Chapter Four
After lunch, Lassiter and O'Hara convened in the conference room to review the case before returning to Maximo's for interviews. McMurray, following a conversation with the owner, had provided them with a list of staff on duty the previous night. From there, the victim's identity became apparent: Anita Torres, assistant manager. Still in ICU, she had not yet regained consciousness.
Lassiter was a little uneasy; he just knew she would bring up this date he'd grudgingly agreed to go on. In the car the other night, he'd felt that familiar twinge of desperation, his own, and worse, pity, radiating from O'Hara. She'd shot down even the idea of being attracted to him so quickly that he'd had no choice but to lash back, chase a distraction. Lassiter would have said yes to anything to stop her from feeling sorry for him.
It was a shame, because under normal circumstances he felt more comfortable with O'Hara than literally anyone else. He couldn't explain why: she oozed positivity, which generally sickened him. Early on in their partnership, he'd been able to tamp down her relentless need to chat in the car or share thoughts and feelings – to be friends – mostly through sheer intimidation. But ever since taking lead on cases, she'd started acting more like his equal, and dammit if he didn't treat her like it.
Like now. Perfectly at ease with each other's thought processes, they divided up the names and strategized for their session at the restaurant, planning to cover as much ground as possible. Lassiter checked his watch, yawning; they had to leave soon to catch the staff before their dinner prep started.
Before he could express this thought to O'Hara, a commotion from the bullpen drew their attention. She looked up from her notes and cast a quick glance at him, having apparently clocked on to the exact same conclusion he had.
Through the open blinds of the conference room windows, Lassiter could see Shawn, wearing a frilly white apron and teetering around the booking desk. With moderate success, he balanced an oversized tray filled with what appeared to be several varieties of pie. Certainly at least one of them contained pineapple. The tray tilted at angles with each step, so it seemed unlikely the pies would make it all the way to the conference room for them to sample. Gus trailed him, worriedly keeping an eye on the confections.
Lassiter leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms lazily, bringing them to rest behind his head. Who was he to turn down a show? O'Hara gave him a curious look and stood up to watch as well.
Once he got within shouting distance, Shawn declared, "I have received a communication from the woman… from beyond!"
"Beyond what?" Lassiter asked, unmoved.
"Yeah, Shawn," O'Hara added. "The woman from this morning is still alive."
Shawn looked nonplussed, but quickly got distracted trying to straighten the tray. Gus swooped forward just in time to smoothly catch the pie that slid off, something in the berry family. Recovering both his balance and his composure, Shawn said, "I have reached into the unconscious mind of the victim. You see before you the embodiment of the woman who was attacked this morning."
He struck a pose, raising the tray triumphantly – and horizontally – aloft in one hand, resting the other on his hip. After a moment, his arm started to shake and he had to bring the tray back down.
Nobody spoke. Lassiter smirked.
"Shawn, what are you doing?"
Shawn broke off his act to face Gus. "What does it look like I'm doing? Waitress," he said meaningfully.
Gus hesitated. "Wait – Keri Russell Waitress or the Waitress everyone forgot about?"
Shawn rolled his eyes. "Obviously not the Waitress everyone forgot about, Gus. Where would be the fun in that?"
"Oh." Gus looked him over. "I still don't get it."
Shawn sighed in exasperation. "Gus, don't be the final jam session at a Dave Matthews concert. The woman is a waitress!"
Lassiter broke into a cruel grin. "So the woman who was found outside a restaurant worked in a restaurant. Brilliant deduction, Poirot. Do you have any other grand revelations for us, or would you rather take our orders now?"
"You should be happy he couldn't find roller skates," Gus said.
O'Hara glanced back at Lassiter as if she wanted to steer them out of an argument. "Aren't you still working on that case with the daredevil?" she asked gently. Though it was common practice for the detectives to cover multiple cases at a time – crime never stopped, after all – the psychic did not typically split his attention.
Shawn looked hurt. "But I divined information about the woman. You couldn't identify her this morning."
"We already know who the victim is," O'Hara said. "Unless you have information about her assailant, we have our own work to do."
All eyes turned to Shawn expectantly. He looked down to the pies, over to Gus, back to the pies. "I've been busy with these," he said, a little mournfully.
Lassiter stood up abruptly, causing Shawn to take a step back in surprise, almost losing the pies again. Catching the edge of the tray with one hand to steady it, Lassiter dipped a finger across the whipped cream topping on the closest pie, thankfully not pineapple. He licked the cream off thoughtfully and said, "Not bad, Spencer. You should consider opening a bakery. And closing your fake detective agency." He gave them another smirk and moved past them to his desk, nodding at O'Hara to follow.
"Sorry, guys, I really don't think you have to get involved in this case." O'Hara gave them an apologetic look, turned back to collect their notes from the table, and then joined Lassiter.
Always needing to get in the last word, Shawn shouted after them, "All right, I have a confession." Dramatic pause. Lassiter waited but didn't turn around. "I didn't bake these pies myself!"
Lassiter shook his head, more in resignation than in any true anger. Someday he might be spared the intrusion of Shawn Spencer on a case, but today was not that day.
The surprising part was that O'Hara seemed no more eager than he for psychic involvement. There was no point reading too much into it. He'd learned this morning that she was actually capable of crankiness, as unlikely as it seemed. Despite her open conversational manner, he suspected she had untapped depths that she hadn't yet shared. Somewhere deep down, even, she held a reserve of cold fury that he wasn't sure he wanted to uncover.
Lassiter grabbed the keys to the Crown Vic from his drawer and headed for the door, O'Hara a half-step behind him. They were quiet on the drive, each apparently absorbed in their own thoughts. For his part, Lassiter figured he'd need to come up with some outlandish theory about the case if Juliet dared to bring up the date again – that kind of diversion worked for Spencer.
Fortunately, O'Hara did not raise that or any other topic until they got to the restaurant. Lassiter opened the front door – colossal and elaborately carved oak – and held it for his partner to pass through. They exchanged a glance as they approached the hostess stand, and Lassiter was pleased that he knew with that one look that they were on the same page.
O'Hara displayed her badge and asked for the owner, who was expecting them. Beforehand, they had agreed that Lassiter would start with the owner in the back office while O'Hara, with her more genial manner, would interview the front of house staff. Fluent in Spanish thanks to her training in Miami, she would also handle the kitchen staff, most of whom were likely to be immigrants. Anyone who raised red flags would be invited to the station for further questioning.
"Is Anita okay?" the hostess asked fretfully.
O'Hara was ever-empathetic. "I'm sorry, but we don't have any updates about her condition. We do need to speak with everyone who worked with her last night."
"Of course. We're happy to help." A slight woman with graying hair emerged from behind the bar and introduced herself as the owner, Nina Forsythe. She beckoned him to follow, and Lassiter broke off with a nod to O'Hara, pulling his notebook from his blazer pocket.
He waited until they were behind closed doors to speak. "What can you tell me about last evening?"
"Well, you must know I feel terrible about this," Nina began. "Anita has been on my staff since I opened three years ago, and she's been essential. Everyone here loves her." She brought a hand to her cheek and patted it, as if comforting herself.
Lassiter watched her, ever alert for suspicious tells. "What time do you close?"
"We stop serving food at midnight, but the bar stays open until two. I, of course, wasn't here that late. I only close when my managers are out." She paused, thinking. "Anita would have had to stay until everyone was counted out – only managers have the combination to the safe. She might have been here until three in the morning or later." She looked over to the corner of the room, behind Lassiter, who turned to find the safe. It was positioned directly behind the door, such that anyone opening it would need to close the door to access it.
Lassiter made a note to cross-reference this with the other witnesses. "How much cash would she likely have been carrying?"
"Well, only her own pocket money." Nina frowned. "She's salaried, so she's not eligible to split tips with the house staff."
So, that lowered the odds of robbery as a motive, though a random mugger might not know better. Lassiter scowled. That also increased the likelihood that Anita was targeted, perhaps from someone who knew her schedule.
"And I have to say," she broke in, defiant but cautious, "that I did not know until this morning that the alley light was broken."
Very slowly, his head lifted. "What did you say?" It was already well past dawn by the time the first responding officer reached the scene, so no one would have noticed a non-functioning light.
"Well, the safety of my staff is of paramount importance," she said, a little pompously. "I installed halogen lamps by the back door since the city refuses to put a streetlamp in that wretched alley. But sometime last night the lights stopped functioning."
"Broken as in busted out?"
Nina shook her head. "No, that's the thing I don't understand. The bulbs themselves are fine. They just stopped working. I have an electrician coming by to check the wiring."
Lassiter raised an eyebrow. Convenient, that, for a light to go out shortly before an assault. They'd have to check out the ambient lighting after dark. "The lights would typically stay on all night?"
"Yes, they're on a timer."
Lassiter clarified some additional points concerning the staff on duty, level of foot traffic in the neighborhood, and activity in the restaurant.
"Detective," Nina said, straightening an already-straight ledger on her desk. "I hope this won't sound callous, but I really don't need bad publicity. If people think this is a dangerous place, they won't eat here."
"We have no control over what the press reports." Lassiter gave her a grim smile. "Trust me, I know." He nodded to her and excused himself.
Over the next two hours, he and O'Hara worked through staff interviews, including a few people who were called in specifically to speak to the detectives. They checked in with each other occasionally to trade valuable information or propose lines of inquiry. By the time they finished, early diners had started filtering in, mostly settling at the bar.
On their way out, Lassiter led O'Hara back into the alley for another look. As Nina had reported, the lamps were intact. It being late afternoon and still daylight outside, Lassiter couldn't verify the darkness of the alley with or without lighting. He suggested to O'Hara that they return at another point, and she nodded.
As they approached the car, Lassiter saw the same exhaustion in O'Hara's face that he felt, and proposed grabbing coffees next door before returning to the station.
"Nope – closed," O'Hara said. She reached out and grabbed his wrist with both hands, framing his watch. "It's well after three. We'd be better off staying here for a beer," she said with a cheeky smile.
"Right." Well, for someone hungover, she did a sufficient job of paying attention to details. Lassiter looked down. She still had her hands on his wrist and, in fact, blocked his view of the watch enough that he couldn't check the time anyway. He couldn't figure out why she was still holding him. Or why she'd just suggested drinking alcoholic beverages with him.
Neither of them moved for a moment. Lassiter felt a growing unease, as if she was expecting him to say something.
"Uh, coffee." He recalibrated himself.
O'Hara released his arm, almost reluctantly, it seemed. "Well, I know there's a Starbucks not too far away – I stopped there this morning. They're always open."
"Sounds good." Lassiter remained frozen until O'Hara had made her way to the car door, where she called his name. He shook his head, and with it shook off any suspicions that might have crept into it. After all, she'd just told him days earlier that he was misreading her intentions. He would be an absolute fool to believe she wanted anything from him now.
He strode over to the car and got in, keeping his eyes off his partner.
For the record, I have never seen Waitress in any of its incarnations. But there's a picture of pie on the IMDB page, so I went with it. I am also woefully unversed in movies of any era, which makes writing for Shawn and Gus incredibly difficult. What am I doing here again?