Chapter Seventeen
Lassiter tugged at his collar with discomfort. Though he'd long since grown used to wearing suits in his day-to-day work, he found the dress uniform unpleasant, stiff from disuse. It felt like a poorly fitted costume: blister-inducing new shoes, overstarched white shirt, blazer made of a wool too heavy for California in the springtime.
Of course, it wasn't just the heat making him sweat; it was the speech. What better time, Chief Feinich had told him with uncharacteristic joviality, to celebrate your promotion to head detective than the annual Policeman's Foundation Gala? And it wasn't so much the public speaking itself that bothered him, but the idea that the future trajectory of his career lay in this room, in hobnobbing with the social elite of Santa Barbara, in whose good graces he must remain if he had any hope of attaining chiefdom. Feinich had warned him that networking was his weak point: Lassiter was far more interested in the detecting part of the job than in the politicking.
He stepped out onto the veranda outside the main ballroom for a breather. Small talk bored him. He'd had to abstain from drinking more than the two Scotches he allowed himself until after his speech – no need to embarrass himself and the department. At least outside he could escape the press of bodies and watch the sun slide down over the horizon.
"You look like a man who appreciates beauty."
Lassiter jumped, then tried to disguise it by running a hand over his recently buzzed scalp. By the time he turned around to find the woman who'd spoken, half-tucked behind a column, she was concealing her laughter behind one hand. Her nails, he noted, were painted a striking color, blood-red, and he tried not to think of crime scenes.
He studied her for a long moment, suspicious. But her laughter subsided, and she continued looking back at him, studying him in return. Scrutiny was nothing new to Lassiter – he'd withstood many spot inspections in his day, and thrived on proving himself – but this felt different.
"I'm not really here for the sunset," he admitted.
"That's all right," she said. "Neither am I." She took a few steps toward him, sliding a cigarette from a pack that she seemed to conjure out of thin air. Certainly not from the dress, nearly black with a deep red iridescent sheen, hugging her thin figure.
His eyes followed the movements of her hands, mesmerized, as her fingers manipulated the cigarette. She lifted it to her mouth, pursed her burgundy lips around the filtered tip. With a metallic snap and hiss, she sparked a lighter and brought it to her face. Something about her motions seemed affected, with an air of theater in response to the audience, and yet he couldn't tear himself away. He glanced up and saw that she was watching him, amusement in her eyes.
"Care for one?" She held the pack up, offering.
He found it in him to shake his head, faintly. "I don't smoke."
A wry smile came to her face. "Neither do I." She waited for his protest, and just before he spoke, she added, "I know what you're going to say. I promise, I usually don't. There's just something about these events that drives me to my vices."
Lassiter glanced down at the tumbler in his hand, ice melted into the dregs of the whiskey he'd been stretching for half an hour now. A drop of condensation fell to the shiny patent leather of his shoe and slid off over the toe.
"The strong, silent type. I like that." She walked to the edge of the veranda and exhaled smoke out over the railing, where the breeze picked up and dispersed it. "I'll take no conversation at all over one more soliloquy about a yacht named after someone's first wife. Or dog."
Intrigued, he followed her, leaning one forearm on the balcony railing. "I don't have a yacht. Though I wouldn't mind a small fishing boat someday."
"Salt of the earth," she said approvingly. "Or water, as the case may be."
Lassiter looked out toward the sunset again, this time keeping an eye on the smoking woman. She seemed content with the companionable silence. Meanwhile, he wracked his brain, trying to determine whether he'd seen her around City Hall or somewhere else in local government. Definitely not – he would have remembered her. More striking to him than her looks, she had an aura of command about her, as if she knew what she wanted and had the confidence to claim it.
"So what brings you here if you'd rather be smoking alone on the deck?" he asked.
She drew back, surprised. "Well, I'm not alone, am I?"
He shrugged to concede the point while she took another drag from her cigarette.
"My father's on the board," she explained. "Thinks it's good optics for me to come along, and to understand the philanthropic animal." She smiled again. "And I suppose he thinks I'll meet some rival family scion at one of them and fall madly in love."
Lassiter paused to process this information, and the implication that she was available.
"But you…" She paused to look him over, lingering on the service bars at his chest. "Youngest head detective in Santa Barbara history. Quite an accomplishment. And as far as I can tell, it's not because you have a daddy on the board."
Lassiter bristled at the suggestion before concluding that she meant it as a compliment. He was proud of the number of commendations he'd been awarded at this stage of his career and wasn't afraid to puff himself up a little about it. "It's what I've worked for since the day I entered the Academy."
"Indeed you have." Gradually her eyes returned to his face, and he had the vague feeling of a creature about to be devoured. "I like a man who's driven. Most of the boys around here have never had to fight for anything in their coddled little lives."
Considering those boys were exactly the people he had to ingratiate himself with this evening, Lassiter elected to remain silent. If he'd learned anything so far about the wealthy members of the city, it was that they all knew each other and they all talked. No, gossiped. Suspecting a test of loyalty or good grace wasn't paranoia – it was just good sense.
When he made no remark, she carried on with a sardonic laugh. "Of course, who am I to talk? I'm no better than the rest of them."
Uneasy, Lassiter asked, "Why's that?"
She paused long enough to take another drag of her cigarette, letting it linger before puffing it out in one quick burst. "Well, I took a business degree at my father's behest. And now I dabble in marketing."
Lassiter quirked an eyebrow.
"Which is to say that I do contract work for my father's friends while I figure out my passion in life." She said the last with irony, and Lassiter couldn't tell whether she herself found the idea distasteful or, perhaps, her father did.
After a moment of hesitation, Lassiter offered, "My father wasn't around to share his opinion about my career choices." He gave a half-smile. "I wanted to be a cowboy as a kid."
She looked him over again. "You could really pull off the ten-gallon hat."
He felt his ears reddening and tried to change the subject. "In any case, I was lucky to find my calling early. Everything I've done in my career had led me to this point."
She stubbed out her cigarette on the balcony and let the butt tumble over the edge and into the fading light. "Sometimes I just want to do something absolutely crazy. Don't you? Like, like drive a motorcycle across the country, the wind blowing through my hair. Nobody to answer to."
He pictured it; she had the kind of hair that would look good windswept, dark and wavy. It also occurred to him that it was the longest conversation he'd had with a woman in a while. Between long hours at the station, night classes in grad school, and his general disinclination to socialize, he hadn't been on many dates lately. "I suppose it would be nice to travel. Forget about my obligations for a while."
"But there are always obligations." She had a sad smile. "Aren't there?"
He opened his mouth but found he had no answer. For a moment, at least, he'd let his guard drop, and yet nothing terrible had happened.
"There you are."
Lassiter spun around guiltily.
Chief Feinich leaned through the doorway, sparing a quick glance at the woman. "You're on in two minutes, kiddo. Don't get cold feet now." As swiftly as he'd appeared, he was gone.
His nerves returning, he scratched his neck and looked back at the woman. "I've got to…"
She smiled. "Obligations." She took a step closer and reached out to straighten his lapel. "I look forward to hearing a speech from a man who talks as little as you do."
"It'll be short, I can promise that," he joked.
He hesitated, not quite willing to walk away without even getting her name. She watched him, waiting for him to make a move.
"So what would you do?" Lassiter asked instead. "If you were really going to take a risk?"
She leaned forward and took the whiskey glass he'd forgotten was in his hand. Then, before he could step away, she gently took his lapel and pulled him down for a kiss. Almost before he could respond, she pulled back again and gave him a light shove to the chest.
"Go out there and be a hero," she said.
-x-x-x-
Lassiter wasn't sure what had brought the memory of meeting Victoria to mind. Whatever it was she'd been looking for, she never found in him. At least the rumination offered a distraction from his worry for his partner.
He'd spent the past hour pacing around the waiting room while O'Hara queued up for a CT scan. This after a solid two hours simply sitting with her, feigning calm while she chattered away, oblivious to her trouble. Once he'd keyed into her short-term memory loss, he'd hastened to get her to the ER, despite her insisting that she was fine. He might have believed her if not for the painful lump on the back of her head or the bruise purpling at her temple. Other than repeating herself – of course the line about the damn date, as if she couldn't come up with a better topic to needle him about over and over – she seemed completely normal. Cheerful, even. If Lassiter didn't know better, he'd say she was happy to see him, and not just because of his timely arrival in the warehouse.
The ER was crowded; apparently, Friday night brought the idiots out of the woodwork. Drunk, stupid accidents. Though not a doctor, Lassiter assumed a head injury ranked above a finger ouchie on the triage scale, but the nimrods in the white coats didn't seem to agree.
Worst of all, when they finally brought O'Hara in for evaluation, they ordered him to remain behind. He'd threatened, cajoled, done everything short of drawing his weapon, but the nurses weren't budging. Immediate family only. He told them he was her partner, flashed his badge. He even led them to believe he meant partner in a different sense if needed, but no, he wasn't listed as medical proxy, so have a seat, sir.
"Don't worry about me, Carlton. I'll be fine," she said, with a playful pat to his abdomen that he still felt. She followed the nurse into the exam room carelessly, leaving him, mouth agape.
The mellow from his wine at dinner had long since faded, and the vending machine swill they called coffee did nothing to curb his exhaustion. His eyeballs ached. God knew he'd pulled plenty of all-nighters in his day (but you're getting a bit old for that now, aren't you?). He didn't want to check his watch. He didn't want to sit down for fear he'd collapse with the sudden loss of inertia.
He didn't want to think about what it would mean if O'Hara had suffered serious neurological damage. Unlikely, sure, but even a whisper of difficulty could spell the end of her career, or at least the end of her field work. The end of their partnership.
How could it all happen so quickly? It went with the territory of law enforcement; Lassiter understood that. Head injuries were all too common, and nothing to mess around with, as he well knew. He'd endured his share. Probably explained some things about who he was now.
"How is she?" a voice asked quietly at his shoulder. Lassiter wasn't sure how long Chief Vick had been standing next to him as he leaned against a wall across from a television silently airing some sitcom he'd never seen.
He unfolded his arms and stepped to the side, adding distance between them. "It's late."
Vick smiled tightly, and though she wasn't quite as put together as she would be on a typical workday, she carried herself with enough authority to mask any sense of exhaustion – far better than Lassiter could manage at the moment. "It's two in the morning, Carlton, but when one of my detectives is in the hospital, I make accommodations."
He gave her a skeptical look.
She sighed. "As it happens, Iris is going through a phase. Not sleeping through the night, nightmares, the works. So I was already awake when your message came through, and I decided to come see for myself."
He'd sent her a brief text after O'Hara was taken in, mostly to forestall the incident reports from the various uniforms on site at the warehouse. Maybe it had been in part to assuage his own guilt at not being there for his partner, preparing himself to absorb the inevitable scolding.
"And I don't believe you answered my question."
Now it was Lassiter's turn to sigh. "They're checking her for a skull fracture. But they won't let me stay with her!" The last part came out at a shout, roughly directed at the check-in desk, causing several nearby heads to turn.
Vick was unfazed by his outburst. "What happened?"
He scowled. "O'Hara tried to single-handedly take down a dangerous suspect on the word of one of Spencer's visions." After a pause, he added, "She succeeded, by the way."
She gave a faint smile to acknowledge the subtle praise of his partner in spite of everything. "But not without collateral damage, it seems."
"No."
Though he avoided her eyes, Lassiter could feel her piercing gaze directed at him, evaluating. "And where were you during this?"
He remained silent. The question itself wasn't really fair – certainly, she didn't expect him to keep tabs on his partner in her off hours. Then again, that wasn't exactly what she was asking, and he knew it. He also knew that he didn't want to answer the real question.
Vick let the silence settle between them, walked around to his other side as if by doing so she conveyed the message that she was willing to change the subject. Her next words were brighter, casual. "You look nice. Doing something special this evening?"
He gave her a cold glare that communicated that he knew exactly what her ploy was. "Rescuing my partner."
Vick smiled, secure either in the knowledge that she understood Lassiter on a level that was rare among his colleagues, or simply in the fact that she was his boss. "Looks to me like Detective O'Hara had another accomplishment to her name tonight."
"Yeah, thanks for that."
She let out a chuckle. "Sarcasm aside, I know you're not in the habit of doing things you don't want to do. Unless, of course, O'Hara is the one who's convinced you to do it."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't respond. What was there to say? It was true. As stubborn as he was, O'Hara had somehow delved deep enough into his psyche, or under his skin, to bring him to do things he never could have conceived of. She'd brought him to meet her family for Christmas, for God's sake, and he didn't even see his own family for Christmas if he could help it. Even though that didn't end as well as either of them may have hoped, the fact that he'd been willing to venture out of his comfort zone for her meant more to both of them than perhaps either realized.
Finally, he took a deep breath, exhaled, and admitted, "O'Hara set me up with a friend of hers. We were on our second – and last – date tonight."
"Huh. Then things must have gone even better than she hoped for."
He tilted his head toward her, curiosity getting the better of him. "How do you figure that?"
She shrugged. "I already knew she'd put in the effort to find you a date, but not that it was overwhelmingly a success. She was pretty proud of herself for that. Making you happy seems to be her personal mission. It's a shame she hasn't figured out how to do that yet." Vick gave him a cryptic look, but he was too weary to pursue whatever track she was on.
"I'm perfectly happy," he protested. "I have a solid partnership that has led to the successful completion of many important cases…." He trailed off, realizing after a moment that he didn't have much else he could proudly point to that would illustrate him as a well-adjusted member of society.
"You're right. You do have a solid partnership." She paused for effect. "Don't let anything – even, or especially, your own ego – get in the way of that."
He bit his lip to prevent the initial indignant outburst that threatened to spill out. Contrary to popular opinion, he could hold his tongue when necessary. It took him long enough to redirect his attention to a safer topic that he looked up in surprise when he heard Vick curse under her breath.
"I didn't say anyth-" he protested, before realizing that she was looking past him, toward the entrance to the waiting area. Spencer and Guster were sauntering in, looking surprisingly alert considering the lateness of the hour. Scratch that – Spencer appeared almost chipper; Guster looked a little queasy, even more so after raising a hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn.
Lassiter pulled himself upright from his position against the wall, and only noticed he'd adopted an aggressive stance after Vick rested a hand on his clenched fist. He crossed his arms and leaned back again, though it occurred to Lassiter that if he were going to punch him, there was no place more convenient than an ER.
"Mr. Spencer. Care to explain why one of my finest detectives is in the hospital?"
Shawn looked over at Lassiter, unable to keep the smirk from his face. "Well, if I had to guess, I'd say he's finally ready for his psychiatric hold."
Lassiter was too tired to strangle him.
"So, how's Jules doing, anyway?" Shawn looked around as if expecting to find O'Hara lounging in a corner, alongside the fool pressing a towel to his hand who'd decided to mix alcohol with knives.
"She would be doing much better if you hadn't connived her into a dangerous situation by herself." Vick sounded nearly as angry as Lassiter himself had been, and to greater effect: Spencer immediately cowed before her. "What were you thinking, sending her into a warehouse with an armed man alone?"
Shawn exchanged an uneasy glance with Gus. "I didn't mean to," he said, his voice small. "Lassie was supposed to be there to kick down the door and take out the bad guy."
The man in question turned his head slowly, directing the full force of his steely glare on the pair. Guster immediately ducked behind Spencer, and even Shawn seemed a little unnerved by it, which did not make Lassiter feel much better. But it helped.
"And why did you bring a pineapple?" Vick asked. Now she sounded as if she wanted to avert the disaster of Lassiter's full temper.
They all looked down. For some reason, Shawn was cradling a pineapple, topped with a shiny red bow, under one arm. He held it aloft a little proudly. "Just a little get-well-soon gift."
Lassiter scowled. "What the hell is O'Hara supposed to do with a whole-ass pineapple?"
"What is she supposed to-" Shawn acted affronted, looking back at Gus for support. "What can't she do with a pineapple?"
"There are a hundred and one ways to prepare pineapple," Gus chipped in helpfully.
"Sliced, cubed, mashed, grilled."
"On pizza."
"A la king."
"Sweet and sour."
"Enough!" Vick roared, drawing more than a few eyes in their direction. Lassiter was just satisfied that he wasn't the one attracting negative attention for once. "I'm sorry I asked."
"You don't want to know how we got a pineapple at this time of night," Gus said conspiratorially.
Shawn shook his head in disbelief. "I keep saying they should stock them in the hospital gift shop. I wrote a letter to the general of the hospital."
Gus broke in. "Um, that was a letter addressed to General Hospital, the soap opera. I don't even know how that was supposed to work."
Shawn looked confused. "So you're saying Luke and Laura aren't the names of the head doctors here?"
"Chief."
"Lassiter's right," Gus said. "The head doctors are called chiefs."
Vick immediately turned to follow Lassiter's gaze, and they watched O'Hara emerge from the rear examination area, guided by a nurse. She was holding a sheaf of papers of various sizes and colors. Lassiter pushed himself off the wall and strode over to meet her.
"Carlton," she said, sounding pleasantly surprised when she spotted him.
He stopped just short of sweeping her up into a great hug, allowing himself to rest a hand on her shoulder.
The nurse seemed perfectly content to relinquish her charge back into Lassiter's care now. "She's okay to go home for now. She may continue to suffer some short-term memory loss, so you'll need to monitor her over the next few days. Once the radiologist takes a look at her scan, we'll have more information about her brain function."
"How long?" Lassiter wasn't sure what he was asking exactly – how long before we know, how long will she suffer memory loss, how long should I stay with her?
"It really varies. She might continue to have side effects for days or weeks. Her memory should recover, but it's likely she'll lose the long-term memory of tonight. Let's hope nothing important happened!"
Lassiter glared at the nurse's pathetic attempt at a joke.
O'Hara patted his arm as if to calm him, and he realized that he still held her shoulder. Under normal circumstances, he would pull himself back in embarrassment, but he really didn't want to. Though she acted perfectly healthy, Lassiter knew that she needed support. He might not be her ideal choice, but here he was. So instead of shying away, he eased his arm around her back in a half-embrace. She immediately leaned in against his body with palpable relief.
It was probably just as well if she didn't remember tonight. He'd felt vulnerable, worried about her, and been a little too open with her when he found her safe. His declaration that he'd always come for her, while true, was a bit too raw a declaration to stand between them. Better that she think of him as gruff and unfeeling.
The others slowly circled around O'Hara, watching her with varying degrees of interest and worry.
She looked up. "Oh, hey, Shawn. What are you doing here?"
Shawn goggled at her, both impressed and amused at her reaction. "I could ask you the same question." His eyes widened, anticipating the response.
"Mr. Spencer," Vick scolded.
O'Hara looked a little puzzled, her gaze shifting uneasily from Shawn to Gus and the chief. "What is it?"
Vick studied her, apparently considering the right approach. Finally, she settled on, "How are you doing?"
O'Hara looked up at Lassiter. "I feel a little tired. How about you?"
She only had to say the word. "I'm taking you home," he said firmly.
Vick nodded at him. "Keep me posted."
Lassiter ushered her away.