Chapter Fourteen
Holy cats, what's this? A chapter?
Yeah, writing has not come easy lately. But the weather is getting warmer, my brain has possibly finally adapted to Daylight Savings, the birds and the bunnies are back (no word about the bees) and I will definitely not use any of those as an excuse not to finish this story.
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"I have to admit, I didn't expect to hear from you again."
Lassiter fidgeted with the napkin in his lap – cloth, so he couldn't shred it into pieces to quell his nerves. He made no immediate reply.
Deborah lifted her wine glass to her lips and took a sip, all while maintaining eye contact. It felt simultaneously like a challenge and an invitation of sorts. If he'd been hoping to avoid one assertive woman in his life, he picked the wrong one to turn to.
And maybe the wrong place to do it. Without further guidance from his partner on a suitable second-date venue, Lassiter had opted for Maximo's, the restaurant at the center of their surprisingly troubling case. Yes, it was the site of a crime, he reasoned, but it also had a nice vibe inside. The hostess who seated them looked at him with vague familiarity, which, if he took an optimistic view of things, could explain why they'd been given a nice table by the window.
As off-kilter as his common sense was when it came to women of late, he thought Deborah appreciated the atmosphere. She'd glanced around smiling when they entered and were seated, and though things had so far been quiet and awkward, the fact that she even agreed to go out with him again indicated that he wasn't a total lost cause, right?
"I meant to call you back earlier," he admitted, finally, with a sigh. "Things got a little busy with a case we've been working on."
She narrowed her eyes, studying him. He wasn't sure if she was preparing to accept his excuse or scold him. After the week he'd had, excoriating himself for every decision he'd ever made about a woman, he wasn't sure he could handle yet another criticism.
Anticipating the negative reaction, he held up his hands in a pose of surrender. "I know, that's a pretty lame excuse." He picked up the napkin, crumpled it, set it down on the table. "The truth is, I'm a little out of practice with this dating thing, and while I consider myself an expert in reading criminal behavior in people, I'm not great at interpreting… other motives."
Lassiter himself hadn't thought he would speak to Deborah again. When she left him a message earlier in the week, he had been determined to leave it unanswered, too insecure in the aftermath of their first date to pursue anything further. Then O'Hara had accused him of being incapable of moving on from failed relationships, he resented the allegation, and now here he was.
Finally, Deborah set her glass back on the table and sighed. "I may have come on a little strong the other night," she admitted. "I enjoyed having dinner with you and I don't want you to feel a sense of obligation towards me."
He leaned forward, stretching his forearms onto the table in front of him. "I had a nice time as well. I'm just used to taking things slow."
"It's all right." Deborah reached out a hand to rest on his. "Juliet warned me that you weren't the type to sleep with a woman on the first date."
After a moment of silence, Lassiter realized that his mouth was hanging open. His partner was considering and discussing his sexual proclivities with her friend? He felt an abrupt sense of violation, wondering vaguely whether it counted as sexual harassment if it took place outside of the workplace. He drained his wineglass and had to convince himself not to immediately refill it.
Either she missed the shock on his face or chose to ignore it. "Don't put pressure on yourself. I'm fine with being a rebound, but only if you're comfortable with it." She patted his hand lightly, soothingly. He didn't feel soothed.
So O'Hara set him up with this woman like a stud horse? He scowled and looked away, and when he turned back, he caught Deborah watching him carefully. He'd been uncomfortable with this from the start, having his coworkers debate about his date-ability, speculating as to when he might find a new girlfriend (the prospect of him getting back together with his wife was apparently out of the question).
"Carlton, I want you to be honest with me." She withdrew her hand. "Juliet is a good person with a big heart, and I don't want to cause any problems with your partnership. I'm sensing there's some tension between you, and I get the feeling it's because of me."
He shook his head stiffly. "There's no tension." Of course there was tension, but it damned well wasn't her business.
Deborah raised an eyebrow. "Really? Everything is fine between you? If I were to call Juliet up right now, she'd agree?" She leaned over to reach into her purse, pulling out her phone and flipping it open.
Lassiter waited just long enough to test whether she would actually go through with dialing, then held up a hand to stop her. "OK, so we're not fine. But it has nothing to do with you. It's just this damned case, causing all these problems…"
What was the true source of their tension? Their issues had started before the case dropped into their lap, yes, but things had deteriorated in the week since. God knew he wasn't a mind reader, and O'Hara, who was usually so forthright with him, wasn't spilling. Maybe she regretted setting him up with her friend, after all, but couldn't admit it. That would require her to confess to him that she'd made a mistake, and that Lassiter was unsuitable as a romantic partner, and even O'Hara was too kind to admit that to him.
Deborah slowly closed her phone and set it down on the table. "You're having a disagreement over a case?"
Lassiter eyed her carefully, trying to decide how much he was willing to share. While it wasn't entirely true that the case was the problem, or at least was not the sole issue, it seemed a safe proxy. "We hit a wall on this case, and O'Hara thinks we should be doing more."
"And you think you've pursued all reasonable avenues?"
He hesitated. "The victim opted against charging her abusive ex with assault. Our hands are tied."
That was true enough: they'd stalled in tracking Pollack, which was to Lassiter a clear stop sign. Nobody died, anyway. They'd bickered over this point, O'Hara arguing that justice wasn't only necessary for the deceased. Then two robberies and a homicide in the past two days, not to mention wrapping up the paperwork on their past three cases and a deposition on another, swiftly drove any thought of resolution on the assault to the back burner. Lassiter had enough back-burner cases to rival the kitchens of the busiest restaurants. Of which this one must be among the busiest, considering how long it was taking for their food to arrive and grant him an out from this conversation.
"Hmm. But Juliet thinks differently?" Deborah sounded… not accusatory. Just thoughtful, as if she actually wanted to know. Lassiter was a little suspicious – Victoria had never wanted any details about the gruesome cases he worked, and rarely did he want to describe the intricacies of his job to a civilian, anyway.
He sighed. "O'Hara is an optimist. She thinks if we can catch the guy, she can convince the victim to press charges." She'd wanted to interview Anita again at the hospital, only to find that she'd been discharged. Lassiter practically had to order her to let it go, which resulted in another afternoon of them sitting at their separate desks, barely speaking.
"Do you think she's taking it personally? That she sees something of herself in the victim?"
"O'Hara's far too smart to get involved with a bastard like the one we're after." The words came out quickly, almost angrily, before he fully realized what he was saying.
After momentarily widening her eyes in surprise, Deborah schooled her expression into something more neutral. Lassiter got the same sense of scrutiny from her that he experienced under the microscope of the department psychologists. He was a little irritated, but then, she was so calm and still listening to him and she hadn't walked out yet, so…
"Did your victim suffer a head injury, by chance? Now or in the past?" Deborah asked gently. She'd obviously chosen to move past his little outburst without comment, which was probably just as well, Lassiter figured.
"Yeah." He shrugged and gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "She was found unconscious from a blow to the head in the alley out back."
"What, you mean here?"
Lassiter paused as he realized his mistake. "Uh… yes."
Deborah glanced around uncertainly. "You brought me to a restaurant where one of its employees had recently been attacked?" He couldn't tell whether she was angry or worried. Either response called for a strong defense.
"Well, it's not as if the guy is coming back." He didn't mention the electrician in the back closet, whom he suspected to be their perpetrator. "And if he did come back, then our problem would be solved, right?"
She stared at him in disbelief. As if waiting for the perfect opportunity, the server chose that moment to arrive with the food.
Lassiter welcomed the distraction. He wasn't the type to imagine himself as a heroic defender – he'd survived enough actual life-threatening encounters that he didn't need to fantasize about rescuing damsels in distress – however, without thinking twice, he deemed himself more than capable of protecting a date from an assailant if the occasion arose. Although he'd left his service weapon at home, he had tucked a backup .22 in his ankle holster. Just in case.
They watched the plates get settled onto the table. Lassiter's eyes lifted to meet Deborah's, gauging whether he could manage to change the subject.
"How did you meet O'Hara, anyway?" That was a safe question, right? He waited for her to pick up her fork before he did the same.
"Spin class," she said, straight-faced, and speared a piece of asparagus.
Lassiter's eyes shifted to the side and unfocused for a moment as a tantalizing image drifted into his head: both women in athletic shorts, cycling. O'Hara's slim figure, Deborah's curvier hips, both lifting from the seat to pedal harder… He shook his head to clear it.
When he looked at Deborah again, she had a knowing smirk, and raised her eyebrows as if to prompt a response from him. Caught, Lassiter felt his face flush, embarrassed like a schoolboy.
Deborah waited a moment longer before moving on to give him a shred of his dignity back. "Actually, I consulted for her on a case a while back. We hit it off and kept in touch." She studied him for a moment. "Maybe you weren't working that one. I don't remember you being involved."
It didn't quite feel like an accusation, but yet again, she had a way of asking uncomfortable questions without truly asking anything.
Lassiter picked at his food, at a loss. Bringing the conversation back to his partner reminded him of their conflict. "Is, uh… Is that why you think this might be personal for her? Because of something she told you back then?"
"I think Juliet has a lot of empathy for women in general, and in particular, those who have been victims of violence." Deborah was watching him, he just knew it, even though he avoided looking up. "Maybe she's concerned that you've become too jaded to feel the same empathy that probably drove you to a career meant to protect people."
"It's hard not to be jaded when you see people doing the same stupid things day after day, month after month." He had to say it quietly to keep the disgust out of his tone, but he suspected she could pick up on his misanthropy anyway.
As if on cue, Lassiter's phone rang, with the most obnoxious ringtone from his presets to warn him of the caller. He gritted his teeth and withdrew the phone from his pocket to silence the ringer. "Speaking of stupid people," he mumbled. There was no good reason for Spencer to be calling him on a Friday night, unless it was a prank. Knowing him, he was probably lurking outside this very restaurant, plotting to ruin his date. Like Lassiter couldn't do that on his own. He resisted the urge to peer out into the dark to find that ridiculous little blue car.
"But you're not really as jaded as she thinks you are, are you?" she pressed.
Still distracted by his phone, Lassiter muttered, "I'm sure whatever O'Hara thinks, I'm ten times worse."
"You really care about her opinion, don't you?" Deborah asked gently.
"Why?" he asked, looking up in a panic. "What did she say about me?"
Deborah laughed, deep and throaty. "It's good to have people you trust in your life, Carlton," she said, rather than answer his question. "It makes you feel less alone."
It was Lassiter's turn to study Deborah now, suspicious of this coded lesson. What could O'Hara possibly have told her about him? And how might it have resulted in Deborah not running away screaming? The problem, really, was that O'Hara was too forgiving of other people's faults. It worked to his own benefit, to be fair, but it also meant that she kept people like Shawn Spencer in her life as well.
Thinking the sonuvabitch's name must be a curse in itself, he thought, as Lassiter's phone startled him by going off again. He fumbled to decline the call, noticing a couple from a nearby table looking over at him with some annoyance. Deborah's expression, at least, was more forgiving.
He cautiously put his phone back in his pocket and returned to his meal.
"Anyway, to go back to your assault case," Deborah prompted after a few moments. "Victims of intimate partner violence may suffer from a traumatic brain injury, which affects a number of neurological systems. Among other adverse results, it affects their ability to make decisions… such as the decision to escape a dangerous situation."
Lassiter glanced up from his food.
"What I'm saying is, the very injuries your victim experienced may be what's preventing her from finding the support she needs to heal." She paused. "So, if Juliet is pushing on this harder than you are, it may be because she understands the research around this sensitive issue."
"She may?" Lassiter asked, a little wry.
Deborah shrugged. "Okay, she does. Because we've discussed it. She wants to set up an educational seminar at the station, if she can convince her chief and senior partner to support it."
He lifted an eyebrow. "Is that really why she set us up? So you could sell me on the idea?"
She laughed again, and more of the awkwardness of their evening melted away. "Maybe she's a little more conniving than I give her credit for." Lassiter grinned back, amused at the absurdity of his partner coordinating a date to get ahead on the job. He'd almost prefer that to the reality, that O'Hara thought so much of him that she wanted to meddle with his personal life.
Just as they seemed to settle back into the ease with which they'd conducted their first date, Lassiter felt the vibration in his pocket of the phone – this time with ringer silenced. He yanked it out, ready to throw it across the room, or at the very least, to shut it off entirely.
Deborah glanced down at the phone in his hand, his fingers clenched around the plastic as if to crush it. "Are you sure that isn't something important?"
Lassiter hesitated. Considering the source, there was no chance it was important. But Spencer was as relentless as a swarm of locusts, and if he weren't already hanging around outside, he would find them soon enough. The only possibility that would mean his night could go on uninterrupted was to close the faucet before the water came gushing out.
In a fury, since things were finally starting to go his way, he answered the phone, leaving no room for the psychic to start one of his annoying, meandering stories. "Spencer! I'm in the middle of something. Whatever you need, call O'Hara. Or better yet, figure it out yourself!"
"That's just the problem!" Spencer sounded genuinely panicked, enough that Lassiter paused before hanging up. "Jules!"
"What?" he said. He kept all emotion out of his tone, for fear of showing too much.
"She's in danger!"
Lassiter felt a chill run down his body. "Where?"