to him? Shawn hoped to find out.

Gus found the house, neither big nor small but at the higher end of middle-class. He parked off the driveway, on the street, beside the curb. Before exiting, Gus had suggestions.

"We'd better make some ground rules. First," he pulled his thumb from a fist to keep track, "we stick to the facts and tell them that we're helping the police identify a body. Second, we tell them that we liked Englers—wait, maybe that should go first. That should go first. So, first—"

"Gus, we've done this before. I think we know the plan. I have a third suggestion that we must absolutely abide by."

"What's that?"

"Dude, it's the Piccards. No Star Trek jokes."

"Deal. I hope they don't ask us for tea."

"Earl Grey, hot." Shawn was way ahead of him.

They got out of the car, headed for the front door. A boat was in the driveway, and while Gus got a good look at it, a small speeder, Shawn ignored it. Gus reminded himself that Shawn and Adrian were on boats a lot, Adrian's forest of cousins, and it seemed like every weekend Gus tried to get together, Shawn would text back that he was busy, send a photograph of the ocean crisp in its dark blue infinity, edged in the white trim of a boat. Occasionally, he'd get a selfie of Shawn and Adrian, or just of Shawn. Gus had sighed over the photos, pleased that Shawn had found someone to have a good time with, but overall uncertain—and he felt guilty about it, still. There was always something about Adrian he hadn't liked—maybe it was a few drinks the few times they met up—or the possessive way he handled Shawn, or the rumors that dangled just slightly out of earshot, whose words he could never entirely catch.

Shawn went to the door and rang the bell. It was a house newer and nicer than his dad's, and about three times bigger than Lassie's. "Hey, do you think they have a butler? It looks like the kind of house where they'd have a butler."

"I don't think they have a butler, or a whole compliment of servants. Just normal people enjoying their retirement. Did you see the boat?"

"Yeah," Shawn grumbled, and Gus knew he'd been right that Shawn would rather pretend it wasn't there, "I saw it. H'mm." Shawn pressed the doorbell again. No sound stirred, only the distant, faint delivery of the bell through the house. "No one's home. Shit, this sucks. I was really counting on their input. Now I just have to do more computer work, and you know I'd rather get my info on the streets! I thought our case would end right here, behind this ugly-ass turquoise door."

"It's more like sea blue."

"It's ugly."

"Yeah. I think you're right."

"About it being ugly? Of course I am."

"No, that they're not home. Let's go. How'd you find out who used to own Englers, anyway?"

They got back in the car, and it'd barely had time to gurgle and grunt before it started up again. Shawn considered lying, just saying that he remembered from when they used to go there as kids, Gus under protest because he'd found the clerk behind the counter "unsettling." It wasn't a complete lie—sort of like the lies he told the SBPD when he stumbled upon information or clues. He did remember, as soon as he heard their names again.

"Gave a shout to my real estate connection," he said, leaving it at that.

Gus realized what it meant, what name he did not say. It wasn't Adrian. It was a figure in Adrian's proximity. His sister, Brooke. It only occurred to him that it was Brooke, and it never occurred to him that he was placing too much emphasis on an assumption.

In truth, Shawn had actually talked to Firefighter Mike—you know, Officer Dobson's boyfriend that no one can remember the name of. Mike Alwin was a firefighter, had been for years. And if Shawn remembered nothing about his premiere week back in Santa Barbara, he remembered Gus and he laughing so hard at old jokes that soda shot through their noses—and he remembered the fire at Englers. The surprise and shock and sadness of it made the memory less deteriorated than, say, when he first saw his dad and their whole "moved back" and "moved away" stilted speech of stiltedness. Anyway—Mike Alwin owed Shawn Spencer. Mike had a sister, Marie—they sounded like the Osmonds—who thought her husband was cheating on her. Mike hired Shawn to look into it, even though, when originally offered the job, he turned it down. Mike's snide, "Why do straight guys always cheat?" made Shawn laugh so hard with its complicatedness, its entirely-not-true-at-all-ness, that he took the case immediately. Turned out, Mike was right: Marie's husband had been cheating, but not because he was straight. Mike had been more devastated than Marie. And Marie immediately took up with a friend of hers, a woman friend that she'd been spending a lot of time with. That made Mike feel a little better, saying, "Dammit, I always sort of knew!" And Dobson nearby, chuckling warmly at all of it, the strange cycle of sibling relationships. Dobson was an only child, as was Shawn. It was out of their range of understanding. Mike wanted to give Shawn a reward, and Shawn settled with repaying the favor sometime.

The time had come. He'd called Mike on the phone last night, after Brooke left, to ask about Englers. Mike had texted the owners' name to him, once he was able to get it. Shawn received the text, left it unread, while he and Lassie were still at IHOP. It was pretty easy from there. He was sorry the Piccards hadn't been home. It had promised to be an interesting conversation, the possibility of saying "tea, Earl Gray, hot" notwithstanding. Englers had been a staple in Santa Barbara for more than thirty-five years. It would be no wonder at all, and no great stretch of the human condition, for someone who'd worked there to want to go there if he thought he was dying.

Shawn had played scenarios around in his head. Between thoughts of Adrian, the aches and the anger, and his compelling dynamic with Lassiter, Shawn had tried to imagine what would compel The Body to go to Englers. It'd been deserted. Perhaps, after the fire—

Shawn could not get around one fact: The Body had died of natural causes. This was not a murder. There were no suspects. There was no scene of the crime. This was strictly a seek-and-identify kind of case. Shawn had only done this one other time in his life, and it was decidedly not for the Santa Barbara police. He had been successful then, but he'd had no outside thorns pressuring him the way he did now. There'd been no significant loss to muddle his way through. There'd been a girlfriend at the time, that was true, but she'd been a flippant, glossy, willing, good-time sort of woman, and nothing at all like Lassiter. What was her name? Shawn dug around for it in the holes and cubes of his memory. Name—name—what was her name? It was a jewel—it was a gemstone—sapphire—September. Her name had been September. And a name like that was just sort of a step above Carlton. And, if he were being honest with himself, and at that point he couldn't help but be honest with himself, Carlton was a better flirt. He held no talent for it, of course, but there was a genuineness to it that confounded Shawn. He liked the hesitation, the push-and-pull, the drops of self-hatred when the two of them pirouetted against one another. They hated liking each other, and that was the unusual appeal. Shouldn't it be something else? Shouldn't it be easier?

Shawn jerked, lifting his head off his hand. He was back in Mee Mee's. Gus had dropped him off forty-five minutes ago, and Shawn, not sure what to do, just fell on the bed. He'd dozed, keeping his dreams close to him in piecemeal images and soft words. Upon waking, they scattered like lightweight pips. He rolled over, stretched from fingertips to toes, and yawned lustily. He relaxed, every limb falling into stillness.

He hated the laundromat now. Gus had been right: it was like going backwards. How much longer was he going to stay? He missed something—homesick for a place—and wondered if it was his parents' house, or his uncle's house in the country, or if it was just the more prosaic homestead of the house on Sunberry Lane. One of these days drifted through his mind like a real prediction, until it listed out and faded into his need to get up, to find his phone and find out where Lassiter was.

"Where are you?" he texted. He was still half-asleep and wouldn't have been at all surprised if his Beethoven's Fifth text sound drifted through the laundromat, and if he'd rolled over and found Lassiter sleeping on the other side of the bed.

He took a quick peek over his shoulder: emptiness. A couple of wrinkles in the blanket, no dent in the pillow. He could hear Masset chewing again, amid the usual thrum of traffic noise in the background. When no message arrived after he went to the bathroom, rubbed cold water on his face, he texted Lassiter again.

"Need to see you."

It sounded flirty, but that was just Shawn's aberrant imagination swinging him out of control. He had texted that to Adrian once, maybe twice, as a preliminary statement to come home so they could go to the bedroom. That had been hilarious—Adrian at his beck and call, because they were good at what they should be good at, if it lasted ten minutes or an hour. Adrian would go back to his office, and Shawn, if not on a case, would stay home. If on a case, he would go out and have Adrian drop him off at the bus station.

"You're going to have to quit one of these days," Adrian had told him just after they'd planned to part ways with a kiss. "I mean, if you want to. You can move your business down here. You've worked with the Ventura police before, haven't you?"

Yes, and the sheriff's department, the FBI, the—well, the list went on and on. Santa Barbara, though, it was his home. He was afraid Adrian might've seen a stampede of longing in his gaze, and Shawn quickly turned his head away. "I'll think about it," was all he said. "I'm good at this, you know, I'd hate to give it all up. Chief Vick needs me."

"You mean Lassiter needs you."

They were not going to have this argument again. Adrian had never gotten so jealous of anyone as he did of Carlton Lassiter. Shawn had explained and explained—explained to Drunk Adrian, explained to Sober Adrian, explained to Hungover Adrian that there was nothing between him and Lassiter expect insult-charged air, Chief Vick, Juliet O'Hara, and, and, and—"unresolved sexual tension," Adrian once threw on, smirking. Adrian persisted in the insane belief that Lassiter had the hots for him, "but I got you first."

It wasn't true that Lassiter had the hots for him. It was true, and Shawn noticed it right away, that in the last year Lassiter contacted him more often than he ever had the two years previous. As if he'd known, on some level, what Shawn was up to, where he was living, who he was living with.

Shawn's phone rang. He pulled it off the bed, between fluffy rolls of blue, and put it to his ear as he started the call. "Are you busy?"

"No," Lassiter said. "I'm at home. What's up? Did you have a good time with Juliet and Gus?"

Carlton had been making a solid effort to refer to his partner by her first name when talking with her friends. Shawn bit on his thumb, taking in these observations. He couldn't shut-off his sponge-like behavior just because Adrian had left him—or had he left Adrian? He was no longer certain.

"I have to see you, I—" He stalled, tired, realizing what it sounded like and how that brought back those funny arguments with Adrian that worked on them like foreplay, "I left my money in your car."

That was the true reality. Shawn had left the envelope with the money in it tucked beneath the seat of the Crown Vic.

"It's under the seat," Shawn hurried on. "I was going to ask you to take me to the bank today, but it seems that I forgot. And I left it there. Good thing it's in a cop's car. Nice and safe."

"Well," Carlton shoveled this idea around in his thoughts, "how much is it? Sounds like it's a lot. I recall you picking up an envelope before we left your place to go to breakfast, but I guess I didn't think about it, either. You don't have to tell me how much it is. It's all right."

Shawn wasn't entirely sure what was in there. "Two hundred in cash, and then a teller's check. I don't know what the teller's check is for. I mean, the amount. I know what it's for. It's for when we were going to buy a house, but we separated instead."

Shawn heard a door shut, the back screen door at Lassiter's house—his house—the one they were supposed to be living in together. But that was part of the reason that they had separated, that the fight had ensued, and Adrian's jealousy was ridiculous and heightened.

Lassiter was the only other person who knew that the house was going on the market soon. Shawn had told him so, thinking nothing of it, making a joke of it. He dug a further oblivion by telling Adrian about it, thinking nothing of it, making a joke of it. Adrian's ensuing wrath was colossal. Adrian's jealousy had caused them pain. Shawn had caused them pain. He never dreamed that Lassiter would actually want to buy the place, or that Adrian, fuming and writhing and hating Lassiter more than he ever did, would back out of the deal because he could not stand the fact that Shawn had betrayed their trust.

Lassiter opened the car door on the passenger's side. Immediately, his hand clasped something of familiar tactility. He pulled out the envelope. "It's here. Still here."

"Okay," Shawn answered weakly.

Lassiter wanted to ask if Shawn was all right, but he could hear the warbled pitch through the phone, and a sound of breathing strangled by emotions. "Are you at home? I'm coming over. I'll bring your money."

"All right," Shawn said, relieved, trying to push his way through one bad moment. He hung up, sat down on the bed, and stared into space. He willed Carmina Burana to play in his head.