A/N: Okay, so I know that there are two other stories I haven't finished yet, so you might be wondering why I'm posting this one instead. What can I say? A rabid plot-bunny got his teeth into me and wouldn't let go.
I also thought I'd kill two birds with one stone by also posting, along with this story, a fanfic challenge. Now, obviously, I'm a big fan of Veronica Mars, but I am also a big fan of the other great television show about a detective in southern California who does ethically questionable things and has the initials V.M. So the challenge is to write a crossover fic between Veronica Mars and The Shield. Bonus points will be awarded for every ethically questionable thing that Veronica or Vic Mackey does.
Lastly, if you know where I stole the title of this fic from—ahem—I mean, what the title of this fic is an hommage to, then you are a true child of the 80s and a doughty Reaganaut.
Los Angeles, 2024
I'm slumped over my desk, asleep, when the afternoon sun comes streaming in the window of Mars Investigations. I groan out a curse at the stupid yellow ball in the sky and promise myself for the millionth time to fix the shades. I try to tilt my head so that the sun won't be right in my eye, and then my hangover really hits me, and then I curse the stupid yellow ball atop my neck.
"Well, well," said a smug voice from the other side of the desk, "it looks like Captain Hook still lives after all. Not that you'd know from the smell."
"'Captain Hook?' That's brilliant McCall. You know, my father died while I was in college, in case you'd like to mock any of my other personal tragedies."
"Crap, V, I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't come here to fight with you."
"Why did you come here?"
"Official business, I'm afraid."
"Really? And just what business could LAPD's Robbery-Homicide Division have with a little old P.I. like me?"
"You know a Jim Perkins?"
"Sure. His wife hired me to find out if he was cheating on her."
"Did you?"
"Yeah, I got pictures of him with his secretary. So unoriginal."
"Did you give the photos to Mrs. Perkins?"
"Sure, yesterday afternoon. Why?"
"Someone shot Jim Perkins and his secretary this morning."
"Not my problem," I answer, taking a slug of whiskey from the half-finished bottle on my desk.
McCall shook his head. "What happened to you Veronica? You were a great detective once."
"What didn't happen to me?" I answered as McCall turned to leave.
You might wonder why I drink. I mean, this stuff killed my mother, after it destroyed her life. You might think I would want to not repeat her mistakes. That would assume, though, that killing myself would be a mistake. Most of the time, I just wish I had the guts to do it the fast way. I won't cry though. I never cry. When you've already lost everyone you've ever loved, what's left to cry over?
When I hear the door to my office opening again, my first thought is, "oh great, more lives to wreck. When I look up, I see an angel. Or at least, I think she must be an angel, but since I don't think I've breathed once since she's been standing in the doorway, my mind may not be at its sharpest.
I'm honestly not sure how to describe her. I could give you the usual clichés: alabaster skin, sapphire eyes, ruby lips, spun-gold hair, etc., etc. The truth is though, none of that comes close. Let's just say that suicide seems that much more appealing, since I know I'll never see anything as beautiful again in this life.
"Pardon me," she says with a slight Mexican accent, and even her voice is perfect, "is this Mars Investigations?"
"Yes," I reply stupidly, still transfixed. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I'm a lesbian or anything, but when you're looking at the most beautiful woman who's ever lived, it's a little hard not to stare, even if you've only got one eye to do it with.
"I'm looking for Detective Mars. I don't have an appointment, but—"
"Don't worry about it. Just have a seat," I cut in, gesturing to the chair McCall had vacated a few minutes before. "I'm Detective Mars. What can I do for you?"
"Oh. Um, It's kind of hard to explain…."
"Just take your time. Mind if I ask your name?"
"Oh, of course. Anna Bastón." She offers me her hand.
"Veronica Mars," I answer, shaking her hand with my good one. "Now why don't you tell me how I can help you?"
Well," she starts, handing me a scrap of folded-up yellow paper across the desk. It's a torn-out page from the yellow pages with a listing of private investigators on it; my ad is circled in red magic marker. "I found this when I was going through my father's desk last week," she continues. "I guess he must have hired you for something at some point."
"I don't remember ever having a client named Bastón before, but it's possible."
"Oh, well, maybe….I don't know. But that's just it. I don't know anything about my father really."
"The two of you aren't very close, I take it?"
"No, no, we're very close. He's the only family I have. He's, well, he's the whole world to me." She's starting to tear up a little at this point, and it just makes her more beautiful.
"I know how you feel," I tell her. "I was like that with my dad."
"But that's the thing though. I don't know anything about him, I mean, not his past, not my past. He's never told me who my mother was, I've never met my grandparents or any other relatives; he never talks about any of it! Whenever I ask, he just gets really quiet and says he doesn't want to talk about it."
"If he's keeping something from you, are you sure you want to know?"
"I don't know. I mean, yeah, that's why I was going through his desk in the first place. I want to know. I never really cared before, but, well, maybe I should start from the beginning."
"Okay."
"I just started at UCLA this year, right?"
"Mm-hmm."
"Anyway, I was working on this paper on the history of the information revolution, and I'm in the library, and I find this old issue of Fortune from, like, thirty years ago."
As she says this, she reaches into her satchel for what looks like a copy of the magazine.
"And I'm looking at this guy on the cover, and he looks almost exactly like my father."
She slides the magazine across the desk.
"I know it can't be him, right? He would have been like eight years old or something back then, but I thought maybe it might be my grandfather or something."
I pick up the magazine and look at the man on the cover.
Oh my God.
It's a story on the visionary who had just pioneered streaming video.
"Lilly?"
"What? How did—only my father calls me that."
Of course. Bastón. Spanish for cane. Cute, Duncan.
I don't remember getting out of my chair or crossing to the other side of the desk, but somehow I'm kneeling at her feet with my face in her lap, tears pouring down the left side of my face.
"What the—what are you—"
"Don't worry," I say, looking up at her. "I'll tell you everything."
Thirty minutes later, I'm back in my chair, and Lillianna Rosa Bastón is staring at me like she wants me to be the one to pick her jaw up off the floor, but finally she manages to speak again.
"It's just, I can't, it's so weird. My father had, like, adventures and stuff? He rescued me from a couple of child abusers and fled the FBI? He left the love of his life to save me? That's not my father! My father wears argyle sweaters and runs a restaurant!"
"He's still wearing those wretched sweaters?" We both laugh hysterically at that.
"I know, I know," she squeezes out as she rubs the tears from her eyes. "I try to tell him that they make him look like he's 80!"
"Well, it's good to know some things never change."
"Did he wear blue all the time as a kid too?"
"'Fraid so."
"It's just so amazing. But seriously, you're telling me I have aunts, though? I mean, my mother's sisters, not my dad's, obviously."
I look down at the floor. "I tried to help them," I say pathetically.
"What happened to them?"
"Your aunt Grace, she, she died."
"How?"
"Heroin overdose. It was about eight years ago."
"What about the other one? Lizzy?"
"She's still alive. She actually lives right here in L.A."
"Can I go see her?"
"I guess so, sure."
We're sitting in my car, almost to where Lizzy works when Lilly asks me to tell her about her aunt.
"You know, like, what does she do?"
"She's, uh, well she's in the film industry."
"Is she an actress?"
"Well, she fakes it a lot."
"Oh. You mean that film industry."
"Yeah."
"Can I ask you something else?"
"Anything." By the way she's been looking at me though, I've already guessed what she wants to know.
"What happened, I mean, how did—"
"How did I lose my eye," I say for her, gesturing to the eyepatch covering where my right eye used to be, "and my hand?" I finish, holding up the prosthesis attached to my left wrist.
"Well, yeah."
"I lost my eye tracking down a bail-jumper. Idiot pulled a knife on me, slashed me in the eye before I put him down with a stun gun."
"Oh."
"My hand is a more interesting story. There was this serial killer; the cops and the feds hadn't had any luck, so the parents of one of the victims hired me to find him. I finally track him down, he runs, I chase him out into the street, he jumps right down this open manhole cover."
"Wow."
"So, I'm chasing him through the sewer, only somehow, it's not quite the romantic reenactment of Les Misérables that you'd expect, and anyway this maniac turns and pulls out a Desert Eagle .50 caliber magnum. I mean, we're talking this enormous hand-cannon, right? Anyway, I put a round right between his eyes, but he gets off one shot, hits me right in the wrist."
"In the wrist?"
"Well, I was holding a flashlight, right? I figure he was probably aiming at the light or something. Who knows, though, maybe it was just random chance. But the bullet blew my hand clean off."
"Uggh," she grimaced. "Couldn't they reattach it at the hospital?"
"My hand fell right into the sewage water. It was completely septic instantly, so there was no way. But," I say, holding up my prosthesis again, "they can do amazing things with prosthetics these days. Anyway, we're here," I finish, parking the car.
The guy at the desk looks us up and down and asks us if we're here for a shoot.
I glare at him and say "in your dreams. We're here to see one of your 'starlets.'
"Who?"
"Elizabeth Manning."
"Who?"
I look upwards for a moment in exasperation. "Lizzie Love."
"Oh, yeah, sure. She's in the middle of a shoot, but I can have them let her know that…."
"Veronica Mars."
"Veronica Mars is here to see her."
While we're waiting, I turn to Anna and ask her if she really wants to be here. "We could just take off. I mean, do you really want to see her like this?"
Anna shuddered but answered firmly, "She is my aunt. I mean, she is family, right?"
I give her a nod to let her know I understand. We wait.
About twenty minutes later, Lizzie comes out to meet us wearing only a brief silk robe. "Veronica? What are you doing here? What could you possibly—" She stops when she sees me brushing frantically at the top of my eyepatch, and finally reaches up to brush away the glob of semen that had still been clinging to her right eyebrow. "Sorry," she said, unabashed, as she tucked her soiled sleeve behind her. "So, what do you want?"
"Lizzie, there's someone here who'd like to meet you," I begin.
Lizzie looks at Anna for the first time. "You looking to get into the biz? You've got the body for it, that's for sure." Anna looks like she might be sick.
"No Lizzie," I interject. "I'd like to introduce you to your niece."
"My nie—Oh my God. Faith?"
"Anna, actually," she says, nervously, "but I guess you only knew me as Faith."
"Oh my, oh, I can't—wait, wait. Look, let me go get cleaned up and changed, we'll all go get coffee and talk, okay?"
Another twenty minutes later we're sitting in a Starbucks. Lizzie's having a vente iced hazelnut latte or some crap like that. I could've bought dinner for what I'm paying for the ordinary black coffee I'm having. Anna, bless her, is drinking a chocolate milk.
"Wait, so Duncan seriously opened a restaurant?" Lizzie's asking, incredulously.
"Yeah. Why should it be so hard to believe that my dad would have a restaurant?"
"I don't know. This whole thing is hard to believe, I guess. Wait, does he still wear those argyle sweaters?"
We all laugh at that. Just then a boy who looks like he might pass for a high-school senior comes over to our table. On the other side of the restaurant, I spot what I take to be some of his friends giggling as they watch him approach.
"Excuse, I'm sorry," he says to Lizzie, excitedly, "but, like, are you Lizzie Love?"
"Your public," I say to her, my voice a little too honeyed.
"Mm-hmm," she answers, as she sucks at her straw. "And what's your name?" she asks in a voice that's probably supposed to sound sultry.
"Oh, I'm Brian. I'm like, your biggest fan—"
"I doubt that," I mutter, rolling my eyes.
"My friends and I, we were—"
Impersonating a police officer is a crime, but there are times when it's a very useful crime in my line of work, so I carry a very well-faked badge, which I flash now. "Look kid," I say, cutting him off, "you and your friends all look a little too young to be any kind of fans of hers." I take a little too much satisfaction in watching his face go completely white.
"That was pretty bitchy," Lizzie admonishes me once the boys have run out of the coffee shop.
"It was probably good for him. Besides which, surely you wouldn't me deny one of life's small pleasures?"
"Wait, Lizzie, can I ask you something?" Anna asks, her voice suddenly serious.
"Yeah, sure," Lizzie answers.
"Why do you…."
"Why am I a pornstar?"
"Well, I mean, look, I didn't come here to judge you or anything, but—"
"Oh, you may as well judge me. Everyone else does. But I do it mostly to get back at my parents, and trust me, they deserve every last ounce of shame and humiliation I can inflict on them. Believe me; you don't know how lucky you are that you grew up with your dad." She paused for a beat. "Also, though, you know, for the money."
"Oh."
"'Oh?' That's it? You ask me why I do what I do, but not her?"
"Hey—" I object.
"What do you mean?" Anna asks.
"What do I mean? Look at her! She's fucking deformed! And she can't even claim she does it for the money, because, let's face it, she doesn't make that much."
"Yeah, and I don't get free facials."
"Oh, very droll. But seriously," she says, turning back to Anna, "aren't you going to ask her?"
"Well, yeah, okay, I guess. Why do you do it, Veronica?"
"Because, whenever I think I might quit, there's always some case. Some case I figure no one else might be able to solve, at least not in time. And I can never bring myself to walk away."
"Oh," Anna says softly.
Lizzie's not finished though. "How very noble. Why don't you ask her what happened to Aaron Echolls?"
"What do you mean? He killed my other aunt, right? He got arrested, didn't he? Isn't he in jail?"
"Didn't Veronica tell you?"
"Lizzie, don't."
"He was acquitted. Took the jury all of fifteen minutes. He leaves the courtroom, just him, his daughter Trina and a few close friends, they get into a limo outside. All these reporters are chasing them, but they had hired several limos, right? Each one goes to a separate hotel in L.A."
"Lizzie, this is ancient history."
"Oh, come on, don't you think she has the right to know what happened? Anyway, apparently Aaron had reserved the penthouse suites at a bunch of different hotels, only decided at the last minute which one to actually go to. That's what Trina told the cops and the papers the next day, anyway. They wanted to avoid all the paparazzi, right? Anyway, that night, they're having a victory party, goes until pretty late. They eventually all go to bed though. The next day, they all wake up, except Aaron. He's permanently asleep."
"How…how did he die?"
"Gunshot wound to the forehead. Here's where things get weird, though. The hotel had security cameras in the hall outside the room, the elevators too. No one entered or left the room that night. But the gun wasn't in the room either, and no one had powder residue on their hands or anything."
"Wait, but then how did the killer do it?"
"Ask her," Lizzie retorts, pointing at me.
"Did you really do it?" Anna asks me.
I can't bring myself to lie to her, so I opt for evasion. "Lizzie doesn't know what she's talking about. She just likes hearing herself talk."
"Look, V, I'm not blaming you for doing it. Far from it. But everyone knows you did it. Somehow."
"Anna, we should probably be going. Lizzie needs to get back to 'work.'"
As we're standing up to go, Anna offers Lizzie her hand. "It was nice to meet you, Aunt Lizzie."
"It was nice to meet you too," and if I didn't know better, I'd think Lizzie was going to cry.
When we're back in my car, I turn to Anna and ask, "So, what now?"
"I…I don't really know. I've got another week of Spring break left. I guess I should go back to San Ignacio and talk to my dad. There's so much I want to say to him."
"That's probably a good idea," I say.
We don't talk for a while after that, until she finally says "Miss Mars…."
"Please call me Veronica, or just V."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Do you hate me?"
"What? Why would you ask a thing like that?"
"Well, maybe hate's the wrong word, but you must've, I don't know, resented me, at least some of the time."
"Not for an instant." At this point I pull the car over so I can look at her directly. "Anna, why would you ever think that?"
"How could you not? I only exist because the love of your life slept with another woman. And if I hadn't been born, he never would have left you. And, I mean," and at this, she gestures at my deformities, "there have to have been a lot of times over the last eighteen years when you wondered how different your life would have been if he hadn't left."
I stare her straight in the eye. "Anna, look, your mother was the—she was the most—your mother was the best person I've ever known, and I loved her, and yes, it hurt to see her with your father, but I never resented her, ever. And I knew what I was giving up when your father left, but I helped him, because I—I loved you too, from the first instant I saw you."
She doesn't say anything, and I turn away to look out the window. Finally, I say "I'm sorry, that probably sounded a little creepy, didn't it? I mean, you just met me a couple of hours ago, and here I'm telling you I love you. I didn't mean—"
"No, no, I mean, yes, it sounded weird, but not, like, bad-weird, just weird in the way this whole situation is weird. But thank you. You saved me, getting me away from my grandparents. I don't know what else to say."
"You don't have to say anything."
"Um, do you think we could—my other aunts, Grace and Lilly, I'd like to visit them."
We don't talk much during the drive to Neptune.
"I'm not sure how I should feel about this," she says, standing over her namesake's grave.
"Don't worry about it. You never knew her, or Grace."
"What was she like?"
"Which one?"
"Both."
"Lilly was like the sun. She lit up everyone around her, and we all revolved around her. When she died, the world went dark and cold, and we all went spinning off into the void."
"That was…poetic."
"Thanks. I was working on that the entire drive down to Neptune."
"But what was she actually like?"
"She smiled all the time. I barely remember a time when she wasn't smiling or laughing. And when she smiled at you, you felt, well, you felt pretty special. Of course, she had absolutely no patience. Whatever she wanted, she wanted that instant."
"Sounds exciting."
"She certainly was that."
"Sounds nothing like my dad, though. I mean—"
"No, say no more. They didn't have a lot in common."
"What about Grace? What was she like?"
"She almost never smiled. Not that she ever had much to smile about. Meg, your mom, she reacted to what your grandparents did to her by trying to be perfect all the time, to never give them anything to complain about or object to. Your aunt Lizzie, well, you've already seen how she is, and she wasn't too different then."
"She was always trying to get back at them?"
"Exactly. But Grace…I think she just couldn't take it. Maybe—I don't know—maybe if Meg hadn't died, she might have been able to save her. I tried to get social services to get her away from them, but they couldn't do anything. And I tried to talk to her as she got older, but there wasn't much I could do. She was already using drugs by junior high. I could never prove this, but when she o.d.'ed, I think she knew exactly what she was doing."
"I wish I could have met them."
"Me too."
"V?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you want to go with me to San Ignacio, to see my dad?"
"Seriously?"
"I mean, I know it's been a long time, and you probably figured you were saying good-bye forever and—"
"Yeah, let's go," I cut her off, smiling.
We're past the border and only five minutes to San Ignacio, which is apparently this gorgeous resort town right on the coast. The night sky is so clear that you could reach up and grab the stars. Anna's telling me about how, when she was little, it used to be this sleepy little village, until all the yanqui tourists discovered it. Her dad, "Domingo Bastón," had the foresight to buy the land for his restaurant right before that, and got in the ground floor of the boom.
That's when I interrupt her to ask, "Anna, is this weird for you?"
"What? Of course it's weird."
"No, I mean, specifically, me going to see your father. I'm not saying I know what'll happen between us. It's been a long time, and we've both changed and everything—"
"But there's a good chance your reunion will be celebrated horizontally?"
"What?"
"Veronica, I'm eighteen, not eight. Even if I do still drink chocolate milk instead of coffee."
"Well, fair enough. It's just that, when I was about your age, my mom left us, and it wasn't easy for me when my dad started dating again."
"Did you get used to it?"
"Eventually."
"Well, yeah, it is a little weird. But it's kind of romantic too. And if this'll make my dad happy, then it's what I want. Anyway, it's a little late to be worrying about it, because we're here."
I park the car in front of the Bastón house, and it's clear that, even if it's not everything he had growing up, Duncan's still done pretty well for himself. As we're walking to the door, I start wishing that Anna had said that this was too weird for her, and asked me to turn the car around. It's been so long. I'm thirty-six years old now. I'm, well, Lizzie was right, I'm deformed. What if he takes one look at all the missing pieces and doesn't want me anymore? What if he doesn't even recognize me?
And then Anna's unlocking the door, and there's a light coming from inside the house, and Anna's calling "Papa? Tenemos una huésped."
And then I hear footsteps, and his voice calling back "Lilly? Quién—" and then he's in the foyer, and we're looking at each other for the first time in eighteen years. He looks great; like his father, yes, but still clearly Duncan.
"Hola, Señor Bastón," I say, like an idiot, holding up my good hand in greeting.
"Veronica?"
"You'll never guess who I ran into today."
He laughs at that, and then his arms are around me and we're kissing like the last twenty years never happened.
The end.