Chapter One: Painted Faces, Everybody Wears A Mask

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Disclaimer: I do not own Splenda, Bowie knives, Old West Cologne for Men, and I credit http://www dot amberattic dot com for the information about vintage hat pins.

Mild spoilers for/ references to Season One's The Pilot, Spellingg Bee, Scary Sherry: Bianca's Toast, and Season Two's There's Something About Mira and The Old and the Restless.

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* * *

A reprimand, that was all he had been forced to suffer. That, and the angry, burning eyes of two of his colleagues. O'Hara had, at least, made an effort to be polite, but it still made him uncomfortable. He absentmindedly fingered his badge and felt relief at the usual weight of the gun in his shoulder holster as she spoke. Though he had been warned, repeatedly, that mandatory anger management classes were in his future should he continue on this same road. Lassiter had scoffed to himself. He could handle that crap, no problem, should he be required.

As he sat at his desk, his eyes glued to some scrawlings on the paper in front of him, Lassiter's mind wandered unwillingly to what exactly Spencer may have said to the IA agents to get them to back down. Or maybe . . . maybe they had come here to yell at him only . . . ? Lassiter pressed his lips together. Why make the trip just for that? He grumbled, not wanting to think too much about another reason they could be here. He had the urge to trawl the station, demanding which of the officers, detectives and other personnel may have filed a complaint against him, either for personal reasons or as a witness to his treatment of any suspect— an urge he had to repeatedly talk himself out of.

Carlton sighed. Ever since the incident with Goochberg, he thought he had been working to become more personable, forcing out friendly greetings to his fellow officers rather than frowning with an angry grunt at anyone who dared speak to him. He had even made the effort to speak first— even when he wasn't barking out orders. Had he forgotten about these efforts? Got bored of trying? Before he was clued in, he had thought he had been doing all right— but it still shocked him, even reminding himself of it, that the whole of the Santa Barbara Police Department really viewed him as a "perfect match" to Goochberg's personality. Yes, it still made him shudder. He sighed again. Dammit, back to focusing on that touchy-feely "be nice" crap.

Wasn't "being nice" overrated? he thought with an inner snarl. After all, he didn't make Head Detective by "being nice". He got it by being an aggressive, determined hard worker (and sometimes a son-of-a-bitch) who shunned sleep and developed the most unhealthy relationship with coffee possible. He got it by busting criminals and closing his cases, with a natural charisma in front of the media and a scripted humility whenever a situation called for it. Along the way he'd fed and fueled his ego, becoming selfish and snappish— oh, a little voice resembling O'Hara's made him pause. It was this kind of innerward thinking, "she" pointed out patiently, that had got you in trouble in the first place— that had made his coworkers and insubordinates view him as insufferable— but still with a begrudging respect.

Not that anyone who may have been watching him would even notice the change in his face, but he felt his frown dip. Lassiter wanted to be— because of O'Hara's influence (his frown even deeper at that thought)— somewhere in the middle of being respected but still having buddies on the force he could turn to and— have these buddies who would want to and could turn to him, for golf or just to commiserate life over a few beers. It was such a precarious balance, really. He paused again, feeling another redux of O'Hara's mentality sneak up on him. She insisted that a person could be all the rough stuff he'd thought of (on the inside too, where it didn't show) and still be nice, sensitive, thoughtful, polite, mindful and respectful of others.

For her tougher parts, he still considered her a softie at heart.

Not that he would ever admit it to O'Hara, or even completely to himself, but there was the tiniest part of his psyche that knew O'Hara's sweetness had rubbed off on him; maybe that had been the trade of their complimenting partnership. It seemed a distant memory of someone else's life of accepting the few hugs O'Hara ever offered; at least he didn't suffer those memories with unpleasantness, but it was too hard to connect even remotely with sweetness today, not the pure stuff or even the chemical tasting Splenda-esque stuff. Carlton groaned, leaning forward to rest his face in his hands. His headache had expanded, taking over his entire face and neck. Maybe a couple aspirin would do him good.

He pulled open the bottom drawer to his left, fishing his hand blindly for the bottle. His hand had just closed around it when he heard the approach of footsteps, women's shoes, by the clack against the tile. Lassiter didn't look up, wondering if he could manage to get himself water from the cooler down the hall without spilling the whole cup on the front of his pants.

"Carlton."

He winced at her voice, working to suppress an annoyed hiss. Couldn't she just give him a little time to himself? She took a few steps towards his desk, the fragrance of peach wafting from her. He winced again, but heard himself asking, "Peaches, again?"

Juliet straightened, absentmindedly running a hand across her neatly done up bun. "Apricots, actually," she corrected, the question of why in her voice. He still hadn't looked up. "Detective, are you blushing?"

"No," he lied. Forcing himself to address her, he demanded— catching his tone mid breath, working to keep most of the irritation from his voice— if there was something she needed. Luckily, she was used to his manner, and likely wrote off his disagreeableness as leftover venom from their earlier shouting match— er, meeting, with Internal Affairs. (He couldn't lie that that was partly the reason. Neither his partner nor Vick had once open their mouths to defend him— at least, not before he'd stormed out. He could understand the reasoning why after he'd forced himself to return, but before? Did their silence suggest that they agreed with these agents?) Lassiter sighed, unable to settle over which emotion was most annoying or hurtful when it came to that train of thought.

"We might have a lead on that King of Hearts killer's whereabouts," she said. She shifted her weight, elaborating that it was sketchy at best, but worth a shot. They were dealing with a serial killer and it was best to get him— or her— locked up away from the general public sooner than later.

Though police didn't yet know his name, this unknown carved up his victims' faces with a hunting knife before delivering that final stab to directly through their hearts. He placed a vintage king of hearts playing card over the victim's chest, face up, and then impaled, severing the two halves of the kings each time— with the one, deep stab it took to kill. The cards were held in place, over the lifeless heart, with a silver stemmed old style hat pin, its red teardrop piercing the card upside-down, sticking through the victims' blood soaked shirts or jackets. The murder weapons had yet to be found, but CSU had so far discovered the same type of knife— if not the absolute same knife— was used to kill all of the victims. They had determined it to be a Bowie with a heavy and durable quarter of an inch blade, the blade itself measuring nearly 6 mm.

The latest victim was discovered in a Dumpster outside of the restaurant where she worked as a part-time hostess. (They hadn't known she was missing until her first missed shift two days later.) Blond, pretty, just seventeen, she had been a runaway from LA, with big plans of hitchhiking her way to New York City— this, at least, according to what she had told the few friends she'd made. A few newbies on a routine sweep had discovered her, one of them puking right away at the sight. She was no longer pretty— her pale, freckled skin was bloated, tinted an ashy green, her small heart shaped face scarred up in death, not one feature or inch left unsliced. Cuts also up and down her arms and legs, her soles and palms scrapped raw. And some of her hair was missing, a chunk large enough to braid. Just like other three. They weren't all missing hair, but something had been taken from each, other than their lives.

The murders had started almost a month ago; there was still little known about this killer yet. They were still doing research to find if something similar had occurred before, in other cities or states— was this a person on the move? Did he like to take his time in selection, was there a reason he chose both men and women of different ethnicities, ages, classes? Or were they random targets, in the wrong place at the wrong time? The killer had left no physical evidence that their CSUs had been able to scout out— and these were highly trained people.

He, O'Hara, and their forensics team had exhausted the rest of the clues so far, regarding the killer's choice of accessories. All of these severed cards bore the faintest traces of Old West Cologne for Men, but there had never been any transferred to the victims' clothing. "It must be," O'Hara had commented, "only the cards' cologne." The cologne was a common scent, easily available in department stores and online.

The "calling cards" were older, true, but their source had been harder to trace back. They had no identifying markings, such as an artist's signature, and seemed to be the from a standard deck, just ten or twenty years older.

They were also still tracing these identical vintage hat pins, circa 1940s, at 15 cm in length each. They had discovered, through research, that the hat pins dated back to the 1940s due to the length, which was much shorter than those of the Victorian era. During Victorian times, big hats were the trend and required pins of at least 20 cm, but this craze had faded by the 1920s. The one thing about these pins was that, according to their available information, most hat pins of these years were more ornamental, but the red teardrop was simplistic. They had yet to narrow down the search of where one could get one of these, since none of the pins bore any kind of serial number or signature design, much like the cards. The pins could be authentic, picked up anywhere at an antique shop or a flea market for a wad of cash with no identity— it could have happened out of state.

Vick had suggested they enlist a profiler, despite knowing little about the killer himself— but that never seemed to matter. After all, the profiler was less interested in the killer as person but more as killer's habits— thus determining from acts of violence or extreme detail exactly what kind of person this killer was. Lassiter knew these profilers were necessary and important, but he still wondered, at the back of his mind, why a person would choose a life as a criminal profiler— getting that close into a killer's mind— he shook his head, even now, not catching O'Hara's quizzical look at his action. Profilers disturbed him, but if they could help find this bastard, then he wasn't about to open his mouth about it.

Great, a distraction from my sad life, he thought now. Lassiter pushed back his chair, laying his hands on his desk to stand, when O'Hara mentioned the tip was an anonymous one come into the hotline. Carlton's jaw tightened. The last ninety six tips about this killer's so-called whereabouts had been bogus; sightings as infamous as Elvis now that Santa Barbara's citizens had been made aware of the killer's presence.

"I know what you're thinking," O'Hara began, sometimes more able to read him than he liked to admit. "What if this is another wild goose chase?"

"A damn waste of man power," Lassiter cut in, standing. He remained frozen, staring at her from across the desk. "We're detectives— we have real cases to solve." The two of them had checked out several of the more promising tips themselves, and had been questioning everyone the victims' had known for details about how the deceased had lived, where they worked, ate, hobbies or hangouts, the types of people they befriended, their personalities, did they made friends or enemies easily? Were they in financial trouble? Did they have a bad habit of trusting the wrong people? So far, they hadn't gotten much of anything from these questionings, and what they had followed up on seemed to run cold pretty quickly. So they had been forced into high jumps at these flurry of tips to the hotline— which were either mistaken sightings or bogus to begin with; after all, this killer so far had an invisible face, and had everyone jumping and clutching at their hearts as if they had seen a ghost— when no one was there at all. These falsities only made his and O'Hara's job more frustrating; and there was an intense pressure from Chief Vick to work harder for a lead, any lead at all.

Juliet's hands attached to her hips. "This is a real case, Detective."

He sighed. "That's true, but these tips are just a waste of our time." They were both thinking, though neither muttered a word of it aloud, that these stinking tips were all they had to go on.

Even Santa Barbara's "renowned" Psychic Detective had been so far unsuccessful in garnering any extra "spiritual" help for them, though Lassiter had heard Spencer muttering something to Guster on the way out about how it seemed the hearts on the playing cards were more angled or slanted than rounded, but Spencer certainly hadn't voiced this observation to Vick. It made had Lassiter study the cards a little more closely, something he did begrudgingly and with a scowl across his lips, but he was still hard pressed to see what the hell Spencer could have been talking about.

Lassiter rolled his eyes at these memories, though he'd relished the look of sweaty dis-ease on Spencer's face when he'd finally mumbled to Vick that ÒspiritsÓ had nothing helpful to say at the moment. Lassiter had definitely enjoyed (meanly) watching Spencer retreat like a dog with his tail between his legs. He had hoped that Spencer would have been too shamed to return; he sighed again. If this were a perfect world. . . .

Juliet took a step closer to the desk, crossing her arms across her chest. "Do you want to be the one to tell the Chief that we were handed a possible lead but you, as Head Detective, dismissed it? And what if it turns out to be the one we've been looking for—"

She had actually possessed the ability to make his skin turn green. Lassiter cringed on the inside; he knew she knew exactly what she was doing— but he wasn't about to give her the satisfaction and rise up to that bait. He actually thought it very cold of her to use the IA meeting as fuel; had she been this disappointed in him for his childish behavior? (Though, he reflected, he would probably think nothing of her statements had they been coming out of his mouth, directed at her.) He knew she respected him, but she knew exactly how to put him back in his place if his power trips ever got too out of hand— he had taught her very well by example. Or at the very least, she pushed just as hard back as he was pushing at her, even if he was too drunk with ego to be forced back completely into his role. O'Hara no longer accepted an unfair reprimand from him without demanding an appropriate explanation— part of him appreciated it, her rising to his challenges. It kept him sharp, on his toes. His opinion of her had definitely changed since when she was first transferred from Miami and assigned as his new partner.

Today, he was not in the mood and seemed to possess an inexplicable ability for pissing everyone off. Or was this everyday? When an unwelcome image of Goochberg in high heels and an ill fitting animal print chasing that straggly store clerk struck him, he forced himself to bite his lip until he tasted blood. After all, the woman in front of him may be his very last ally— even if, in this moment, they weren't about to see eye to eye.

* * *

She had been too persuasive, or maybe it was just that he'd acquiesced much too easily. For easiest truth, they wanted to catch this killer before he performed any more of his grisly acts. The first victim, a burly businessman with sunken in eyes, had been cut to ribbons in his three piece suit. He'd been left in a public place, under a park bench, with the king of hearts card severed over his pierced heart. Horrifying and gruesome, it bore the markings of ritual, but of what, they couldn't yet tell. They had hoped that it was a singular act, and that there were no more bodies to follow.

Lassiter knew he had been persuasive too, otherwise, he wouldn't have been able to almost talk O'Hara out of accompanying in to check out this so-called lead. He'd listed off on both hands, twice, the ghosts they'd already chased, or what "suspicious persons" they'd found on these treks in search of a murderer. The tips came in all over Santa Barbara, even at town lines; they'd been running on and on for absolutely nothing. And the killer was still on the loose.

A cat had been the latest "suspect", a possibly rabid thing with one eye and a mangled front leg. It had hissed at them from the boarded up window of a second story house. Before that, a howling wind in hollow knots of some trees, a Goth pizza delivery boy who'd gotten lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood, a door without a lock slamming on its hinges, a housewife buying a pack of playing cards at a bookstore for a dinner party.

"We don't know the killer's identity, what he looks like— what else do we have to go on?" O'Hara had reminded him unnecessarily. "The public is scared— it makes sense they'd—"

"Waste our time at every turn?" Lassiter snapped. "Don't you remember the—"

O'Hara held up her palm. "Yes, I do. But at least we got a loose boa constrictor off the streets. It could have easily devoured a child."

"That is not a job for homicide detectives, O'Hara."

Juliet rolled her eyes and huffed. "He's been meticulous, clean. How can he not leave a single trace of DNA? An eyelash or a piece of hair? Or a scrape of fabric? None of the victims have any defensive wounds— no trace of of blood or skin of someone else on their bodies."

"He's seasoned, must be. Knows his trade. The way he arranges the bodies, even this latest in the Dumpster, pins the playing card to clothes, right over the heart suggests that he wants them to be found, wants his crime known," Lassiter said. He sighed. "Except he wants to remain anonymous. But even if we had DNA or scrapes, if there was nothing on file—"

Juliet nodded. Was he local or a drifter? Was he a career criminal or were these his first acts of horror to date? It was frustrating for both of them, not only knowing this man was out there somewhere still, probably following his next victim and making plans, but having nothing to offer to the victims' families who were grieving and demanding answers. And nothing for the public either, or the media, who loved to invent news on a slow day.

They were in the middle of this discussion when Vick appeared, her face lined and serious. She had just got off the phone with the mayor, she said, who was putting the utmost pressure on her to get information on this serial killer— "Before he kills again, Detectives."

Lassiter had been thinking since the moment she appeared in his office that his Chief was some kind of traitor to him— what could the reason be she hadn't defended him earlier? He had mulled it over and thought he had let it go— but it was hard for him to not hold a grudge. Perhaps this was a reason he tried to call her on it— but he should have known better than to use a wanted murderer in the mix. "How do you purpose we do that, Chief? Should I pull my gun on random civilians until one of them cracks?" He wasn't sure how he'd meant it, but it couldn't have been more than a sarcastic joke in his head.

Vick's face turned red. "Detective O'Hara," she directed through ground teeth, "please leave this office immediately."

"Yes, Chief," O'Hara said. On the way out, she had the decency to shoot him some sympathy with a roll of her eyes. Great, if he survived this, O'Hara was going to give him a big piece of her mind too.

As soon as Juliet was out the door, Carlton made a plea to save himself. "I'm just an idiot, I didn't mean that garbage, Chief. I let my stress get out of hand." She didn't speak, but her the color on her face continued to deepen. He plowed on, explaining their— his and O'Hara's— frustrations at having so little to go on, but certainly doing everything in their power to get leads and follow up. There was, though he didn't voice this, only so much he could wonder about the usage of these hat pins. "I want this bastard rotting in a cell as much as you do— as much as the mayor does," he continued, slightly aware he was rambling. Any second, he excepted her to explode with rage that could throw his back up against the wall, but strangely, she seemed appeased by his speech. "Actually, there might be a lead that I was just made aware of." He cleared his throat. "I was just planning to go check up on it."

Vick nodded, releasing her breath. "Carlton— you are an idiot."

Lassiter tensed, waiting for a torrent, but Vick only studied him. There was no way he could ask now why she had held her tongue— this may be the reason she saw as "why".

The Chief sighed. "But you're still the damn best we've got— no matter what IA wants to complain about."

Oh. He cleared his throat. "O'Hara."

Vick raised an eyebrow. "What about her, Detective?"

He stammered on. "O'Hara is among the best—"

Vick's face nearly relaxed. "Why the hell do you think she was partnered with you?" She shook her head, seemingly reveling in the fact Lassiter had admitted to idiocy. Or the fact that he was fishing for compliments about his partner. "Besides, she's a good match. Keeps you in line sometimes, doesn't she?"

Vick held his eyes until he was forced to nod. He missed her small smile when he looked away. "Now, I need you two to go out there and bring in this killer." Lassiter nodded again, this time missing Vick turning on her heel to leave his office.

He felt stupid— a part of him cringed that Vick had noticed some of the things he had been thinking about earlier. Not that he was feeling like less of a man now, but he was itching all of a sudden for something to redeem himself— though he really had to prove nothing to these two women. They knew what kind of man he was and were behind him— he knew this, but it was barely noon and he felt that in only a couple of hours, had nearly undone any kind of professional relationship he had with either of them. What had he been thinking, making unfeeling jokes while a psycho-killer was on the loose? Looking over his bad luck and various reactions to all of it, he got a stab of shame. He had tried to discredit O'Hara twice— the first time by insisting this latest tip was a fake before they'd even checked it out. Then, he'd done it a second time just now with Vick, by telling her the lead had come to him and it had been his idea to follow up.

Lassiter sighed. He was never going to be the perfect man, especially when it came to women's feelings. Then the best he could do to make up for it was— check out this tip on his own. Spare O'Hara a drive out to nowhere, when she could be making a difference or putting evidence together for another case they were close to solving. He picked up the notes she had left on his desk about the location, folding them together and putting them in his pants pocket. Then he grabbed his jacket off the back of his desk chair. This shouldn't take too long; when he returned, he could poke fun at her for the nothing he'd found out there, when she had been so determined they would bring back something. Or maybe if something was out there, he could give O'Hara the credit in front of the Chief— sometimes he really owed O'Hara more than he cared to admit even to himself. He liked her— just as friends and partners, though.

This was another good reason he should make an effort to befriend some more male colleagues. He could start with McNab— Lassiter slowly shook his head. There had to be someone else; but the kid did at least look up to him. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad starting with someone who actually liked him? Okay, he was resolved to try. Maybe after duty it wouldn't be so bad to grab a beer— or scotch, from the way this day was. He thought it over on his way out of the station to his car, debating whether or not he could ask O'Hara for some kind of advice on talking to the rookie— he sighed. Sometimes he wondered if he was really cut out for this socializing life. It gave him awe that it seemed to come so naturally to O'Hara.

As soon as he was outside, the acridness of a coming storm hit his nostrils. He glanced up once, but the sky was still blue. Some clouds, with the faintest touch of gray, were rolling in.

* * *

"Where's Detective Lassiter?" Vick asked about thirty-five minutes later. Juliet looked up from some case file she was going over with surprise. She had thought that he was still getting his ear chewed off by Vick, but here she was, and her partner was not with her.

"I don't know, Chief."

Vick shook her head. "Never mind about that supposed sighting, at least for now."

Juliet picked up on Vick's tone. She stood, reaching into a drawer for her purse and an extra clip of ammo. "What's happened?"

"There's a report of another body, playing cards and all. It's started to rain, and we need to get there quickly to preserve any evidence. CSU is already on their way."

Juliet nodded. She had no idea where Lassiter was; he hadn't said a word to her about going anywhere, and she hadn't seen him since leaving him with Vick, a "don't-leave-me-here-with-her" look playing in his eyes. Juliet appreciated that her partner had come to trust that much, that he could offer her that kind of vulnerable look without being worried about her teasing him about being less manly. She had never done that once, opting since the beginning to learn from her superior, but never failing to call him out on something she felt he wasn't doing "by-the-book."

When Vick left to gather some officers, Juliet called Carlton's cell phone. It rang its customary eight rings before going directly to voice mail. Hmm, that was puzzling. She hoped that Lassiter wasn't off some place sulking— that whatever had transpired between him and Vick hadn't left him feeling the need to cross his legs. There was nothing she could do about it, Juliet thought, but she recognized her partner needed to occasional ego boost and reassurance that he still was the knight in shining armor type to many. He took her praise with grunts; if she hadn't known him so well, she might have given up these exercises a long time ago. As she was calling again, Vick appeared in her line of sight and waved her forward. She left him a message of where they would be and that another King of Hearts victim had been discovered. She also told him to hurry and that he was needed— because she had no idea what battered shape his ego might be in. Sometimes he just needed her to remind him how good he was at his job, or if he didn't need her to do it, she felt that it was in her job description to do so. Sometimes, it even brought out his smile, for which she was usually grateful to see.

* * *

Twenty minutes after leaving the station, Lassiter pulled up next to a sidewalk near Samarkand and stared out the passenger window, trying to determine which, in the apparent maze of pathways to buildings beyond him, was the one he wanted. He dug in his pocket for O'Hara's notes.

Two reports had come in within a day of each other of suspicious activity at this location, she had written. The address given was a jumble of words and numbers— taking another gaze out the window told him why. Lassiter sighed, and went back to looking at her note. This was the right cross section of streets, West Trail and Beach Lane, though, in his opinion, he seemed furthest from any roads even connecting to a beach, let alone the west side of the city. From this distance, it was hard to tell what these cluster of buildings even were. They were all the same shape and seemed to be that antique yellow sand color of Stucco and designed in the Spanish style of many lavish Santa Barbara homes, though, even from here, the buildings looked dusty. Lassiter peered at the address again, then the street signs. This was the right place. It wasn't clear if these were offices or apartments, or even separate sections to one house— or if they were even occupied. Lassiter grabbed his radio but once it was to his mouth he wasn't sure what to say. He glanced down again, reading. There was a report of a man, possibly, seen going into one of these buildings. The other tip was vague, stating that this area of buildings gave off a "creepy" air. Lassiter rolled his eyes. This was really what he was wasting his time on? The buildings did had a mesmerizing quality; without thinking, he put the mouthpiece to the radio back on its cradle without turning it on or speaking into it.

After a few beats, Lassiter blinked and took his gaze from the cluster. He glanced at his radio, truly wondering if he'd radioed in his location. How long could this chore really take? A few minutes? Maybe ten at the most for him to discover nothing and then leave. He was in no hurry to return to the station though— there was a slight chance Vick would either order him shot upon sight if he returned without any information or have him put under arrest, simply for being the biggest jackass a man could be. Goddammit. At this rate, Lassiter was making Spencer look not only like a well adjusted adult but also a gentleman. Lassiter considered calling O'Hara, but then remembered he had jotted over here without her knowledge— and she had been the one so adamant to check this out. He opted for a text message, keeping it short, putting in the address where he was, that he was checking out the tip, hoping she'd know what KOHK meant, and that he'd be back soon. He added a little something about her doing good work so he could soften her anger for his return.

The fine mist he'd driven over here in had quickly lost its charm, the coming storm changing a blue sky overcast— and the true rain hadn't started long after that, as soon as he'd been out of his car about five minutes.

* * *

Lassiter grumbled nothing too mild as he shifted through the rain, which was pouring its fat drops in an endless river onto his head. With nothing to shield him, he was soaked, his clothes and hair dripping equally fat drops of water. O'Hara, who was not present since he'd talked her out of coming— almost, but then he'd left without her anyway— had heard him swear before, but all of this might make even her blush. Or she would tell him to knock it off— one way or another, had she been there, he may have held his tongue. A small part of him— more of this he'd attributed to her personality integrating the slightest with his— regarded her snaps or overt politeness towards his moods, depending on the moment, whether to show off her uncomfortableness or be just as aggressive as he— with a welcoming warmth. A part of him was coming to see her as his equal, at the very least, when it came to being his partner on the force. She had proved herself as good at her duty, charging, on a mission, as he had felt he had been at her age.

Dammit. Her presence in his life was causing him to change— though, he amended, this wasn't such a bad thing. Maybe, by way of her influence, the next woman he met and married he would actually know how to treat the right way— otherwise, his partner might have something to say about it. For the first time all day, he allowed himself an ironic smile; he had always thought that in their police partnership, he would have the most wisdom to offer.

His envy of O'Hara, he realized, traced a little further back before he'd found out her score on the DET exam. Though he had tried to think little of her from the beginning— at first, she was only a cardboard replacement for Lucinda— it wasn't easy to ignore his growing respect for her and the way she seemed to immediately put everyone around her at ease— except for him of course. He recalled thinking of her as a child when she haughtily told him she did not approve of inner-departmental relationships (their partnership then had been much too fresh and he had been too stuffy still) and then recalled with chagrin how he told the mayor's punk son, right in front of her, of all of her good work ethic and determinedness, but how she was "not hot". Maybe it had taken a while for him to become more sensitive; after all, it wasn't as if he'd any role models in his life growing up who could have taught that a real man could possess some sensitivities, especially when it came to regarding women positively. (His mother had the best qualities of sandpaper or steel wool, after all.)

Not just because of his dream— which he wished would have already dissolved— he realized he recognized O'Hara's attractiveness, but also knew wholeheartedly that he was not attracted to her. With Lucinda, their attraction had just happened, but not out of the blue. If anything, he and Lucinda had not been friends, only lovers. But O'Hara was the most platonic he had ever been with a woman, especially one who was his partner. Because of their developing friendship, he had found himself more and more able to trust her— with his life. He was slightly ashamed he had been so quick to dismiss her during the first year of their partnership.

Not that O'Hara hadn't, in subtle ways, try to draw him out of his grumpiness, and had succeeded with victory! time and time again. (He could almost picture her smile while he cursed under his breath.) Though he was more than capable of handling situations alone, it was strange to be on an errand such as this without her— he had become so accustomed to her presence that without her, it was almost the sensation of a phantom limb. Lassiter gritted his teeth; all this, she could never know. It would be such a blow to his reputation.

* * *

Juliet tried her partner again upon arriving on the scene, glancing quickly at the cut, red lines in the woman's— dead body's— face and arms, calves, knees and shins, and on the sole of one foot. Her other foot was covered by a teal flip flop, arranged neatly back on her foot, it seemed, by whomever had brought her here. The other shoe was missing; Juliet couldn't see it anywhere around the body.

She got Lassiter's voice mail again, and closed the phone, thinking vaguely, Goddammit, Carlton, where are you? She stepped onto the sand, easily undertaking the role of her partner's charge, calling out for any information.

* * *

Lassiter's errand of a mere few minutes had already turned into fourteen, well, almost— fifteen, he saw now, glancing down at the water dripping from his watch face. He sighed with disgust; he hadn't even made it close enough to the buildings to determine which one the tip had specified— if there had even been a specification made. He still had Juliet's notes, but he couldn't take them out of his pocket because they would be ruined in the same second it took him to glance down at the paper.

Lassiter, holding the cell phone out in front of him, grumbled again that he wasn't getting a signal. He was starting to think that he hadn't made a connection with the station; was the reason he hadn't got a response from O'Hara because she was pissed or that she hadn't received his message? He made a face, trying to banish this sudden, strange want for her acceptance with gruff. He could handle this alone— one stupid tip. Okay, two, two stupid tips— all he had to do was get through the storm. Much as the look of the buildings from the street had a leering, lulling effect, following these straight concrete pathways— still maze-like though— gave off a luring effect, as if they were the hook and he, the prey, was searching out some invisible bait. Lassiter actually stopped, uncaring for a moment of the falling rain. Why had he thought about it like that?

There was, in a cop's life, no shame in calling for backup, and it was damn stupid to enter a situation that didn't "feel right" alone. There were times when there was no choice, but this wasn't yet one of those situations. He turned on the descending ramp, trying to make out which direction he had come from. He couldn't even see his car from here; dammit. All right, just need to find some shelter, then I can wait for O'Hara, Lassiter thought. He couldn't explain why he felt on edge— nervous, almost, as if he were some kind of rookie. Okay, it wasn't that bad. Right?

Lassiter held his arm above his head, attempting to shield his eyes so he could see ahead of him. He continued to follow the path. After a couple of minutes, he could make out a couple of tall trees in the middle of a courtyard, their long thick branches stretched out like arms sprouting leaves of emerald. Though standing under a tree in a storm wasn't a smart idea, there was the smallest chance he may be able to pick up a signal enough to get O'Hara on the line. He picked way across the paths, moving diagonally and no longer trying to follow the line to the buildings. The paths reminded of those winding ones at amusement parks for rides, or at the airport or the bank— chains or dividers easily bypassed when there weren't people filling up those spaces. He couldn't understand a design such as that for these pathways, as if the buildings were some kind of funhouse and this was the prelude.

Lassiter shook his head hard, not just to get the rain water out of his ears but to rid his mind of these equally twisting thoughts— at this rate, he would rather go back to mulling over his partner. Thunder crashed overhead, then a spike of yellow light shot across the gray sky. Another crash partially masked a crack, then a creaking of something old. He didn't think anything of it— until he saw the red bark of the tree in front of him smoking. Carlton glanced upward at a thick log of branch stretching just over him— even in this downpour, it was on fire. The tree had been hit. He was frozen for a second, wondering over the flames as his clothes stuck to his skin, even his undershirt and boxers, his shoes slopping with every step.

He knew he must have jumped, but it was almost as if there was a hand at the back of his mind closing around his brain and pulling backwards— whatever it was, it woke him up. The branch above him creaked, or cracked— it was hard to discern the exact sound above how loud his heart was pounding in his ears. Before he knew it, he was on the ground, his legs snug into his chest and the thick branch bent at its crook, slamming the pavement he had occupied a few minutes— seconds?— before.

Lassiter stood up quickly to examine the damage of the fallen limb, but even as he circled it he used long steps, keeping his distance. His arms were shaking and he licked his lips repeatedly as if to reassure himself that he wasn't tasting any blood on them. Of course he couldn't see his own face but had the feeling his skin had lost some of its color, and that his eyes were wide. Lassiter decided he didn't need anymore reminders to get as far from these trees as he could. He backed away, keeping his eye on them until he was far enough so that he felt "safe".

He sighed. He had been right back at the station— it seemed this day was screwed, though it had been long before Spencer had made any appearance. Lassiter frowned, but found he was puzzled at what kind of bullshit Spencer could had made IA swallow— no, stop. This was no longer important. What did it matter, if they had left without insisting he get in a cell like a common criminal and if Vick had actually been on his side, though not in front of them? It didn't matter. In fact, it was probably much better he didn't know— the reason was bound to make him angrier. Lassiter pressed on, surprised when he realized the rain was lessening— perhaps that trick with the branch had been a last hurrah. For the storm, anyway.

Just as he was considering trying for a signal again, Lassiter caught the flash of a human figure, the long, lean muscular frame of a man in a red flannel and jeans, a solid mass of dark curls disappearing around a corner up ahead about fifty feet. "Hey!" Lassiter yelled out, a loud clap of thunder competing with his voice. "Hey, you!" A prickling on the back of his arms told him to draw his gun, but the man was out of sight and he'd only got a glimpse of him from behind.

Maybe it was just nerves, left over heightened senses from barely dodging the fallen limb, or maybe it was his learned cop instincts, but he did reach for his gun, letting his fingers rest on the hilt as a way of grounding himself. The rain had lessened more, but it was still hard to see everything as clearly as he wanted to. Though a mock sun was pressing its pale circle against the clouds, it was still stuck against the storm front. He shivered uncomfortably in his wet clothing. Lassiter knew he had seen this figure, but there was no telling, from here, where he had gone.

He had to decide— should he take that step towards possible fatality— he scoffed, it must be nerves still at his "near death"— or regard this as an information recovery mission, a sure shot to glory which he could offer to the Chief and garner a look of a job well done? What if this man knew anything about the so dubbed King of Hearts killer? Carlton hesitated for only a moment, before sighing and taking that step. Down the rabbit hole it was— without any foreseeable backup. He still had his gun, his phone— should he ever get a signal— and his wits— what hadn't already been fried— and hoped this wasn't going to be a misstep he lived to regret.