Chapter Eight
As usual, Lassiter arrived before O'Hara on Monday, planting himself in front of his computer with as studious an air as he could manage. He knew that she'd grill him about his date, but she could at least not do it first thing in the morning, for God's sake. Granted, she surely knew everything already, because women always talk, and she'd had half the weekend to dish with her bestie. Lassiter scowled at his monitor just thinking about it, working himself up into silent outrage.
Never kiss and tell, that was the way he'd been raised, and damn if he didn't think what happens between a man and a woman should stay private between them. He'd lived by that code his entire dating life and found the men who bragged about their conquests to be distasteful at best. Even with Victoria, he waited until things got serious to talk openly about the relationship with friends, acquaintances, okay, also his family. That may have been due in part to a belief that it would all blow up in his face at any moment, but still. Maybe he suffered from an unhealthy dose of paranoia, but he preferred to think of it as being a gentleman.
O'Hara had left a report from her overnight shift on what she'd uncovered with the unconscious waitress case. On top of the printout from the file, she'd affixed a sticky note with her finest doodled smiley face and a proposal that they swing by Diego's address for a conversation. He'd groused to her before about her illustrations – O'Hara, we're investigating homicides here and you're drawing pictures of sunshine and rainbows? – but she innocently countered that sticky notes were not part of the official record. Now, he'd grudgingly grown to appreciate her cheery doodles, not that he'd ever admit it to her.
Speaking of sunshine and rainbows, his partner showed up at her desk just then, heaving her purse on the desk in a decidedly un-sunshiny way. Lassiter leaned in toward his monitor in such a way as to appear even more preoccupied with his work while allowing himself the right angle to watch her in his periphery. Was she angry? At him?
Without glancing his way, she lumbered off to the coffee bar, shoulders slumped. Her back fully to him, Lassiter felt comfortable turning to watch her openly. The more information he could gather about her mental state, the better prepared he would be for her eventual strike. She grabbed a mug without looking (not her usual mug, which still sat on her desk), and lifted the coffee pot to almost eye-level. Even from a distance, Lassiter could see all that remained was a pathetic slosh of liquid at its base.
The station was starting to come to life as the day shift filtered into the bullpen, murmurs of conversation in the air. Dobson passed by O'Hara and Lassiter saw but couldn't make out his greeting to her. He had no problem hearing her response.
"Why the hell does nobody make a new pot when it's empty?"
Oh, shit. Lassiter scrambled to think of a perfectly good reason to escape and spend the rest of the day chasing down leads alone, ideally miles away from a furious O'Hara.
Dobson froze, and Lassiter caught him slowly sliding the steaming hot mug of coffee in his own hand out of O'Hara's eyeline. At least Lassiter was safe on this point: as the first to arrive to the morning shift, he usually set the pot percolating even before turning on all the lights. Before she could say anything else, Dobson continued on past to his own desk, sparing a wide-eyed look in Lassiter's direction that probably reflected his own panicked expression.
Finally, O'Hara's eyes landed on him, and he guiltily looked away. He cast about for something to grab his attention and landed on the smiley face. Usually the roles were reversed, and O'Hara was the one who had to deal with one of his outbursts. How did she handle it?
Diversion.
He grabbed the file and swept over to O'Hara, who hadn't yet moved past the hold-the-coffee-pot-aloft-angrily phase. Before fully realizing the implications – namely, that this was exactly the opposite of what he'd planned for the morning – he grabbed her shoulder, perhaps with excessive force, and steered her away from the counter. "Come on, O'Hara, let's take care of this interview you suggested. I'll buy you coffee on the way."
Though he expected her to redirect her wrath at him, she instead deflated, allowing him to guide her back to her desk. At some point, they both realized that she still held the nearly empty coffee pot, and Lassiter rushed to divest her of the burden, depositing it on the desk of the guy who sat behind her. He was a rookie, and he'd hopefully take the hint whenever he showed up.
"God, I hate overnights," O'Hara said weakly.
Now that she was closer, he could see the weariness in her eyes. He tried for a joke. "Maybe you just need more practice."
She elbowed him and due to their height difference, it landed right in a sensitive part of his belly, but he sucked it up and repressed the grunt of pain as much as he could. Despite the ferocity of the act, Lassiter still hoped she meant no real harm.
Once they reached the car, Lassiter realized how difficult it would now be to avoid the conversation that he'd dreaded all weekend. O'Hara was quiet as he keyed the ignition, though he wasn't fooled; she was going to spring her interrogation on him when he was vulnerable, unsuspecting. And he still didn't know why she was so moody.
"So, you went out drinking last night to talk about me again, did you?" Once the thought occurred to him, Lassiter had a hard time getting past how angry it made him, this violation of his privacy.
"What? No!" She turned slightly in her seat towards him.
He knew that his partner had his back – by and large – but there were times, usually when Spencer was around, that she enjoyed a laugh or two at his expense. He could only imagine the ammunition that Deborah could bring, new targets of humiliation. The sad sack who brought up his wife on a first date.
Lassiter pulled out of the station lot and pointed the car east, a stubborn set to his jaw. He hadn't intended to turn this into an argument, but he'd spent his Sunday filled with all sorts of regrets that couldn't stop themselves from tumbling out now.
"In case you forgot, I worked Saturday night." She had an edge to her tone now herself.
"How could I forget? I owe you forever."
"That's not what I mean." She ran a hand through her hair and turned toward the window. "I'm just a little off-kilter because I've taken two random naps in the past two days and that's it."
"So?"
"So sorry I'm not a robot like you and able to function with no sleep!" O'Hara turned back to him in a fury. "Why are you so pissy, anyway?"
"I'm not," he said, and even to his own ears it sounded sulky. He took pride in the robot moniker, encouraged it, even, from the regular staff, for whom he had to appear a fearless leader. But it stung a little coming from his partner.
"Was it that bad?" Somehow she managed to seem both irritated and concerned at the same time.
"Was what that bad?"
"The date. Is that why you're mad at me? Because you hated Deborah?"
Surprised, Lassiter looked over at her. "Is that what she said? She hates me?"
"Did you do something to make her hate you?" O'Hara countered.
Funny how she didn't answer the question. "I was only an ass about three-quarters of the time."
She nodded. "Okay. Better than I expected." Obviously her standards were so low that anything short of making a complete ass of himself was a resounding success. It didn't explain why that made her so angry.
Lassiter veered the car into a parking space and abruptly opened the door. "Wait here." He left before she could protest.
Saved by the Starbucks. He ordered O'Hara's coffee with an extra shot of espresso and added a couple of egg sandwiches. A peace offering, and perhaps another distraction.
When he returned to the car, O'Hara was staring out the passenger side window, maybe even looking at herself in the side mirror. She accepted his offering of food and drink without audibly thanking him, so he knew that she was still aggravated.
They ate together in a tense silence. Lassiter took fierce bites of his sandwich, not even sure why they were in this standoff. Surely this was what they all expected would happen – Deborah found the date a disappointment. That didn't mean everybody needed to be mad about it.
As soon as he crammed the final bite in his mouth, Lassiter crumpled the paper wrapping and let it drop to the floor, knowing it would annoy O'Hara. He then dug the key in the ignition until he heard an unnatural cranking sound and had to ease back. It would be a little awkward if he flooded the engine and had to sit with O'Hara waiting for a tow truck.
He drove on toward the address listed in Diego Rogers' file, an apartment complex at the inland edge of town. Just as they approached the parking lot, it occurred to Lassiter that neither of them had discussed how they would tackle this interview. Normally, they could work through it even without preparation, but he wasn't feeling on the same page as O'Hara at the moment.
"How'd you come up with this guy's name, anyway?" he asked, his voice tight. "Your report didn't mention a source."
Right away, he could tell she was being cagey. "Oh, well, someone mentioned it in an interview," she said, turning toward the passenger side window again.
His jaw clenched. Spencer. He knew his partner well enough to tell when she was avoiding an uncomfortable truth, and she definitely had a better memory than she was exhibiting at the moment. She had no faith in his romantic potential and clearly none in his detecting abilities, either.
Lassiter pulled to a stop in the fire lane in front of the main office, silently daring O'Hara to question it. When he glanced over at her, though, she was focused on a man carrying a bag to the dumpsters.
"That's him," she said, a hint of glee in her voice. "That's Diego."
Together, they slipped out of the car and marched toward the man. Lassiter's longer strides got him closer first, but O'Hara was the one to call out to him.
"Diego Rogers?"
Focused on hoisting the trash bag over the rim of the dumpster, the man took a moment to respond. "Yeah?" He looked over his shoulder to find Lassiter advancing on him, one hand resting on his belt just behind his badge so that it gleamed in the sunlight.
Once he'd backed Diego up against the dumpster through sheer intimidation – the man was considerably shorter – Lassiter leaned in even further. "SBPD. We've got some questions for you, pal." The rank smell of garbage stung his nose, though he figured the look of disgust that crossed his face would only serve his purposes.
O'Hara caught up and put one hand on Lassiter's arm. Her touch was gentle, but he knew better. "Which we would like to ask you over here, if you would?" She gestured back toward a pair of benches at the entrance.
Diego looked between them uneasily. After a moment, he came to a conclusion, clearly preferring O'Hara's option. "Yeah, okay." He eased his way around them both, hands held out in a position of surrender.
Lassiter would rather he be interviewed in less comfortable circumstances, but before he could protest, he felt a sharp pain on his foot. He didn't have to look down to realize that O'Hara had pressed her pointy heel directly on his shoe and leaned her weight into it. Restraining himself from crying out, he ground his teeth and muttered, "We'll talk by the entrance."
O'Hara let him suffer another few seconds before releasing. With a smug expression, she turned away, following Diego over to a bench and sitting across from him.
Two could play at that game.
"Diego, can you tell me where you were last Thursday night?" she asked sweetly.
Lassiter took up a post in front of the man, standing unnervingly close and effectively blocking his exit if he tried to run for it.
Looking uneasily between the two detectives, Diego said, "At work. What's this about?"
"Where?" Lassiter crossed his arms over his chest, which served to keep his service weapon in full view, at eye level to their suspect. Witness. Gullible O'Hara seemed convinced by some uplifting story about averting a robbery that the guy was a hero.
"Night security at the college."
O'Hara broke in before Lassiter could add a sarcastic remark. "Can your manager corroborate that for us?"
"A bunch of drunk kids sneaking back into their dorms can corroborate it." Diego paused, then shifted his gaze between them again. "I didn't commit no crimes."
"Let us be the judge of that." Lassiter was proud of himself for that one. He glanced over to O'Hara, who was noticeably less impressed, and didn't even try to hide her eyeroll from the witness.
"Diego, do you know a woman by the name of Anita Torres?" Using the perp's name repeatedly to establish trust – that was a trick he taught her. Somehow it worked better for her than it ever did for him.
At this, Diego stiffened, sitting up straighter. "Yeah, I've been trying to reach her all weekend. She isn't answering her phone." He wiped a hand across his face, then appeared to recall belatedly that it was the same one that had held the trash. "I figured she was mad at me." A realization came over him, and he stood up so quickly that Lassiter took a step backward to regain his balance. "What happened to her?"
"Does she often get mad at you without telling you why?" It came out before Lassiter could stop himself, and he saw O'Hara's face cycle through flashes of surprise and annoyance.
Diego shook his head. "No. We get along great."
Schooling her tone in one of gentleness, O'Hara asked, "Did you have an argument last week?"
They all waited for a long moment as Diego considered. Then he heaved a great sigh, as if he'd come to some resolution. "I found out she'd been married before. I got a little upset, because that's a big thing, you know, and she'd never said anything about it before."
At this, Lassiter locked eyes with O'Hara and suddenly knew that they were back on the same page. He let her take the lead.
"Do you know her ex-husband's name? Or his current location?"
He shook his head.
Lassiter took another few steps back, leaving O'Hara to finish questioning the witness. He took out his notebook and jotted down items to follow up on later – check alibi, find ex-husband. This would be a lot easier if their victim would wake up. Another action item – check Anita's status at hospital.
He waited by the car, watching his partner interview Diego from a short distance, far enough that he could no longer make out their words but could watch body language. Now that he'd backed off, the man grew more animated, almost eager. He'd seen no shortage of men bend over backwards to ingratiate themselves with women, even men who claimed to be committed partners, and Diego was no exception. Some men couldn't resist yapping away if a beautiful woman like O'Hara was listening. It was better if he stayed out of her way.
Once O'Hara finished her interview and they settled back into the car, Lassiter expected her to chew him out over the nearly sabotaged encounter, but she surprised him yet again.
"Have you called her?"
He hesitated. "Why would I call her?"
"Oh, so you don't want to see her again?"
"I didn't say that." He paused. "Why does the man have to do all the follow-up, anyway?"
She waited him out.
"It went… fine. I just don't know if she'll want to see me again." Lassiter stared straight ahead, left hand clenching the steering wheel, right hand gripping the keys until he felt the teeth bite his palm.
He recalled the parking lot on Saturday night, after Deborah had invited him to her place, and he could do nothing but stare at her, wide-eyed.
Flushed from the kiss, unable to think clearly, his mind went not to his wife (ex-wife), but to O'Hara. "Uh," he said. Their bodies were still intertwined, the taste of her – wine and a little garlic, after all – on his lips.
Deborah waited for his answer, desire clearly written in her eyes. At some point, her hand had snaked around his neck and into his hair, and her fingers gently massaged his scalp. The sensation distracted him momentarily: it had been a while since he'd held a woman like this.
Lassiter looked away and removed his arms from her back, reluctant though he was to lose the warmth of her body. "I, uh, probably shouldn't…." He finished his sentence in an incomprehensible murmur that even he couldn't follow.
Understanding what he couldn't convey, Deborah released her hold on him, if a little grudgingly. With one final brief kiss, she stepped back and said, "We'll talk soon." She opened her car door and started the engine by the time Lassiter revived enough to respond.
He gave a dopey wave as she reversed out of her space. Then he went to his car and sat in the dark for ten minutes, head collapsed against the steering wheel, trying to decide how big a mistake he'd just made.
It wasn't the same car, but he found himself staring at the steering wheel nonetheless. After an interval of silence, he started the car and pulled out of the lot, tires screeching. He knew O'Hara was watching him, but she seemed unwilling to push him further.
Lassiter drove for a long time without saying anything. Finally, as the embarrassment of the evening washed over him yet again, another thought occurred to him, one that would compound any awkwardness he already felt.
"Don't tell Spencer about my date." He grimaced, but knew the next part was necessary. "Please."
"I wouldn't."
He could still feel her staring at him, though he kept his eyes on the road.
"Carlton, why don't you trust me?" Her voice sounded faint, wounded. "After all this time?"
He didn't answer for so long that he almost hoped she forgot she said anything. Finally, swallowing thickly, he settled on, "Of course I trust you."
She snorted and turned away.