XXIV. In Spirit as in Substance

Lassiter read the text Shawn had sent, while seated at his desk. He had taken the time last night, during one of his not-sleeping periods, to assign a new text alert sound to Shawn's messages. Instead of Beethoven, it was Tchaikovsky, a slice of the "Russian Dance" from The Nutcracker. It reminded him of Shawn's bounciness. He texted back with the thumbs-up emoji, unable to think of anything that was more responsive. It was weird that the case involved the family Shawn had just deracinated himself from, however abruptly. Lassiter had tried to find a way for it to become more connected, for it to bring Shawn into it using a false push and a lot of manipulation. It wouldn't budge, and was stuck beneath the degrading title of Coincidence. Lassiter winced at the reminder. It seemed unreal.

Tugged into a conscience riddled with uncertainty, Lassiter whipped the phone off the cradle and reached the medical examiner's office.

"This is Strode."

"This is Detective Lassiter."

"Oh, hey, if it isn't Lestrade. What's up? Did you and Shawn use the ice cream coupon?" Strode was one of those, of a small number of people within a small circle, that wanted Lassiter and Shawn to spend more time together.

"Look, um," Lassiter hedged around the personal question, not sure how his actions with Shawn reached the pinnacle of personal, "you've been trying to reach me, and I wondered if the—"

"If the tox results finally came back?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, they did." Strode said. "But you don't get them until you apologize."

"Apologize for?"

"Ignoring me for two days."

Lassiter heaved his eyeballs upward, rolled them back down with his eyelids closing. He resisted the temptation to groan. This was more than he wanted to put up with. "It's been—I've been—busy. Cop stuff. I'm sorry." He said it without even really meaning to say it. Maybe he really was sorry. He tried to say it again just to see how it felt, like water seeping out of stone. "I'm sorry it took me nearly three days to get back to you. Did you get the information I sent over? About his identity?"

"Apology accepted. And, yes, I did. Jasper Collins, eh? Should've recognized him. Although he doesn't look a thing like his brothers. And he's all bloated from drink and his skin's leathery from smoking. Ah, well, we all have vices. No judgments. Would you like to know what's in the tox, Detective?"

That was why he called. He swallowed down a rush of anger and frustration. Some days, all he wanted to do was go home, sit in the backyard in the sun with an iced tea. He thought about the silver fox who curled up in the oak barrel and went to sleep— The fog filled in, however, before he let his little daydream sink him down too far. "Yeah—yeah, I would. Please."

"Well, nothing there that would've killed him outright, but something that was on its way to killing him," Strode said, bringing up Jasper Collins' chart on the iPad, "but that I recall—yes, here it is—found you, my sneaky little friend—that there was a slight indication that his blood was too acidic."

"Acidic? Look, Doc, biology isn't really my thing. I know the basics, but—"

"You've heard of pH balance, right? Shampoo commercials and so forth?"

"Sure. Plants and soils and things."

"Oh, right, you're more of a succulents guy. Forgot. Well, think of the soil of your little succulents becoming like ash, not full of the nutrients that little succulents need to maintain their wee adorable green leaves. It's sort of like that. Old Jasper's blood had a pH balance of—lemme see here—6.1. I won't get his medical records until tomorrow morning, since today is," he yawned greatly, "Sunday—"

Lassiter held in a yawn of his own. "Right."

"But I'll bet you anything that when I do get them, I'll find a blood test, maybe done in the last six weeks or so, that says his pH was slightly higher, maybe about seven or slightly above. Still below average."

"What's that mean, though?"

"Oh, you know, with him and the size of his liver, I'd say it has something to do with alcohol consumption."

"But if he was going through some medical condition when he died—"

"He might've been. We doctors like to call it acidosis. Alkalosis is when a person's blood is too alkaline. But we're talking acidosis here."

"Would he have symptoms?"

"Nah—well, maybe a few. At his age, yeah. He would've been tired. But if he drank a lot, I don't know that he would've noticed any fatigue outside of what the alcohol provided. Mmm, sweet, sweet alcohol. Nothing like a little whisky in a cup of warm milk to put you to sleep at night, am I right? Invisible high-five, Lassie!"

"So, uh," Lassiter stalled and pushed the thought of a warm cup of milk and some genuine sleep out of his own imaginal realm, "would Collins have just found a place to take a nap and died in his sleep?"

"Sure, that's possible. Best way to die, in my opinion, in one's sleep. I mean, if you gotta go—and we all do—I hope I die in my sleep."

Just not in the middle of an abandoned store. But why the store? That didn't make any sense. "So, he might've been dying when we brought him in that night."

"Most definitely."

That did not make Lassiter feel better. Collins had seemed groggy, yes. Tired, yes. They had mistaken it for drunkenness.

"There wouldn't have been anything you could've done," Strode said, nearly sensing how the detective was feeling. "He would've died, anyway. Even if he had thought he was going to die, and felt any symptoms related to acidosis, he still passed away of natural causes. It wasn't acidosis that killed him, he just happened to be suffering from it. It causes shock, and it's usually the shock that kills people."

"All right. That doesn't really make me feel better. Thanks, Doctor."

"Oh, I'm not a doctor, I just play one on TV," Strode said. "Tell Shawn I said hi."

Lassiter hung up just as Shawn and Henry appeared in the main grotto. The station was quiet, work hadn't exactly picked up, and only a few officers milled around. Others were patrolling, and Arlette, an additional detective, was on an investigation. With the lack of others around, Lassiter was very aware of Henry and Shawn. Tension was there, but he couldn't place why, or if it had bloomed outside the usual conditions that ripened when Shawn and Henry were in the same room. Lassiter got up from the desk, unable to handle the feel of being small beneath the glower of Henry and the pinched, pained look Shawn emoted.

Lassiter didn't tell them a whole lot, only that they were waiting for a warrant to search Collins' business, that he had notified the next of kin.

"Who was the next of kin?" Henry wanted to know, his arms crossed over a sunny yellow shirt covered with a light-gray hoodie.

Lassiter avoided looking at Shawn, suddenly finding the top of his desk very attractive. "Andre Collins."

Shawn's pinched face went slack, then tightened into itself again. Adrian's dad was next of kin. "What were they?"

Carlton knew what kind of answer the vague question required. He could see the ripples, growing into big waves, that were then dancing with Shawn's regular stampede of ideas. "First cousins. His sister—Jasper's sister—died three years ago. It's only the cousins he has left now."

That would make Adrian a second cousin to Jasper Collins. Gus would be able to tell how many times removed; Shawn did not understand that stuff, even if he knew a great many things in the world, like how to make an origami crane and had once fixed a shoe of his with a safety pin and a piece of gum. Family connections, he didn't know those. He hadn't known outright that Adrian and Jasper Collins were second cousins. They never talked about it. Adrian hadn't mentioned that he was related to the people who embezzled money from their own bank. Why would that come up in conversation?

"Did they—" Shawn started the question, then, when both his dad and Lassiter looked at him, he couldn't ask. He couldn't know yet. "Never mind."

Henry glanced quickly at Shawn, detected nothing out of the ordinary, then back to Carlton. "Are they going to handle the arrangements?"

"As far as I know," Lassiter claimed. "I spoke to Andre myself a few minutes ago, and he said he'd contact Dr. Strode's office in order to make arrangements."

"Iger and York," Shawn mumbled. Heavy eyeballs burned against him. "Iger and York, it's the funeral home they always use." He paused, reflecting. "We went to a few funerals. Distant cousins. And Adrian's great aunt Viola died in November. Iger and York, all three of them. I never saw Jasper before, not at any family gathering. They were a tight clan—why didn't they ever talk to him? I could think of a few cousins who'd be proud—maybe that's not the right word—that Jasper had escaped embezzlement charges. I can't figure it out."

It puzzled him, and continued to do so throughout the day. He'd come to the station to find information, not to give information, as his dad had originally believed. When Shawn heard what he'd wanted, that Adrian and Jasper were second cousins, most of the vroom went out of him. He feigned indifference when the warrant arrived to search Jasper's place of business, and dismissed Lassiter's attempts to get him to come along.

"I don't have the energy just now," Shawn responded. He was sitting in the conference room downstairs, not his usual hiding spot at the station. It was cooler down there, across from booking and a couple corners away from the holding cells where this whole tumultuous nothing began.

Lassiter leaned against the table, palms against it, and Shawn two feet away. "I know this must make you feel weird."

"I don't think you know the half of it. But I'm not preoccupied in the way you might think."

Lassiter wasn't sure what he was thinking, and rather wished Shawn would try his hand at untangling those thoughts. "In what way are you preoccupied?"

He scooted aside the newspaper crossword he'd been working on. It'd been left in the conference room three months ago. Shawn worked on it off and on, when he was there, when he stole a moment away from the mayhem. It'd been eerily still lately. Or had he not been around? Hadn't he missed it? He guessed nothing had been missed so bad that his mind ached for data and his body needed something to do. His internal moon had found a new soul to fling itself around. "I just can't stop thinking about how isolated Jasper must've been. All that family—and no one spoke to him? Why?"

Carlton could do nothing here but shrug.

Shawn didn't know if he could elucidate his misgivings and express his convoluted, intricate responses. "There must be more than we think."

"Very likely."

"Something else must've happened."

"It's not a homicide, Shawn." Lassiter doubted he was helpful. "The family's been informed. They'll take it from here."

Shawn didn't believe him. The coolness in his eyes said it. "Then why did you order a search warrant for his shop?"

"I got peeved when Andre Collins said he wouldn't let us in."

"Again, why? What's it to them?"

"That's what I want to know, too. But it's still not a homicide. I talked to Strode. He said something about the acid levels in his blood—"

"Strode's blood?"

Carlton pulled a face. "You know I meant Jasper's."

"It really wasn't entirely clear. What about his blood? Vampire?"

"The acid levels were low—or too high? I'm not really sure. It's all a little science-y for me. But I can tell you that I've been a detective for," he suddenly felt old and did not feel like saying how long he'd been a detective, "never mind how long, and I've picked up on a lot of forensics through the years. Acid levels and pH balances? Not a clue. Are you sure you don't want to come with us? We could make Officer Ballas jump into the dumpster. Could be exciting."

Shawn smirked at the proposition. No one really liked Ballas. He was kind of a jerk. Then again, no one could really pinpoint why he was a jerk. It was the things he said and the way he said them, hooked and barbed and salted with rudeness. Thankfully, he was requesting a transfer, and perhaps he would be cursing another station with his passive rudeness soon.

"Tempting as that sounds, I think I'll stay here." He kind of wanted to go home. He kind of wanted to take the bike, drive to Ventura, and find out what had happened. Guiltily, Shawn looked at Lassie. The silence hummed between them. Shawn plucked at it. "I can't believe I'm asking this, because normally I wouldn't ask for permission, just forgiveness," he waited while Lassiter snickered at the truth, "but I wondered if you might allow me to use your computer?"

Shawn was right: he did not normally ask for permission to do something like that. He would do it anyway. If caught, he'd say he was sorry, he'd solve the case anyway, and everyone would forgive his shenanigans and the ruthless actions that bordered unlawful, yet were never quite deplorable. Carlton gave his permission with a nod, only upon the condition that Shawn head upstairs with him right then. Carlton started having doubts before they got to the staircase leading to the front doors. He called to Shawn, making them stop. It seemed very quiet and very still, and chaos seemed far away.

"Are you sure you're okay with this? I mean, I know you pretty well, Spencer. If I hadn't given you permission to use my computer to do whatever it is you want to do—read Scooby-Doo fanfic or whatever—I kind of think you'd leave, get on that bike of yours, maybe magically find yourself in Ventura. Maybe find a way to talk to a member of Jasper Collins' family just to get the answers you think you need. You don't really need those answers. You know that, don't you? Sometimes, when bad things happen, there are no good answers to why and what's going to happen next and whether or not it'll happen in the future. Sometimes, it can be better if we just let that stuff go."

Shawn blinked, his eyes burning from staying open too long. The air was cool, moved and shifted against his eyeballs, drying them out. He tried to shift around the spit in his mouth to swallow, but nothing came of that. He fidgeted, playing with the cuff of the hoodie, and scratching an imaginary itch in the palm. "I'm not getting on my bike, and I'm not going to Ventura. As much as I want to. There are no answers for me there. I know that sometimes I have to let things go. That there aren't answers. I don't even know what questions to ask anymore."

Carlton held his breath for a second, let it out slowly with the words he dredged from history. "'For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.'"

Yeats, Shawn's brain automatically answered. The Stolen Child. "I can understand a lot, but not this. I don't get this." He continued up the staircase unimpeded.

The chief had come in, thanks to the impending search at Hollister Fountains & Water Care. The small team of four assembled in her office for a briefing. Shawn was still seated at Carlton's desk, looking listlessly at the computer screen.

"He's not coming?" Karen asked of Lassiter, who already shook his head and dug around in his pockets for lint. She was surprised, but the shock of it didn't run deep. She shrugged it off quickly. After reading what she had of Lassiter's newly-updated file, she thought she understood why. Adrian Harris-Collins was a notoriously awful flirt, known for getting in and out of relationships, and she wondered how in the hell Shawn had met him in the first place. Probably a fluke occurrence. Chaos had brought them together, and it was probably chaos that ripped them apart.

She sent the two officers ahead. Ballas tried to stall, but Vick, not putting up with his attitude that afternoon, sent him along. "Lassiter, stay a second. Shut the door."

He shut the door, wondering, for a fleeting second, if his head was going to end up on a chopping block. "I sent you the information as soon as I had it—"

"It's not that. I don't really know what's going on, and, in so many ways has that been true lately, but I know Shawn broke up with someone, and it was hard on him, and he's been like a scarecrow ever since. Considering that he's sitting at your desk right now and not interested in tying up loose ends I made him fray to begin with—I have to ask, based on my own conjecture, was Shawn's ex Adrian Harris-Collins? The lawyer. And the biggest Lothario this side of the Santa Ynez?"

Carlton was relieved—and equally intrigued. How did she know? Was it really just the one small clue that Shawn didn't want to have anything else to do with this case because the body was Adrian's second cousin? "How in the—?"

"I have a cousin," Karen reluctantly started to answer, "and don't make me finish the rest of that sentence."

Carlton didn't need her to. The blanks were easily filled in. Adrian had left a long line of broken-hearted men in his wake, some more bruised than others. His hands went into fists. "I don't know a lot about it," he admitted, outwardly cool.

"Come on, despite the fact that you're a man, you're a really lousy liar, Carlton."

He suspected that O'Hara was really the one that chief should talk to. He sensed—his magical gut again—that she knew more than he did, though there were aspects he could look up but was just choosing not to. O'Hara would have more curiosity, and she'd have Gus egging her on. She probably knew what he didn't want to know. "Yeah, they were together. About a year. Or maybe not a year, I'm not sure. It's a little vague. About a year. Adrian said some things to him that were not very nice," he stopped, not sure how much he should reveal, "and he might've been a little, uh," he didn't want to use the word, now that it sounded too clinical and too violent when used in conjunction with a real-life soul that he knew and cared for, "Adrian might've been a drunken asshole more often than I can suppose. Shawn doesn't want to involve himself in this case more than necessary."

The tendons on Vick's neck popped out as she spoke through a tight jaw. "Adrian Harris-Collins hit him? Shawn? Our Shawn?"

It was nice to hear her get so possessive of him, too: our Shawn. But Carlton waved a hand. "I don't know. That was just the—the feeling I got."

Vick's eyelids narrowed, but at least the tendons in her neck retreated. She made a long string of faintly grumbled curses that ended up in a mildly coherent sentence. "—does anything like that again, someone needs to tell that boy that love like that isn't real—" She seemed to snap to attention all at once. "Then what's he doing on your computer?"

Carlton knew, without knowing how he knew or at what ambiguous, obscure point in the past his mind and Shawn's had melded. Perhaps not exactly along similar seams, nothing was perfect, but he knew what Shawn was doing. "If I had a guess, I'd say he's reading what he can about the Collins Bank case. He wants to understand, like all of us would want to understand, how a family like the Collinses can be okay with ousting one of their own. I don't think he'll ever get it. But here's hoping."

Over-identifying, Karen thought. Well, she'd leave Shawn to it. If he could figure out the problem while reading newspaper articles from ten years ago, more power to him. She flicked a hand at him when he looked over at their departing gait. He looked tired and thin, and she wondered if he'd eaten anything lately.

"Are you feeding him?" Karen asked Carlton. The accusation that he was treating Shawn like a goldfish, or one of his succulents, didn't make her calm down any. Carlton was the only one Shawn had spent any time around lately. Happy as she was about it, now was not the time to gloat over small victories.

"I am not responsible for Shawn Spencer," he retorted. He got behind the wheel of his car, unsurprised the find the chief swinging into the passenger's seat. Driving wasn't one of her favorite things. "And, yes, damn it. I took him to IHOP yesterday morning. I think we ate something this morning, but I can't remember. Oh. Cinnamon rolls. Shawn made cinnamon rolls."

Karen gave him a look.

"What? He did. They were delicious."

"Last night? What about last night?"

"He was—was out with someone—"

"A date?"

Carlton thought this conversation was getting really out of hand. "It's not what you think. It was with someone that actually hired Shawn to find to person that turned out to be Jasper Collins. This guy works at the massage parlor—For Keeps. The one whose business card was found at the grocery store."

"Englers," Vick said, grasping at one thing she could comprehend. She pulled out her phone and found a recently-dialed number. "Yes, I'd like to place an order for delivery. Three large pizzas—"

Carlton smirked, gave a shake of his head, and kept on driving. He knew where he was going, anyway, and he didn't know what he'd find when he got there.

He managed to snap a picture with his phone of Ballas during his jump into the dumpster, and sent it to Shawn. There was no reply. When they were finishing up the search, the small stream of possible evidence or conspicuous items making their way out of Hollister Fountains & Water Care, Carlton felt apprehensions stirring within. He called Shawn's mobile, but it went straight to voicemail. He called his desk, and no one answered. He called the desk sergeant, and finally got an answer. The reply regarding Shawn's whereabouts was not particularly satisfying. Shawn could still be at the station, Lassiter guessed, but no one had seen him in ten or fifteen minutes. If Shawn had found something that triggered him, what was to stop him from going to Ventura and talking to Adrian?

"Whoa, what's the rush, Detective!" Karen shouted, holding the handle above the door as Lassiter took a turn at thirty. The wheels got grippy against the road. She felt her insides pucker and her butt slide to one side. Then, mercifully, everything was righted.

"Sorry," he grumbled, offering nothing but the apology. His foot pressed the pedal down. It was a yellow light—then a glaringly red one—that he blew the car through. "Sorry," he said just as Vick started protesting again.

But the next light he had to stop at, there was no way around it. They were not in a hurry, no gumball shining red on the roof, no sirens echoing through downtown. He did pull out his phone and call Shawn again. No answer—and straight to voicemail. Maybe he was just in the video room, napping. Maybe he was eating the pizza Vick had sent over. Maybe—maybe he'd hopped a bus and was now facing off with Adrian. He thought about calling his desk again but the light turned green. He gunned it, slammed on the brakes when a car coming from the south blew threw the just-changed light. It'd been close, just not close enough for Carlton to show much awe or concern.

Vick figured it out on her own. "Shawn's not answering his phone," she deduced. "You're worried."

"Yeah," he replied. "You can sit there and speculate on why I'm worried, or you can call the front desk."

She called the front desk, already aware of why they should worry. The last thing she wanted to do was drive to Ventura to break Shawn out of jail. Adrian was the type who'd call the cops on Shawn. She'd always thought he was a smarmy little bastard. "Call if you see him," she informed the desk sergeant when the answer came. "We're almost there."

The last three blocks seemed to take eons to complete. Stomach in knots and full of adrenaline to the point where he was quivering, Lassiter zipped out of the car and took the stairs two at a time. He pulled the door in, whooshing himself in the face with wind and station-smell. Up another flight of stairs, he could see his desk from where he stood, and the chair was empty. He looked around, for a moment hopeful that Shawn would pop around a corner, suddenly materialize from a shadow held by a vacant door. Nothing.

In the bin next to his desk, Lassiter saw two soiled napkins and a paper plate with tell-tale tomato sauce smears. Shawn had likely eaten pizza, only two pieces, and had tossed the waste. He heard Vick behind him talking to Officer Tyas, the tech guy.

"We found what we think is Collins' cell phone. Can you pull up his most recent calls?"

"Yeah, of course, Chief," Tyas said. He was an affable sort that loved a good mystery, and loved helping people, almost as much as he loved his gadgets. His gadgets were preferable; he was one of the few cops in the SBPD that hadn't married or divorced yet, and preferred being single. More money to spend on himself, Lassiter had once heard him joke at a work picnic last year.

Lassiter, too, wanted to know to whom Collins had last spoken. He had a weird feeling—but that would be ridiculous. It was true. He was no more psychic than Shawn, and he couldn't believe that his gut instincts were taking their suppositions so far. Too far.

On the computer, Lassiter found traces of what Shawn had been reading. He hadn't cleared the browser history, a maneuver very unlike Shawn. Shawn tended to be clever about deleting his presence, but Lassiter always seemed to know when Shawn had been on his computer. Maybe a crumb on the mouse. Maybe an oleaginous sensation to the "E" key on the keyboard. Sometimes, it was just that smell of Shawn that lingered in the area. What was that smell? It vaulted through a gauntlet of scents: freshly-washed clothes, coffee, cardboard, soil and plants, a watery and oceanic kind of smell—and sometimes the peach Snuggle that Carlton had at home. He'd known that Shawn had been using his laundry since he moved in. Not all the time. Most of the time. But he didn't have to be the best detective in the Santa Barbara Police Department to know that.

Shawn had been looking through newspapers using the station's login. How Shawn had gleaned his passwords, Lassiter didn't know and didn't analyze too deeply. It was Shawn, after all. There was either not a lot to know, or too much to know. Too little to reprimand, or too much to praise. He fanned a palm across his forehead, wishing he could find insight into Shawn's current location.

Lassiter went on a search of the station, going everywhere he could think of, from the mysterious small room off the downstairs conference room, to the men's bathroom on the third floor that no one ever used because it was creepy and one of the toilets ran constantly. No one. No Shawn. He was not at the station.

Carlton was confused, worry kneading his stomach.

If he were Shawn, what would he do?

He found Tyas and Vick in the video room, where Tyas spent most of his days and a little bit of his nights. Vick looked up at him, but Tyas was bent on his work.

"I have to go," Lassiter said.

Vick edged him out the door, her voice dropping to a level just above Impossible To Hear Whisper. "Do you reach Shawn?"

"No," he answered in a solid, regular voice. He had nothing to hide, least of all from Tyas, whose romantic ambiguities included a framed and autographed picture of Steve Jobs, who'd once joked that he wished to be buried with his original Mac Classic model that he'd had since a teenager. His thoughts flickered back to Shawn. They'd been doing that a lot lately. "But I think I know where he is."

Vick started to say that she'd go with him, but Lassiter interrupted.

"No, just—let me go alone. I think I know what's bothering him."

Vick held him there with a stare, hands at her hips. "Sure you don't want that benefits package, Carlton?"

Before he could gripe about that old joke, Tyas remarked from within that he was close to getting the numbers—then, as the two of them moved closer to the computer—the numbers came up. They were attached to names that Jasper had saved in his phone contacts. Lassiter read the top one—the last call Jasper had made—and the second-to-last number he'd called. He looked once at Vick.

"I'll send a team behind you," she said, gesturing. "You know where he is, don't you?"

"Yeah. You do, too."

"Yeah. I do. Would you please just get out of here? NOW!"

Getting all he could out of her, the warmth and gentle ozone smell of the tech room was left behind.

Lassiter had to get home as fast as possible.