XXII. Lord of the Stars

Carlton thought it was best if he got Shawn out of there. He was unsure what would fly out of his mouth or Shawn's in the next ten seconds, and he didn't want to be accountable for it. "Come on," he muttered gently, even more gently taking Shawn by the wrist and scooting him towards the bright white light of the exit. He wasn't surprised when they got two feet beyond the door, and he lost his grip on Shawn.

Shawn came to a standstill, staring at nothing. He brought Lassiter's shoes into focus. His shoes were always nice, usually newer, and, like his suits, worn for one or two years before being replaced. The ties, though—not the ties. Lassiter kept those around forever. His head swam. Focusing on minute details around him helped keep perspective. "Did she really say his name was Jasper Collins? Collins. As in—as in Collins. As in—"

"It's a common enough last name, Spencer. You know that. And it wasn't as though she said his surname was Harris-Collins, right? Come on," he gripped Shawn's shoulder in an effort to get him to move, "we got a name now. We can go to the station, look him up, and figure out how to proceed from there. And you can collect your fee from Will, if you want to. You found out who he was. You weren't expected to do anything beyond that." He didn't know, a sliver of worry shooting through him. "Were you?"

"No," Shawn found this question answerable. Sense started to flit to the surface. His gaze swam across the detective. Good cop. Nice aura. Finely coiffed. "Do you have the morgue photo of him, of Jasper?"

Yeah, he did, and, shit, he forgot to show it to her. He'd been in too big of a hurry to get Shawn out of there. He was half-fearful the woman would go on another tirade about Jasper Collins and all the things he'd done wrong in his life, with his new business.

It annoyed Shawn because he knew he'd hindered the investigation. In business hours, it bothered him that his friends put him ahead of their duty. There should be nothing greater than duty, he didn't care what Victor Hugo wrote. "I'm fine. Give me the keys. I'll just wait in the car."

Lassiter trusted him with the keys, and darted inside without a spoken oath that he'd be back shortly.

Shawn did not head to the car. Instead, he did the opposite. Behind the set of three shops, built of that golden brick color used often decades ago, Shawn found the alley. It was as he'd pictured in his mind's eye, his imaginal realm not letting him down. If he looked hard enough, there was the imprint of Pandora's chaos in the debris, in the rusty dumpster, in the years of grit that'd built up along the edges of the building. It was dusty, gross, smelled, and Shawn didn't want to be there. His sense of discomfort was not greater than his sense of duty. He wasn't going to pander to his weakness. Lassiter was right, anyway: there must be a thousand people in their area with the surname Collins. And even if Adrian had a thousand cousins, that didn't mean that Jasper Collins was one of them. There had to be a lot of Jasper Collinses around, too. Surely—yes? There must be.

Disassociating didn't work. He just had a feeling, though—a sense. There had been a coil in his gut that told him this was coming. And it was still coming. And as he got nearer to figuring it out, he knew—he'd always known—that it would somehow lead back to Adrian.

He crawled up the side of the dumpster, it was easier there than trying to go from the front, and peeked over the rim. A couple of thin translucent-white garbage bags told him very little. Some were more vile, smeared on the inside with food stuff. Must've been from the Thai restaurant on the corner. He did see two containers that had that quintessential chemical bottle shape. He could barely make it out from a distance: a descaler, and an algaecide. Made sense for a guy who cleaned fountains.

And one thing in the corner. It took him a moment to realize that it was a dead and broken fountain. It took him another moment to realize why it looked familiar. His insides whipped into icicles. That couldn't be right, though—that really couldn't be—

He hopped down, safely back on the ground. Just in time, too, as Lassiter then turned the corner on a hunt for him.

"I'm coming," he called. His voice shook. He was shaking again. He hoped Lassiter wouldn't head into the alley himself. There wasn't much to see, but Lassiter insisted. He didn't want Lassiter to see—but of course—of course Lassiter wouldn't know.

He, too, hopped up the side of the dumpster and peered into it. Shawn held his breath, but Lassiter's assessment was simple.

"Chemical containers."

"Yeah, I saw those."

"And a busted fountain, looks like, over in the far corner."

Shawn said nothing more about the fountain. Lassiter gazed around again.

"Suppose that one of these bags with more paper than food is from his shop?"

"I'd go with more food than paper. Actually, take-out containers. I sense he eats a lot of drive-thru."

Ah, Lassiter thought, that was a good angle. Of course, Jasper Collins would eat a lot of drive-thru, being on the road on service calls and installations most of the day. That was sensible. Nothing to do but go in and get it—

Shawn blinked at Lassiter's shape vanishing into the dumpster. He heard a soft metallic crash and the pressure of plastic sacks squeezed out of shape. Shawn hopped back on the dumpster's side. Lassiter was in there, all right. "What are you doing?"

"Catch." Lassiter ignored the question, the answer too obvious. He tossed up one translucent white sack that was smaller than the others, like from a seven-gallon wastebasket, and definitely not bigger than a thirteen-gallon bin.

Shawn caught the bag smoothly with one hand. It was lightweight. Inside, he could barely make out a couple pieces of paper, the dirty color of a napkin made of recycled and unbleached fibers, and some take-out wads. "I am not going through this."

He got out of the way so Lassiter could free himself from the stink. "No, you shouldn't. You should contact Will. He should know. Maybe there's something he knows that he's not telling."

Shawn read through this easily enough, following Lassiter out of the alley and still carrying the garbage bag. It bumped against his legs. "Like whether he ever met one of Adrian's umpteen-thousand cousins, and one of them happened to be Jasper Collins?"

"Hey, it's possible. How many cousins does Adrian have?"

"NASA is still working on those numbers. A lot. Probably just slightly less than exes," he held up a pointer finger to add insipidly, "but more than disgruntled exes who'd like to use his mansack as a pincushion."

They were back at the car. Lassiter popped the trunk, unfolded one of the two white bath towels he kept back there. They were old, well-used. Lassiter did not replace his bath towels once or twice a year like he did his wardrobe. One towel he laid out in the trunk and set the garbage bag on. The other he laid out in the front seat so he could sit at the wheel without leaving quite as much stink.

Rather than make jokes or snide remarks about the sudden smell in the car, most of which was probably emanating from the bottom of Carlton's loafers, Shawn rolled down the car's windows. Lassiter did not raise them up again. It was a chilly morning, but warmer than it'd been the last few days. And the sun was out, making everything brighter and shinier. Maybe he was finally starting to come back to the earth after flitting away in despair and sorrow the last week. The lie was uncomfortable. It would take more than a week to get over everything that'd happened. He knew that. Even with the presence a well-meaning, softly-intentioned Will Lissner, Shawn was still going to need more time. But Lassiter noticed, for how quiet Shawn was, staring out the window, he fidgeted with his hands in his lap the whole drive back to the house.

Lassiter left the garbage bag in the trunk. Inside the house, in the mud room, the space between dining room and laundry nook, he took off his shoes, his socks, and headed for his bedroom. "Taking a shower!"

"Still not going to join you, no matter how often you ask!" Shawn returned.

Carlton rolled his eyes—that was never going to happen. "Hey! I know you were in that dumpster too! Take off your shoes!"

Shawn had almost forgotten, taking two steps into the dining room before taking two steps back to remove his footwear. He carried them to the kitchen sink and ran water over the soles, trying not to get them wet. They were his only shoes in that house—he really must consider hiding more somewhere. Maybe under the couch. Lassie would never think to look there. Shoes tolerably done with soap and water, Shawn washed his hands. He scrubbed all the way up to his elbows. He poked at the cinnamon rolls after lifting the aluminum sheet that covered them. They were still warm. He helped himself to another one. Icing got wiped off on his jeans, and he sniffed his shirt sleeve, sniffed his armpit, trying to decide if he still smelled like dumpster. Maybe he did a little. Lassiter would surely let him know.

Shawn picked up his phone to check for messages. Nothing, really. Another one from his dad, but Shawn ignored it. They'd already bonded more that week than Shawn intended, and he had to keep some secrets. He pounded out a message to Will, sent it, and went out to the backyard. He smelled better out there, and there was that clover-soft sweetness of a California morning to greet him. Everywhere he'd lived, he thought about that smell. It'd probably done more to draw him back to Santa Barbara than the damn cold winter he'd faced in Indianapolis, than Gus, than his dad and old hates and new hopes.

For five minutes, sitting in the sun, Shawn was able to forget about it. He could forget Adrian, Will, and what he'd seen in the dumpster. He could believe in the power of Coincidence. He could disbelieve that Jasper Collins of Hollister Fountain & Water Care was the same Jasper Collins he'd heard about.

He could wipe that away for a moment's peace.

He closed his eyes and pillowed his head with his crossed arms. Nothing was going to bother him for the rest of the day. He would refuse to let it. He'd found out who the man was, and he was going to tell Chief Vick.

He dug out his phone from a pocket and telephoned Vick. It was about ten-thirty, and no doubt she was awake.

"I'm just heading out the door to my yoga class. What is it, Mr. Spencer?"

"Yoga, on Sunday mornings? That's interesting." And a coincidence, considering where he'd learned the body's identity. "Guy's name is Jasper Collins."

"Who is? What?"

"The body. From holding. Died of natural causes along an avenue of disease. Jasper. Collins."

"Jasper Collins?"

"That's what I said. You can do tree pose and think about it."

"Jasper Collins," now it was a flat statement, and Shawn felt his small hairs lift and prickle, "like from the Collins Bank people—those Collinses?"

"You just told me to find out who the body was, and I found out who the body was. Should I call Mayor Cordero at home, or just meet him on the sixth green at the country club to tell him the news? Or, sorry, would you like to be the one to tell him?"

"Cute, Mr. Spencer. Put Lassiter on the phone."

"Can't."

"Come on, I know you're probably still there at his house. Put him on."

Shawn could do this—and it would be hilarious. "All right, but—give me a second. I'm sitting in the backyard."

Shawn slid into the house, through the dining room, and couldn't hear the shower running any more as he got close to the bathroom door. It was shut tightly, but, as he turned the handle, not locked. That was Lassiter's problem. The figure in front of the sink and mirror gave a jump.

"Shawn—"

"You have a towel on, this is not a big deal."

Karen heard this and laughed. "He was in the bathroom? Shawn Spencer!"

"You told me to get him. I got him. Here he is. Really angry Lassie. Kisses, Karen. Bye."

Shawn pawed his phone off to Lassiter, and shut the door behind him just as Lassiter, still overcome, finally gave a greeting to the chief. That was a worthwhile venture, Shawn thought. He congratulated himself on a literal prank well-done, and took his seat again to bask like a reptile in the sun.

"He's a consultant," Karen reminded Lassiter when he again asked if there was no way to reprimand Shawn for his insubordination.

"He makes kissy noises at you," Lassiter retaliated, so sure that he was right. Really sure he was right. "That's harassment. Imagine if me or Dobson made kissy noises at you."

"It's not the same thing coming from him. Professionally speaking."

"Oh, so, because he's this non-threatening sexual entity, he gets away with making kissy noises at you? Thanks. That means I'm much more interesting to you sexually. Wait," he said, clumping his realizations together, "forget I said that. Can't we, you know, fire him or something? Send him to another city?"

"You can tell me when you want to fill out a new benefits form for your domestic partner."

"That's very amusing because it'll never happen."

"And I never thought I'd get married and bring a kid in this world of ours. Love makes us idiots."

"I'm not—" He caught himself and pulled in a calming breath. "I suppose he told you that we found the body's identity?"

"Yes. Jasper Collins. Same Collinses?"

"I haven't confirmed that yet. Jasper Collins could be just a common name. The woman at the business next door from his, out on Hollister, confirmed that the man who owns the fountain shop and the body from holding are the same. Going to head over to the station now and look into it, see if we've got anything on him. And I need a warrant to search his business. Maybe we can find a cell phone."

"Good, you do that. I'm going to yoga."

"Breathe deeply," Carlton told her.

"Call me if you've got something big. Really big. But not until after yoga. I need it."

"Will do."

"And I'll write myself a note to send over the new benefits package to you."

"Yeah, I'm hanging up now."

"Kissy noises, Lassiter."

"I do not condone—"

She'd hung up already. The call ended. Still in a towel, he went to the living room. His feet stopped. Shawn was nowhere. He turned the corner. Through the dining room patio door, he could see Shawn in the lounge chair in the backyard, sunning himself like a little succulent. Carlton started to leave the phone on the coffee table, but a text-chime stopped him, made him catch the blip on the screen.

It was from Will. "Collins? Oh. Shit. Really?"

Shawn must've told him the identity of the man.

Lassiter got dressed again, this time wearing jeans and a button-up shirt, without a tie. He joined Shawn in the backyard, took the other lounge seat. He had two, as if hoping—

"There's something I have to tell you," Lassiter started to say. "About the body."

"What about the body? You find him attractive?"

"No! What do you think I am?"

"Relax, I was making a joke. Enjoy the sunshine. Take a deep breath. Think of this nice backyard and its little lemon tree, and how happy your succulents are in the kitchen window."

Carlton huffed, not relaxed. "Does the Collins Bank mean anything to you?"

"No," Shawn gave a shake of his head, eyeing Lassie. It was easy to lie. He knew about the Collins Bank, of course, but he wanted to pick Lassiter's brain. The sunglasses helped him carry off the lie when a quiver of hesitation, visible in his emotional eyes, might've given it away. "Should it?"

"I guess it happened before you came back to Santa Barbara. It was about ten years ago."

"Then that would be before I came back to Santa Barbara. This is why we're both not mathematicians. What about it?"

"Someone inside the bank was embezzling. Well, turns out it was more than one person. It was three people from within the Collins family. Two of them killed themselves before indictments. The third—"

"Are you saying that Jasper Collins, the unkempt fellow who I found dead in holding, was one of those embezzlers?" Shawn set his head back before Lassiter answered, the forthcoming reply far too obvious. "That beats what was going through my head."

"That he might be related to Adrian."

"Yeah."

Then came the really difficult part. "Shawn—they are related to Adrian."

This was not something Shawn had let himself completely believe until he heard Lassiter say it. He felt like one of those veiled statues he'd seen images of: frightfully beautiful, incredibly sad, full of sorrow. Outwardly, he held to every atom of his physical being. It began to knock around in his head, first with a hollow sort of bong-bong; then it grew exponentially to something with substance and stickiness, a kind of smack-smock sound. He dismissed this connection as tenuous. It meant nothing.

He still wanted to disappear. The least he could do was question Carlton's reason for drawing this to their attention. "What's that supposed to mean? I'm not an idiot. Yeah, what he did to me was ridiculous, and the longer I'm away from it the angrier it makes me, that I said I was sorry to him, that I told him we could always be friends—but you know what? I don't want to be friends with anyone who ever said those things about me, or anyone who treats his friends with more respect than he treats his lovers. He's a drunk asshole, yes, and maybe all of the Collinses are drunk assholes. Strode did say the guy's liver was roughly the size of Ford Fiesta, didn't he? Anyway, even if it's too late for me to make this short, I can say that Adrian has cousins up and down the west coast, from Tijuana—don't ask—to Pelican Beach. It doesn't have anything to do with him, and I'm not—I don't—"

Lassiter had his hands with the palms pressed together, petition or prayer. "No one said he did. Jasper Collins died of natural causes. I just thought you should know. I'm going to the station. Do you want a ride somewhere? Do you want to stay here? You can stay—I don't think I'll be gone very long." That might be the wrong phrase to use if he wanted Shawn to stay. "Or maybe gone a while. Not sure."

Lassie was the only one Shawn knew that would voluntarily go to the station on a Sunday. He winced at Lassiter, now standing, and squinted again against the sunlight. "Are you going to look up stuff on Jasper Collins?"

"That was the plan."

"Would you tell me if you found something worthwhile? For my client."

"I don't anticipate anything worthwhile, but," he held his breath momentarily, debating, "yeah, all right. For your client." It was so rare that Lassiter knew any of Psych's clients, let alone liked them. What wasn't to like about Will? Shawn and Will seemed to have a lot in common, if only dubious taste in men. If Adrian Harris-Collins so much as spit on a sidewalk and Carlton was around to catch it, Adrian was going down. Or at least getting the highest fine the local court would allow. He reached to his collar as if to straighten his tie, forgetting that he wasn't wearing one. He pressed the lapels down, like that was what he'd meant to do from the start. "You're staying?"

Shawn worked his way into a reply. It was a nice, sunny day, and at the very least he could sit outside—he didn't have that option at Mee Mee's, and look at his phone, or even read a book. He could borrow Lassiter's hardback copy of Shiloh, and pick up where he left off. That was alluring. Another thing, more like a sense of duty, wriggled around in his conscience. Connected to it, the dim glint of an idea. "Yeah, think I will."

Carlton ignored his sense of relief. While it was nice having a friend, even if it was Shawn, work was work. Shawn's presence filled the empty corners of the house, made everything seem a little brighter. Carlton understood it was temporary. He knew it would all fall apart as soon as he told Shawn what he'd done. He ignored that, too. It'd be like a Great Big Reset, and he wasn't sure Shawn would ever trust him again. He'd done it for Shawn's own good, and, still, all of this had happened. Perhaps it was the failure of his golden-hued intentions that upset him the most.